THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 GIFT OF 
 
 Anne Revere
 
 STEWART &. KIDD DRAMATIC SERIES 
 
 The Portmanteau Plays 
 
 By Smart Walker 
 
 Edited and with an Introduction by 
 Edward Hale Bierstadt 
 
 VOL. 1 Portmanteau Plays 
 
 Introduction 
 
 The Trimplet 
 
 Nevertheless 
 
 Six Who Pass While the Lentils 
 
 Boil 
 Medicine Show 
 
 VOL. 2 -More Portmanteau Plays 
 
 Introduction 
 
 The Lady of the Weeping Wil 
 low Tree 
 
 The Very Naked Boy 
 Jonathan Makes a Wish 
 
 VOL. 3 Portmanteau Adapta 
 tions 
 
 Introduction 
 
 Gammer Gurton's Needle 
 
 The Birthday of the Infanta 
 
 "Seventeen" 
 
 Each of the above three volumes handsomely 
 bound and illustrated. Per volume net $2.00 
 
 STEWART & KIDD CO., PUBLISHERS
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 BY 
 
 MARYjMAcMILLAN 
 
 Author of 
 MORE SHORT PLAYS 
 
 CINCINNATI 
 
 STEWART &L KIDD COMPANY 
 
 PUBLISHERS
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1913, BY 
 STEWART & K1DD COMPANY 
 
 All rights reserved 
 COPYRIGHT IN ENGLAND 
 
 For permission to present any of 
 these plays apply to the author 
 who retains all dramatic rights. 
 
 First impression November, 1913 
 Second impression November, 1914 
 Third impression January, 1917 
 Fourth impression April, 1920
 
 ^ 
 
 P c 
 
 r s 
 
 TO 
 M. L. 
 
 634111
 
 Some are born dramatists like Shakespeare, 
 some achieve dramatic construction like Ibsen, 
 some have drama thrust upon them like me. I 
 did not lisp in numbers, for the numbers came, 
 but rather I was locked up alone in a room 
 with a crust of bread and a tincup of water 
 and commanded to write a drama that could 
 be produced by five or six women in forty-five 
 minutes without scenery on a stage as big as a 
 good-sized book. The process was repeated at 
 intervals throughout the last few years and this 
 little collection of plays is the result. With the 
 exception of " The Gate of Wishes " they have 
 all been presented by the Cincinnati College Club 
 or the Cincinnati Woman's Club and otherwise 
 and elsewhere. " The Gate of Wishes " was 
 first published in Poet Lore, " A Fan and a Pair 
 of Candlesticks " came out in the College Club 
 edition of the Club Woman's Magazine, and 
 4 The Shadowed Star " was published separately 
 by the Consumers' League. The songs in " The 
 Rose " and " Entr' Acte " were set to music by 
 Mr. Sidney C. Durst and may be obtained from 
 me at any time. For the dance in " Entr' Acte " 
 the music we used was " Espanita." The de 
 scriptions, stage-settings, directions, and so on 
 throughout the plays are as I have seen them in 
 my imagination, but may be changed according to 
 the exigencies of any private performance. No 
 one knows these exigencies better than I. And
 
 if any one wishes to have Ralph's eyes green in 
 stead of brown, or Peter Dodsley's cloak sky- 
 blue, or the scene of " A Woman's a Woman " out 
 on the lawn, or to alter an unprepossessing speech 
 why, he has the whole universe to choose from, 
 and my blessing. 
 
 MARY MAC MILLAN.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE SHADOWED STAR i 
 
 THE RING 21 
 
 THE ROSE 51 
 
 LUCK? 67 
 
 ENTR' ACTE 123 
 
 A WOMAN'S A WOMAN FOR A' THAT . . . .145 
 
 A FAN AND Two CANDLESTICKS 173 
 
 A MODERN MASQUE 187 
 
 THE FUTURISTS 207 
 
 THE GATE OF WISHES 233
 
 THE SHADOWED STAR. 
 
 CAST. 
 
 A WOMAN, the mother. 
 
 AN OLD WOMAN, the grandmother. 
 
 Two GIRLS, the daughters. 
 
 A MESSENGER BOY. 
 
 A NEIGHBOR. 
 
 ANOTHER NEIGHBOR. 
 
 [A very bare room in a tenement house, un- 
 carpeted, the boards being much worn, and 
 from the walls the bluish whitewash has scaled 
 away; in the front on one side is a cooking- 
 stove, and farther back on the same side a win 
 dow; on the opposite side is a door opening 
 into a hallway; in the middle of the room 
 there is a round, worn dining-room table, on 
 which stands a stunted, scraggly bit of an 
 evergreen-tree; at the back of the room, near 
 the window, stands an old-fashioned safe with 
 perforated tin front; next it a door opening 
 into an inner room, and next it in the corner 
 a bed, on which lies a pallid woman; another 
 woman, very old, sits in a rocking-chair in 
 front of the stove and rocks. There is silence 
 for a long space, the old woman rocking and 
 the woman on the bed giving an occasional 
 low sigh or groan. At last the old woman 
 speaks.]
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 THE OLD WOMAN. David 
 might be kapin' the Christmas wid us to-morrow 
 night if we hadn't left the ould counthry. 
 They'd never be crossin' the sea all the many 
 weary miles o' wetness an' fog an' cold to be 
 kapin' it wid us here in this great house o' brick 
 walls in a place full o' strange souls. They 
 would never be for crossin' all that weary, cold, 
 green wather, groanin' an' tossin' like it was the 
 grave o' sivin thousan' divils. Ah, but it would 
 be a black night at sea ! [She remains silent for 
 a few minutes, staring at the stove and rocking 
 slowly. ,] If they hadn't to cross that wet, cold 
 sea they'd maybe come. But wouldn't they be 
 afeard o' this great city, an' would they iver find 
 us here? Six floors up, an' they niver off the 
 ground in their lives. What would ye be think- 
 in'? [The other woman does not answer her. 
 She then speaks petulantly."] What would ye be 
 thinkin'? Mary, have ye gone clane to slape? 
 [ Turns her chair and peers around the back of it 
 at the pallid woman on the bed, who sighs and 
 answers. ] 
 
 THE WOMAN. No, I on'y wisht I could. 
 Maybe they'll come I don't know, but father 
 an' Michael wasn't much for thravel. [After a 
 pause and very wearily.'] Maybe they'll not 
 come, yet [slowly~\ maybe I'll be kapin' the 
 Christmas wid them there. [The Old Woman 
 seems not to notice this, wandering from her 
 question back to her memories.'] 
 
 THE OLD WOMAN. No, they'll niver be lav- 
 in' the ould land, the green land, the home land. 
 I'm wishing I was there wid thim. [Another 
 
 2
 
 THE SHADOWED STAR 
 
 pause, while she stares at the stove.] Maybe 
 we'd have a duck an' potatoes, an' maybe some 
 thing to drink to kape us warm against the cold. 
 An' the boys would all be dancin' an' the girls 
 have rosy cheeks. [There is another pause, and 
 then a knock at the door. " Come in," the two 
 women call, in reedy, weak voices, and a thin, 
 slatternly Irish woman enters.] 
 
 THE NEIGHBOR. Good avnin' to ye; I came 
 in to ask if I might borrow the loan o' a bit o' 
 tay, not havin' a leaf of it left. 
 
 THE WOMAN. We have a little left, just 
 enough we was savin' for ourselves to-night, but 
 you're welcome to it maybe the girls will 
 bring some. Will ye get it for her, mother? 
 Or she can help herself it's in the safe. It's 
 on the lower shelf among the cups an' saucers 
 an' plates. [The Old Woman and Neighbor go 
 to the safe and hunt for the tea, and do not find it 
 readily. The safe has little in it but a few 
 cracked and broken dishes.] 
 
 THE NEIGHBOR [holding up a tiny paper bag 
 with an ounce perhaps of tea in it]. It's just a 
 scrap ! 
 
 THE OLD WOMAN. To be sure ! We use so 
 much tay! We're that exthravagant ! 
 
 THE NEIGHBOR. It hurts me to take it from 
 ye maybe I'd better not. 
 
 THE OLD WOMAN. The girls will bring 
 more. We always have a cupboard full o' 
 things. We're always able to lend to our neigh 
 bors. 
 
 ^ THE NEIGHBOR. It's in great luck, ye are. 
 For some of us be so poor we don't know where 
 
 3
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 the next bite's comin' from. An' this winter whin 
 iverything's so high an' wages not raised, a 
 woman can't find enough to cook for her man's 
 dinner. It isn't that ye don't see things oh, 
 they're in the markets an' the shops, an' it makes 
 yer mouth wather as ye walk along the sthrates 
 this day before the Christmas to see the turkeys 
 an' the ducks ye'll niver ate, an' the little pigs 
 an' the or'nges an' bananies an' cranberries an' 
 the cakes an' nuts an' it's worse, I'm thinkin', 
 to see thim whin there's no money to buy than it 
 was in the ould counthry, where there was noth 
 ing to buy wid the money ye didn't have. 
 
 THE WOMAN. It's all one to us poor folk 
 whether there be things to buy or not. [She 
 speaks gaspingly, as one who is short of breath.'] 
 I'm on'y thinkin' o' the clane air at home if 
 I could have a mornin' o' fresh sunshine these 
 fogs an' smoke choke me so. The girls would 
 take me out to the counthry if they had time an' 
 I'd get well. But they haven't time. [She falls 
 into a fit of coughing.] 
 
 THE OLD WOMAN. But it's like to be bright 
 on Christmas Day. It wouldn't iver be cloudy 
 on Christmas Day, an' maybe even now the stars 
 would be crapin' out an' the air all clear an' cold 
 an' the moon a-shinin' an' iverything so sthill 
 an' quiet an' gleamin' an' breathless [her voice 
 falls almost to a whisper], awaitin' on the 
 Blessed Virgin. [She goes to the window, lifts 
 the blind, and peers out, then throws up the sash 
 and leans far out. After a moment she pulls the 
 sash down again and the blind and turns to those 
 in the room with the look of pathetic disappoint- 
 
 4
 
 THE SHADOWED STAR 
 
 ment in little things of the aged.] No, there's 
 not a sthar, not one little twinldin' sthar, an' 
 how'll the shepherds find their way? Ivery- 
 thing's dull an' black an' the clouds are hangin' 
 down heavy an' sthill. How'll the shepherds 
 find their way without the sthar to guide thim? 
 [Then almost whimpering^} An' David an* 
 Michael will niver be crossin' that wet, black seal 
 An' the girls how'll they find their way home? 
 They'll be lost somewhere along by the hedges. 
 Ohone, ohone! 
 
 THE NEIGHBOR. Now, grannie, what would 
 ye be sayin'? There's niver a hedge anywhere 
 but granite blocks an' electric light poles an' 
 plenty o' light in the city for thim to see all their 
 way home. [Then to the woman.} Ain't they 
 late? 
 
 THE WOMAN. They're always late, an' they 
 kape gettin' lather an' lather. 
 
 THE NEIGHBOR. Yis, av coorse, the sthores 
 is all open in the avnin's before Christmas. 
 
 THE WOMAN. They go so early in the morn- 
 in' an' get home so late at night, an' they're so 
 tired. 
 
 THE NEIGHBOR [whimnaly]. They're lucky 
 to be young enough to work an' not be married. 
 I've got to go home to the childer an' give thim 
 their tay. Pat's gone to the saloon again, an* 
 to-morrow bein' Christmas I misdoubt he'll be 
 terrible dhrunk again, an' me on'y jist well from 
 the blow in the shoulder the last time. [She 
 wipes her eyes and moves towards the door.} 
 
 THE OLD WOMAN. Sthay an' kape Christ 
 mas wid us. We're goin' to have our celebratin' 
 
 5
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 to-night on Christmas Eve, the way folks do 
 here. I like it best on Christmas Day, the way 
 'tis in the ould counthry, but here 'tis Christmas 
 Eve they kapc. We're waitin' for the girls to 
 come home to start things they knowin' how 
 Mary an' me on'y know how to kape Christ 
 mas Day as 'tis at home. But the girls'll soon 
 be here, an' they'll have the tree an' do the cook- 
 in' an' all, an' we'll kape up the jollity way into 
 the night. 
 
 THE NEIGHBOR {looks questioningly and sur 
 prised at the Woman, whose eyes are on the 
 mother."] Nay, if Pat came home dhrunk an' 
 didn't find me, he'd kill me. We have all to 
 be movin' on to our own throubles. [She goes 
 out, and the old woman leaves the Christmas-tree 
 which she has been fingering and admiring, and 
 sits down in the rocking-chair again. After a 
 while she croons to herself in a high, broken 
 voice. This lasts some time, when there is the 
 noise of a slamming door and then of footsteps 
 approaching.'] 
 
 THE WOMAN. If I could on'y be in the coun 
 thry! 
 
 THE OLD WOMAN. Maybe that would be 
 the girls! [She starts tremblingly to her feet, 
 but the steps come up to the door and go by.~] 
 If David and Michael was to come now an' go 
 by there bein' no sthar to guide thim! 
 
 THE WOMAN. Nay, mother, 'twas the shep 
 herds that was guided by the sthar an' to the bed 
 o' the Blessed Babe. 
 
 THE OLD WOMAN. Aye, so 'twas. What 
 be I thinkin' of? The little Blessed Babe! 
 
 6
 
 THE SHADOWED STAR 
 
 [She smiles and sits staring at the stove again 
 for a lit tie. ~\ But they could not find Him to 
 night. 'Tis so dark an' no sthars shinin'. 
 [After another pause.'] An' what would shep 
 herds do in a ghreat city? 'Twould be lost 
 they'd be, quicker than in any bog. Think ye, 
 Mary, that the boys would be hootin' thim an' 
 the p'lice, maybe, would want to be aristin' thim 
 for loitherin'. They'd niver find the Blessed 
 Babe, an' they'd have to be movin' on. [An 
 other pause, and then there is the sound of ap 
 proaching footsteps again. The Old Woman 
 grasps the arms of her chair and leans forward, 
 intently listening.] That would sure be the girls 
 this time ! [But again the footsteps go by. The 
 Old Woman sighs.~\ Ah, but 'tis weary waitin' ! 
 [There is another long pause.] 'Twas on that 
 day that David an' me was plighted a brave 
 Christmas Day wid a shinin' sun an' a sky o' 
 blue wid fair, white clouds. An' David an' me 
 met at the early mass in the dark o' the frosty 
 mornin' afore the sun rose an' there was all 
 day good times an' a duck for dinner and pud- 
 din's an' a party at the O'Brady's in the evenin', 
 whin David an' me danced. Ah, but he was a 
 beautiful dancer, an' me, too I was as light on 
 my feet as a fairy. [She begins to croon an old 
 dance tune and hobbles to her feet, and, keeping 
 time with her head, tries a grotesque and feeble 
 sort of dancing. Her eyes brighten and she 
 smiles proudly. ,] Aye, but I danced like a fairy, 
 an' there was not another couple so sprightly an' 
 handsome in all the country. [She tires, and, 
 looking pitiful and disappointed, hobbles back to 
 
 7
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 her chair, and drops into it again.] Ah, but I 
 be old now, and the strength fails me. [She 
 falls into silence for a few minutes.] 'Twas the 
 day before the next Christmas that Michael was 
 born the little man, the little white dove, my 
 little son! [There is a moment's pause, and 
 then the pallid woman on the bed has a violent fit 
 of coughing.] 
 
 THE WOMAN. Mother, could ye get me a 
 cup o' wather? If the girls was here to get me 
 a bite to ate, maybe it would kape the breath in 
 me the night. 
 
 THE OLD WOMAN [starts and stares at her 
 daughter, as if she hardly comprehended the 
 present reality. She gets up and goes over to 
 the window under which there is a pail full of 
 water. She dips some out in a tin cup and car 
 ries it to her bed.] Ye should thry to get up an* 
 move about some, so ye can enjoy the Christmas 
 threat. 'Tis bad bein' sick on Christmas. 
 Thry, now, Mary, to sit up a bit. The girls'll be 
 wantin' ye to be merry wid the rest av us. 
 
 THE WOMAN [looking at her mother with a 
 sad wist fulness.] I wouldn't spoil things for the 
 girls if I could help. Maybe, mother, if ye'd 
 lift me a little I could sit up. [The Old Woman 
 tugs at her, and she herself tries hard to get into 
 a sitting posture, but after some efort and pant 
 ing for breath, she falls back again. After a 
 pause for rest, she speaks gaspingly. ] Maybe 
 I'll feel sthronger lather whin the girls come 
 home they could help me [with the plaint of 
 longing in her voice] they be so late ! [After an 
 other pause.] Maybe I'll be sthrong again in
 
 THE SHADOWED STAR 
 
 the mornin' if I'd had a cup of coffee. May 
 be I could get up an' walk about an' do the 
 cookin'. [There is a knock at the door, and 
 again they call, " Come in" in reedy, weak 
 voices. There enters a little messenger boy in a 
 ragged overcoat that reaches almost to his heels. 
 His eyes are large and bright, his face pale and 
 dirty, and he is fearfully tired and worn.] 
 
 THE WOMAN. Why, Tim, boy, come in. 
 Sit ye down an' rest, ye're lookin' weary. 
 
 THE OLD WOMAN. Come to the stove, Tim- 
 mie, man, an' warm yourself. We always kape 
 a warm room an' a bright fire for our visitors. 
 
 THE BOY. I was awful cold an' hungry an' I 
 come home to get somethin' to eat before I 
 started out on another trip, but my sisters ain't 
 home from the store yit, an' the fire's gone out 
 in the stove, an' the room's cold as outside. I 
 thought maybe ye'd let me come in here an' git 
 warm. 
 
 THE OLD WOMAN. Poor orphan! Poor 
 lamb ! To be shure ye shall get warm by our 
 sthove. 
 
 THE BOY. The cars are so beastly col' an' 
 so crowded a feller mostly has to stand on the 
 back platform. [The Old Woman takes him by 
 the shoulder and pushes him toward the stove, 
 but he resists.] 
 
 THE BOY. No, thank ye I don't want to 
 go so near yet; my feet's all numb an' they allays 
 hurt so when they warms up fast. 
 
 THE OLD WOMAN. Thin sit ye down off 
 from the sthove. [Moves the rocking-chair 
 farther away from the stove for him.] 
 
 9
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 THE BOY. If ye don't mind I'd rather stand 
 on 'em 'til they gets a little used to it. They 
 been numb off an' on mos' all day. 
 
 THE WOMAN. Soon as yer sisters come, 
 Timmie, ye'd betther go to bed 'tis the best 
 place to get warm. 
 
 THE BOY. I can't I got most a three-hour 
 trip yet. I won't get home any 'fore midnight 
 if I don't get lost, and maybe I'll get lost I 
 did onct out there. I've got to take a box o' 
 'Merican Beauty roses to a place eight mile out, 
 an' the house ain't on the car track, but nearly 
 a mile off, the boss said. I wisht they could wait 
 till mornin', but the orders was they just got to 
 get the roses to-night. You see, out there they 
 don' have no gas goin' nights when there's a 
 moon, an' there'd ought to be a moon to-night, 
 on'y the clouds is so thick there ain't no light gets 
 through. 
 
 THE OLD WOMAN. There's no sthar shinin' 
 to-night, Tim. [She shakes her head ominously. 
 She goes to the window for the second time, 
 opens it as before, and looks out. Shutting the 
 window, she comes back and speaks slowly and 
 sadly. ,] Niver a sthar. An' the shepherds will 
 be havin' a hard time, Tim, like you, findin' their 
 way. 
 
 THE BOY. Shepherds? In town? What 
 shepherds ? 
 
 THE WOMAN. She manes the shepherds on 
 Christmas Eve that wint to find the Blessed Babe, 
 Jesus. 
 
 THE OLD WOMAN. 'Tis Christmas Eve, 
 Timmie; ye haven't forgot that, have ye? 
 
 10
 
 THE SHADOWED STAR 
 
 THE BOY. You bet I ain't. I know pretty 
 well when Christmas is comin', by the way I got 
 to hustle, an' the size of the boxes I got to carry. 
 Seems as if my legs an' me would like to break 
 up pardnership. I got to work till midnight 
 every night, an' I'm so sleepy I drop off in the 
 cars whenever I get a seat. An' the girls is at 
 the store so early an' late they don't get time to 
 cook me nothin' to eat. 
 
 THE WOMAN. Be ye hungry, Timmie? 
 
 THE BOY [diffidently and looking at the floor']. 
 No, I ain't hungry now. 
 
 THE WOMAN. Be ye shure, Timmie? 
 
 THE BOY. Oh, I kin go till I git home. 
 
 THE WOMAN. Mother, can't you find some 
 thing for him to ate? 
 
 THE OLD WOMAN. To be shure, to be shure. 
 [Bustling about.] We always kapes a full cup 
 board to thrate our neighbors wid whin they 
 comes in. [She goes to the empty safe and 
 fusses in it to find something. She pretends to 
 be very busy, and then glances around at the boy 
 with a sly look and a smile. ~\ Ah, Timmie, lad, 
 what would ye like to be havin', now? If you 
 had the wish o' yer heart for yer Christmas din 
 ner an' a good fairy to set it all afore ye? Ye'd 
 be wishin' maybe, for a fine roast duck, to be 
 gin wid, in its own gravies an' some apple sauce 
 to go wid it; an' ye'd be thinkin' o' a little bit 
 o' pig nicely browned an' a plate o' potatoes; an' 
 the little fairy woman would be bringin' yer pud- 
 din's an' nuts an' apples an' a dish o' the swatest 
 tay. [The Boy smiles rather ruefully. ,] 
 
 II
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 THE WOMAN. But, mother, you're not get- 
 tin' Tim something to ate. 
 
 THE BOY. She's makin' me mouth water all 
 right. [The Old Woman goes back to her 
 search, but again turns about with a cunning look, 
 and says to the boy:] 
 
 THE OLD WOMAN. Maybe ye'll meet that 
 little fairy woman out there in the counthry 
 road where ye're takin' the roses ! [Nods her 
 head knowingly, turning to the safe again.] 
 Here's salt an' here's pepper an' here's mustard 
 an' a crock full o' sugar, an', oh! Tim, here's 
 some fine cold bacon fine, fat, cold bacon 
 an' here's half a loaf o' white wheat bread ! Why, 
 Timmie, lad, that's just the food to make boys 
 fat! Ye'll grow famously on it. 'Tis a supper, 
 whin ye add to it a dhrop o' iligant milk, that's 
 fit for a king. [She bustles about with great 
 show of being busy and having much to prepare. 
 Puts the plate of cold bacon upon the table 
 where stands the stunted bit of an evergreen-tree, 
 then brings the half-loaf of bread and cuts it 
 into slices, laying pieces of bacon on the slices of 
 bread. Then she pours out a glass of milk from 
 a dilapidated and broken pitcher in the safe and 
 brings it to the table, the Boy all the while watch 
 ing her hungrily. At last he says rather apolo 
 getically to the woman.] 
 
 THE BOY. I ain't had nothin' since a wiener- 
 wurst at eleven o'clock. 
 
 THE OLD WOMAN. Now, dhraw up, Tim 
 mie, boy, an' ate yer fill; ye're more thin wel 
 come. [The boy does not sit down, but stands 
 
 12
 
 THE SHADOWED STAR 
 
 by the table and eats a slice of bread and bacon, 
 drinking from the glass of milk occasionally. ] 
 
 THE WOMAN. Don't they niver give ye noth- 
 in' to ate at the gran' houses when ye'd be takin' 
 the roses? 
 
 THE BOY. Not them. They'd as soon think 
 o' feedin' a telephone or an automobile as me. 
 
 THE WOMAN. But don't they ask ye in to 
 get warm whin ye've maybe come so far? 
 
 THE BOY. No, they don't seem to look at 
 me 'zacly like a caller. They generally steps out 
 long enough to sign the receipt-book an' shut the 
 front door behin' 'em so as not to let the house 
 ge col' the length o' time I'm standin' there. 
 Well, I'm awful much obleeged to ye. Now, I 
 got to be movin' on. 
 
 THE OLD WOMAN. Sthop an' cilibrate the 
 Christmas wid us. We ain't started to do noth- 
 in' yet because the girls haven't come they 
 know how [nodding her head~\ an' they're go- 
 in' to bring things all kinds o' good things 
 to ate an' a branch of rowan berries ah, boy, 
 a great branch o' powan wid scarlet berries shin- 
 in' [gesticulating and with gleaming eyes~\, an' 
 we'll all be merry an' kape it up late into the 
 night. 
 
 THE BOY [in a little fear of her~\. I guess 
 it's pretty late now. I got to make that trip an' 
 I guess when I get home I'll be so sleepy I'll jus' 
 tumble in. Ye've been awful good to me, an' it's 
 the first time I been warm to-day. Good-by. 
 [He starts towards the door, but the Old Woman 
 follows him and speaks to him coaxingly.~\ 
 
 13
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 THE OLD WOMAN. Ah, don't ye go, 
 Michael, lad! Now, bide wid us a bit. [The 
 Boy, surprised at the name, looks queerly at the 
 Old Woman, who then stretches out her arms to 
 him, and says beseechingly:] Ah, boy, ah, 
 Mike, bide wid us, now ye've come ! We've 
 been that lonesome widout ye ! 
 
 THE BOY [frightened and shaking his head]. 
 I've got to be movin'. 
 
 THE OLD WOMAN. No, Michael, little lamb, 
 no! 
 
 THE BOY [almost terrified, watching her with 
 staring eyes, and backing out~\. I got to go! 
 [The Boy goes out, and the Old Woman breaks 
 into weeping, totters over to her old rocking-chair 
 and drops into it, rocks to and fro, wailing to 
 herself.] 
 
 THE OLD W MAN - Oh, to have him come an' 
 go again, my little Michael, my own little lad ! 
 
 THE WOMAN. Don't ye, dearie; now, then, 
 don't ye ! 'Twas not Michael, but just our little 
 neighbor boy, Tim. Ye know, por lamb, now 
 if ye'll thry to remember, that-father an' Michael 
 is gone to the betther land an' us is left. 
 
 THE OLD WOMAN. Nay, nay, 'tis the fairies 
 that took thim an' have thim now, kapin' thim 
 an' will not ever give thim back. 
 
 THE WOMAN. Whisht, mother! Spake not 
 of the little folk on the Holy Night! [Crosses 
 herself.] Have ye forgot the time o' all the 
 year it is? Now, dhry yer eyes, dearie, an' thry 
 to be cheerful like fore the girls be comin' home. 
 [A noise is heard, the banging of a door and 
 footsteps."] Thim be the girls now, shure they 
 
 14
 
 THE SHADOWED STAR 
 
 be comin' at last. [But the sound of footsteps 
 dies away.~\ But they'll be comin' soon. 
 [Wearily, but with the inveterate hope."} 
 
 [The two women relapse into silence again, 
 which is undisturbed for a few minutes. 
 Then there is a knock at the door, and to 
 gether in quavering, reedy voices, they call, 
 " Come in," as before. There enters a tall, 
 big, broad-shouldered woman with a cold, 
 discontented, hard look upon the face that 
 might have been handsome some years 
 back; still, in her eyes, as she looks at the 
 pallid woman on the bed, there is some 
 thing that denotes a softness underneath it 
 all.-] 
 
 THE OLD WOMAN. Good avnin' to ye! 
 We're that pleased to see our neighbors! 
 
 THE NEIGHBOR [without paying any attention 
 to the Old Woman, but entirely addressing the 
 woman on the bed]. How's yer cough? 
 
 THE WOMAN. Oh, it's jist the same may 
 be a little betther. If I could on'y get to the 
 counthry ! But the girls must be workin' they 
 haven't time to take me. Sit down, won't ye? 
 [The Neighbor goes to the bed and sits down on 
 the foot of it.~\ 
 
 THE NEIGHBOR. I'm most dead, I'm so tired. 
 I did two washin's to-day went out and did 
 one this mornin' and then my own after I come 
 home this afternoon. I jus' got through sprink- 
 lin' it an' I'll iron to-morrow. 
 
 THE WOMAN. Not on Christmas Day! 
 THE NEIGHBOR [with a sneer]. Christmas 
 Day! Did ye hear 'bout the Beckers? Well, 
 
 15
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 they was all put out on the sidewalk this after 
 noon. Becker's been sick, ye know, an' ain't paid 
 his rent an' his wife's got a two weeks' old baby. 
 It sort o' stunned Mis' Becker, an' she sat on 
 one of the mattresses out there an' wouldn't 
 move, an' nobody couldn't do nothin' with her. 
 But they ain't the only ones has bad luck 
 Smith, the painter, fell off a ladder an' got killed. 
 They took him to the hospital, but it wasn't no 
 use his head was all mashed in. His wife's 
 got them five boys an' Smith never saved a cent, 
 though he warn't a drinkin' man. It's a good 
 thing Smith's children is boys they can make 
 their livin' easier! 
 
 THE WOMAN [smiling faintly. ~\ Ain't ye got 
 no cheerful news to tell? It's Christmas Eve, 
 ye know. 
 
 THE NEIGHBOR. Christmas Eve don't seem 
 to prevent people from dyin' an' bein' turned out 
 o' house an' home. Did ye hear how bad the 
 dipthery is? They say as how if it gits much 
 worse they'll have to close the school in our 
 ward. Two o' the Homan childern's dead with 
 it. The first one wasn't sick but two days, an' 
 they say his face all turned black 'fore he died. 
 But it's a good thing they're gone, for the 
 Homans ain't got enough to feed the other six. 
 Did ye hear 'bout Jim Kelly drinkin' again? 
 Swore off for two months, an' then took to it 
 harder'n ever perty near killed the baby one 
 night. 
 
 THE WOMAN [with a wan, beseeching smile~\. 
 Won't you please not tell me any more? It just 
 breaks me heart. 
 
 16
 
 THE SHADOWED STAR 
 
 THE NEIGHBOR [grimly]. I ain't got no 
 other kind o' news to tell. I s'pose I might's 
 well go home. 
 
 THE WOMAN. No, don't ye go. I like to 
 have ye here when ye're kinder. 
 
 THE NEIGHBOR [fingering the bed clothes and 
 smoothing them over the woman]. Well, it's 
 gettin' late, an' I guess ye ought to go to sleep. 
 
 THE WOMAN. Oh, no, I won't go to slape 
 till the girls come. They'll bring me somethin' 
 to give me strength. If they'd on'y come soon! 
 
 THE NEIGHBOR. Ye ain't goin' to set up 'til 
 they git home? 
 
 THE OLD WOMAN. That we are. We're 
 kapin' the cilebratin' till they come. 
 
 THE NEIGHBOR. What celebratin'? 
 
 THE OLD WOMAN. Why, the Christmas, to 
 be shure. We're goin' to have high jinks to 
 night. In the ould counthry 'tis always Christ 
 mas Day, but here 'tis begun on Christmas Eve, 
 an' we're on'y waitin' for the girls, because they 
 know how to fix things betther nor Mary an' me. 
 
 THE NEIGHBOR [staring]. But ain't they 
 workin' in the store? 
 
 THE OLD WOMAN. Yes, but they're comin' 
 home early to-night. 
 
 THE NEIGHBOR {laughing ironically]. Don't 
 ye fool yerselves. Why, they've got to work 
 harder to-night than any in the whole year. 
 
 THE WOMAN [wistfully]. But they did say 
 they'd thry to come home early. 
 
 THE NEIGHBOR. The store's all crowded to 
 night. Folks 'at's got money to spend never re 
 members it till the last minute. If they didn't
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 have none they'd be thinkin' 'bout it long ahead. 
 Well, I got to be movin'. I wouldn't stay awake, 
 if I was you. 
 
 THE OLD WOMAN. Sthay and kape the 
 Christmas wid us! We'll be havin' high jinks 
 by an' by. Sthay, now, an' help us wid our 
 jollity ! 
 
 THE NEIGHBOR. Nay, I left my children in 
 bed, an' I got to go back to 'em. An' I got to 
 get some rest myself I got that ironin' ahead 
 o' me in the mornin'. You folks better get yer 
 own rest. [She rises and walks to the door."] 
 
 THE OLD WOMAN [beamingly], David an' 
 Michael's comin'. [The Neighbor stands with 
 her back against the door and her hand on the 
 knob, staring at the Old Woman."} 
 
 THE OLD WOMAN [smiling rapturously]. 
 Yis, we're goin' to have a gran' time. [The 
 Neighbor looks puzzled and fearful and trou 
 bled, first at the Woman and then at the Old 
 Woman. Finally, without a word, she opens the 
 door and goes out.~\ 
 
 THE OLD WOMAN [going about In a tottering 
 sort of dance."] David an' Michael's comin' an' 
 the shepherds for the fairies will show thim the 
 way. 
 
 THE WOMAN. If the girls would on'y come! 
 If they'd give me somethin' so as I wouldn't be 
 so tired! 
 
 THE OLD WOMAN. There's niver a sthar an' 
 there's nobody to give thim a kind word an' the 
 counthry roads are dark an' foul, but they've got 
 the little folk to guide thim! An' whin they 
 reach the city the poor, lonesome shepherds 
 
 18
 
 THE SHADOWED STAR 
 
 from the hills ! they'll find naught but coldness 
 an' hardness an' hurry. \_Questioningly.~] Will 
 the fairies show thim the way? Fairies' eyes 
 be used to darkness, but can they see where it 
 is black night in one corner an' a blaze o' light 
 in another? [She goes to the window for the 
 third time, opens it and leans far out for a long 
 time, then turns about and goes on in her mono- 
 tone, closing the window. She seems by this 
 time quite to have forgotten the presence of the 
 pallid woman on the bed, who has closed her 
 eyes, and lies like one dead.~\ 
 
 THE OLD WOMAN. Nay, there's niver a 
 sthar, an' the clouds are hangin' heavier an' lower 
 an' the flakes o' snow are fallin'. Poor little 
 folk guidin' thim poor lost shepherds, leadin' 
 thim by the hand so gently because there's no 
 others to be kind to thim, an' bringin' thim to 
 the manger o' the Blessed Babe. [She comes 
 over to her rocking-chair and again sits down in 
 it, rocks slowly to and fro, nodding her head in, 
 time to the motion.] Poor little mite of a babe, 
 so cold an' unwelcome an' forgotten save by the 
 silly ould shepherds from the hills ! The silly 
 ould shepherds from the strength o' the hills, 
 who are comin' through the darkness in the lead 
 o' the little folk ! [She speaks slower and lower, 
 and finally drops into a quiet crooning it stops 
 and the Old Woman has fallen asleep.] 
 
 [CURTAIN.] 
 
 [While the curtain 'is down the pallid, sick 
 woman upon the bed dies, the Old Woman 
 being asleep does not notice the slight strug- 
 
 19
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 gle with death. The fire has gone out in 
 the stove, and the light in the lamp, and 
 the stage is in complete darkness when the 
 two girls come stumbling in. They are too 
 tired to speak, too weary to show surprise 
 that the occupants of the room are not 
 awake. They fumble about, trying to find 
 matches in the darkness, and finally discover 
 them and a candle in the safe. They light 
 the candle and place it upon the table by the 
 scraggy little evergreen-tree. They turn 
 about and discern their grandmother asleep 
 in the rocking-chair. Hurriedly they turn 
 to the bed and discover their mother lying 
 there dead. For a full minute they stand 
 gazing at her, the surprise, wonder, awe, 
 misery increasing in their faces; then with 
 screams they run to the bed, throw them 
 selves on their knees and bury their faces, 
 sobbing in the bedclothes at the Woman's 
 feet.'] 
 
 [CURTAIN.] 
 
 20
 
 THE RING. 
 
 CHARACTERS AS THEY APPEAR. 
 
 HANNAH DODSLEY, the wife of Peter. 
 
 PETER DODSLEY, actor and stockholder in the 
 
 Globe Theater. 
 KATHERINE DODSLEY, their daughter. 
 
 fe HN ' \ servants to the Dodsleys. 
 ( WILLIAM, J 
 
 MISTRESS CHETTLE, friend to Mistress Dodsley. 
 ROBIN WOODCOCK, a young actor who takes 
 
 wemvnt-s- parts. 
 A GYPSY. 
 RICHARD POWELL, a young playwright in love 
 
 with Katherine. 
 A TINKER. 
 
 TIME: The days of Shakespeare. 
 
 SCENE : The house of Peter Dodsley. 
 
 [Peter Dodsley 
 rical producer and is well-to-do. He awns a 
 gwdly house that has almost handsome furni- 
 tnrt'wrd^TS'nttifr'and.Qtderly, thanks to the care 
 of his thrifty Wife. Peter himself -is.ja,middle- 
 aged man, .given a little to portliness , smooth 
 and well-kept, contented and humorous. He 
 is ^ very spruce and well-dressed in a suit of 
 brown, velvet. Hannah, his wife, is thin and 
 shrill-tongue d; she is over-dressed in a gown of 
 
 21
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 many colors and she lacks a sense of humor, 
 like ike wive s of men who have it. She-takes 
 life hard. The scene opens showing an ex- 
 tremely neat and well-furnished room. There 
 are doors on either side and at the back. Han 
 nah sits knitting in a high-backed oaken chair 
 by an oaken table. ,] 
 
 PETER [from behind scenes']. I say! What 
 hast thou done with my new cloak ? Ho, madam 1 
 
 HANNAH. Eh, well, what is't? 
 
 PETER {coming out carrying his hat, gloves, 
 etc.]. My new cloak, as thou well knowest, 
 brought home but yesterday at sundown from the 
 shop by the tailor's boy and by noon to-day swal 
 lowed up in the cavernous maw of thy excellent 
 housekeeping. When thou art in heaven wilt 
 thou go about picking stray flying feathers 
 molted from the angels' wings, and pile away all 
 the harps and crowns in neat rows on the cup 
 board shelves? 
 
 HANNAH. Thou talkest of heaven too inti 
 mately, Peter. It becomes thee ill. 
 
 PETER. But my new coat becomes me out 
 of all seeming. If thou couldst but find it, dear 
 dame, and see me properly housed in it, then thou 
 wouldst love me as sweetly as on that May-day 
 when thy round cheeks blossomed at sight of my 
 adorable curled locks. Dost thou remember, 
 sweetheart, how madly thou didst fall in love 
 with me? 
 
 [He stalks about the room and finding Kath- 
 erine's ring on the mantel shelf he picks it 
 up and puts it on without, however, attract- 
 
 22 
 
 ik"
 
 THE RING 
 
 ing the attention of Hannah, who goes on 
 industriously knitting and heeding him not.~\ ^ 
 
 HANNAH. Beshrew me, not I. 'Twas thou f 
 that couldst not bear to let me out of thy sight 
 ten minutes running, and vowed to swallow 
 poison or jump into the Thames if I would not 
 marry thee. 
 
 PETER. Now what a fool I wash But that 
 is of small matter when the players are all await 
 ing me at the theater and I must have my new 
 cloak or go shamefaced in mine ancient rags and 
 tatters. 
 
 HANNAH. Thou art late as usual? 
 
 PETER. They do not begin the play till I ar- ,>vuX. 
 rive, therefore I am not late. 
 
 HANNAH. And goest in mad hurry as ever? 
 
 PETER. Nay, good wife [striking an attitude 
 of repose], that is a sin that even thou couldst not' A^ 
 impute to me. 
 
 HANNAH. And hast left thy bedroom turned 
 upside down and all thy clothing in disorderly 
 heaps upon the floor? 
 
 PETER. All, save my new cloak. Thou wilt 
 find the rest as thou hast predicted. But, sweet 
 coney, I must be gone. Try to put thy mind 
 upon my new cloak cather than upon the more 
 unprofitable ancient livery. If thou wouldst put 
 half as much attention upon it as upon ferreting 
 out my more unworthy qualities, 'twould be here 
 iira trice. 
 
 HANNAH. Why dost thou not find it for thy 
 self? 
 
 PETER. Art thou angling for sugared compli 
 ments, sweetheart? For thou dost know that" I 
 
 23 

 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 V 
 
 know and that every one k<K>ws that there was 
 but one thing ever in all the world that I could 
 find well and that a fair wife. [He waits 
 for this to sink in.~\ Whereas thou couldst ever 
 find anything that was ever lost even to a rich 
 man's soul. 
 
 [Katherine comes in. She is some twenty sum 
 mers old, fair and slender and lovely, what 
 her mother might have been at her age, but 
 with her father's intelligence and wit. She 
 is simply clad in white and has blue eyes 
 and gold brown hair a Judith Shake 
 speare, if you please.'} 
 
 HANNAH. Katherine, go fetch your father's 
 new cloak. 
 
 KATHERINE [to her father}. Where is it, sir? 
 PETER. Forsooth, that is the question I have 
 asked resolutely for an hour past. 
 
 HANNAH. It is on the second shelf from the 
 bottom of the closet in thy father's bedroom. 
 Hasten, he is very late. 
 
 PETER [with a -wink at her}. What a brief 
 memory thou hast, Kate, for twas surely thou 
 that packed away my cloak since neither I nor 
 thy mother knew, -aught- abotit it. [Kate goes 
 out smiling.] 
 
 HANNAH. 'Tis a most expensive cloak thou 
 hast bought. Thou spendest money as if thou 
 wert Lord Mayor of London. 
 
 PETER. And thou shalt have as fine a gown 
 of flame colored taffeta as the Lord Mayor's 
 lady, for the theater does passing well and I have 
 money to my purse. 
 
 24
 
 THE RING 
 
 HANNAH. It irks me to buy mine apparel 
 with money fetched from the theater. 
 
 PETER. Thou shouldst not have a soul so sen 
 sitive. 'Twas ever thought good work and will 
 be ever by pious Christians, to take money from 
 the devil and give it to a better man. 
 
 HANNAH. Thou consortest there with a pack 
 of scape-graces, and roysterers, tavern-brawlers, 
 pick-purses, thieves, villains, rascals, rogues, 
 
 PETER. Hold, hold! Thou dost fill the jail 
 faster and with my companions and familiar 
 friends than doth the judge. Alack, alack! 
 And hang London bridge thicker with heads than 
 raindrops in April, [As Katherine comes in 
 again carrying his cloak.'] Ah, Kate, thy mother 
 would have us all notorious villains, but, be- 
 shrew me, still is there sport in life and gin 
 ger is hot i' the mouth. To-day we play Will 
 Shakespeare's merry comedy of "Twelfth 
 Night," and so [putting on his cloak], " Anon, sir, 
 I'll be gone, sir, I'll be with you again in a trice, 
 like to the old vice " [he goes on out singing in 
 a full, rich, merry voice']. 
 
 [Katherine and Hannah, being left alone, 
 Katherine goes about the room hunting si 
 lently and distractedly, while Hannah talks.] ft 
 
 HANNAH. Dame Chettle hath a new gown. 
 [Pause.'] 
 
 Of wondrous heavy silk. [Pause.] 
 
 'Tis brocaded. [Pause, Hannah glances at 
 Katherine.'] 
 
 The sleeves are deeply slashed. [Pause.] 
 
 And lined with yellow taffeta. [Pause.]
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 'Tis of a grass green color. [Pause. She 
 glances again at Kate.} 
 
 i-maft-jthje~gp.w.n. itself, [Pause.'] 
 
 And laced with scarlet ribbons. [Pause. She 
 looks sharply at Kate. 
 
 And trimmed with richest lace. [Pause.] 
 
 The whole gown is most richly broidered with 
 gold. [Pause.] Some might think Dame Chet- 
 tle's figure too short and round to wear a gown 
 so ornamented. Some might think she would not 
 carry it off well. [Pause.] Gramercy, Kate, 
 what aileth thee? [Katherine starts but goes on 
 hunting distractedly.] Dost thou not care about 
 Dame Chettle's gown? 
 
 KATHERINE [bursting into tears]. I care not 
 about Dame Chettle's gown, nor Dame Chettle's 
 taste, nor Dame Chettle's figure, nor anything 
 that is Dame Chettle's. I've lost my ring! 
 
 HANNAH. Now, Katherine Dodsley, what 
 wilt be telling me? 
 
 KATHERINE. I've lost my ring that Richard 
 gave me. 
 
 HANNAH. Thou dost not mean to tell me 
 truly that thou hast lost thy ring? 
 
 KATHERINE. Dost thou think I would be 
 making up such a tale for thy pleasure? 
 
 HANNAH. Where didst thou lose it? 
 
 KATHERINE. If I but knew! 
 
 HANNAH. When didst thou lose it? 
 
 KATHERINE. If I but knew ! 
 
 HANNAH. Nay, but how didst thou lose it? 
 
 KATHERINE. Nay, and if I but knew ! 
 
 HANNAH. Didst thou have it at dinner? 
 
 KATHERINE. Yes, I think so. 
 26
 
 THE RING 
 
 HANNAH. Then thou must have dropped it 
 into the dish of stewed prunes. 
 
 KATHERINE. Nay, mother, how could I? 
 
 HANNAH. Then mayhap it slipped off when 
 thou wast picking a chicken wing. Or more like 
 it slid off into the trencher and was carried out. 
 Run and find it in the trencher. 
 
 KATHERINE. Nay, I must use all my wits to 
 discover how this thing chanced. [She stands in 
 deep thought.] 
 
 HANNAH. A* if tFr.kiyg - woulj ;u;J the 
 ring! \Jumpmg to ler feet.] Htmt for it, to/ 
 be sore, hunt for it! It must have fallen on the 
 floor. [She walks around stooping and peer 
 ing] Now must I find the ring, for if it were ^ f*~^ 
 left to thy father or thee, it w;ould never be de- ^x 
 tected. [Katherine hunts, too, they bump into \7 
 each other, and finally are both down on their ' 
 hands and knees, when a man servant looks in 
 at the door. They are embarrassed, he averts 
 his eyes, grins and retreats. This is John, a u^jQ % 
 young, thin, red-haired man with obtrusive joints 
 and great awkwardness. He grins always and is 
 a stupid, merry lout.] 
 
 HANNAH [calling]. John, come hither. 
 [John enters, shamefaced and awkward, finger- 
 1 ing his cap, and trying hard not to laugh.] yj 
 John, your young mistress hath lost a ring. 
 [John ducks.] We were looking for it on the 
 V/> ,noor [John ducks again and putts his foretop], 
 thinking it might have dropped. You may con- 
 ^ Itinue the search. [John ducks, then looks at her 
 j enquiringly.] Yes, on the floor. [John imme 
 diately sprawls on his knees. Katherine con- 
 
 1 - M > -e^t* * 
 
 (f""j
 
 Uju-4 
 
 tinues to hunt. Hannah sits with dignity on her 
 chair, as before, but finally the dignity gives way 
 to curiosity, and she is soon down on her knees 
 again. Another servant pokes his head in at the 
 door, is surprised, abashed, but curious, and re 
 tires with evident reluctance. This is William. 
 He is very tall, lean, and dark, with a trifle more 
 brains than John and overweighted with the 
 seriousness of everything. Both men are dressed 
 in dull-colored clothing, very short smocks which 
 give prominence to their awkward legs. Han 
 nah takes her chair again with the assump 
 tion of great dignity and calls William to come 
 back.] 
 
 HANNAH. William, come hither. [William 
 enters, awkward, serious but curious.~\ William, 
 your young mistress hath lost her ring and we 
 were all looking for it, thinking, perchance, it had 
 dropped to the floor. [William ducks and pulls 
 his foretop.~\ 'Tis a most costly ring. 
 
 KATHERINE. Oh, I would not lose it for all 
 the wealth of all the Indies! 
 
 HANNAH. 'Twas given her by Master Rich 
 ard Powell. 
 
 WILLIAM {pulling his foretop with great 
 earnestness.'} A most notable gentleman. 
 
 HANNAH. And we have endeavored to find 
 it. Do you search diligently with John. [Wil 
 liam with slower and more elaborate awkward 
 ness sprawls upon the floor and the search goes 
 on as before, Dame Dodsley joining in and is 
 upon her hands and knees looking under a set 
 tle, when a knock is heard at the door and Dame 
 Chettle comes immediately bustling in and is 
 
 28
 
 u 
 THE RING 
 
 amazed at the scene. Dame Chettle is very 
 short, very fat, very waddling. She is contin 
 ually out of breath and she wears a very gay 
 gown.] 
 
 HANNAH [getting up into her chair as before 
 and assuming an air of great dignity']. Good 
 day to you, Mistress Chettle. 
 
 DAME CHETTLE. Good day to you. 
 
 HANNAH. You see us in sore straits and 
 great confusion. My daughter hath lost a ring. 
 
 DAME CHETTLE. Ohl 
 
 HANNAH. 'Tis a most costly ring. 
 
 DAME CHETTLE. Oh! 
 
 HANNAH. 'Twas given her by Master Rich 
 ard Powell, whom as you know she will marry 
 soon. 
 
 DAME CHETTLE. Oh! 
 
 HANNAH. It came from Italy. Katherine, 
 did thy ring not come from Italy? 
 
 KATHERINE. Truly it came from Italy. 
 Richard bought it of a sea captain who had it 
 from an Italian gentleman in Venice. 
 
 DAME CHETTLE [with large, staring eyes]. 
 
 KATHERINE. 'Tis gold 
 
 HANNAH [interrupting]. Very ancient and 
 heavy and fine. 
 
 DAME CHETTLE. Oh! 
 
 KATHERINE. Set with pearls 
 
 HANNAH [interrupting. Very large and ele 
 gant and fair. 
 
 DAME CHETTLE. Oh! 
 
 HANNAH. And she dropped it on the floor 
 after dinner. 
 
 29
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 J 
 
 KATHERINE. Nay, mother, I am not sure. I 
 think it is not on the floor. 
 
 HANNAH. Without question, 'tis on the floor 
 where else? 
 
 KATHERINE. Nay, I am convinced it is not 
 on the floor. 
 
 HANNAH. Assuredly 'tis on the floor. Wil 
 liam and John, make haste! 
 
 WILLIAM [rolling over and sitting up on the 
 floor and pulling his front lock of hair towards 
 Dame Dodsley]. Mistress, a thief went by the 
 house 
 
 HANNAH. Then he has taken the ring. 
 William and John, make haste. You slow, lazy, 
 stupid varletsl Follow him run! [They 
 scramble to their feet.~] 
 
 KATHERINE. Wait a little. When did he 
 pass? 
 
 WILLIAM. But an hour ago. 
 
 KATHERINE. Was he an Egyptian? 
 
 WILLIAM. Aye, was he that an Egyptian, 
 notably black. 
 
 HANNAH. Then he has the ring. Run, 
 make haste, seek him out! 
 
 [William and John scamper of.] 
 
 KATHERINE. Mother, hast thou any notion 
 whither this Egyptian went and how they may dis 
 cover him? 
 
 HANNAH. Now why didst thou not speak of 
 that sooner? They have undoubtedly taken the 
 wrong way, being so witless. I will after them 
 and put them on the right way. [She rushes out.~\ 
 
 DAME CHETTLE. And will she know the 
 right way? 
 
 30
 
 THE RING 
 
 KATHERINE [smiling]. No. 
 sketkes-her Jiead witk--a -smile.] 
 
 DAME C KETTLE. And will she take it? 
 KATHERINE. Assuredly not. 
 DAME CHETTLE. Then I'd best be after her 
 to put her off the wrong track. 
 
 [She bustles out and runs smack into Robin 
 Woodcock as she turns round at the door. 
 Robin is an exceedingly beautiful young fel 
 low, blue-eyed, slender, lithe, graceful, yet 
 with not a jot of effeminacy in his make-up. 
 He is dressed in a sort of Robin Hood cos 
 tume of hunter's green and dark deep rose, 
 and has a large cock's feather in his cap, 
 which he doffs and bows with sweeping 
 ceremony to Mistress Chettle, who has the 
 breath completely knocked out of her.] 
 ROBIN. Gramercy ! Save us all ! I beg 
 your pardon, Mistress Chettle. [She gives him 
 a withering look, is too breathless for words, and 
 waddles on out.] Katherine, what means all 
 this? Has thy house, being crazy, infected the 
 neighborhood? First I meet thy two men run 
 ning like mad and would not wait- though the 
 devil himself would offer them sack. Then do 
 I meet thv mother, breathless^ and speechless 
 fa Sv.y>* Akw^4* v v krt^^nd then I run into 
 that wiiisomd fairy, Mistress Chettle, and she 
 glares at me as if I, being the foul fiend, were 
 the cause of all this undoing. 
 
 KATHERINE. Oh, Robin, make no mock of 
 us! I am sore distracted. I have lost my ring. 
 ROBIN. Your ring. What ring? 
 KATHERINE. Oh, the only ring of any con-
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 sequence in the whole world. The ring Richard 
 gave me. 
 
 ROBIN [rolling his eyes~\. Then may heaven 
 help us! 
 
 makes for him 
 
 ^ shakes him by the shoulders.] Thou little 
 knave, I will not have thee make a mock of me! 
 
 ROBIN. Mock of thee? When would I ever 
 dare? I, was only thinking how unfortunate it 
 is that the *ing was not my gift, the which thou 
 mightest the ntpre easily dispense with. See now, 
 how thou mightest be advantaged if thou hadst 
 taken my little ring? 
 
 KATHERINE. Therein, Robin, thou tellest a 
 truth that no maid listens to nor ever will. 
 Things that are softly won and surely kept are 
 valued less than the more difficult. 'Tis true 
 of precious stones and true of human hearts. 
 Perhaps the difficulty adds a zest who knows ? 
 At least to some of us simplicity and ease are not 
 the charms to steal away our hearts, though well 
 we know that with them lies content. 1rfe^en- 
 est joys are always dearly bought. J > 
 
 ROBIN. Which means that Richard hath ^ a 
 temper. 
 
 KATHERINE. Riehard~Ls, .intricate.. -, He--iioth 
 combine the lion and the lamb. And while you 
 fondle the soft lamb, you must have a care that 
 the lion doth not eat you up. [She says this as 
 one tells the end of a fairy tale to a child, with 
 great eyes and a frightening voice.] I fear to 
 have him learn his ring is gone, for he hath a 
 fund of jealousy I would might be converted into 
 something mdre useful. 
 
 32
 
 THE RING 
 
 IRjQBiN, Jealousy is. .-convertible into nothing 
 save tears. 
 
 KATHERINE. Why, Robin, thou art as dreary 
 -. winter's rain and quite as- comforting. 
 
 ROBIN. But there is no cause for jealousy in 
 this ? 
 
 KATHERINE. A jealous heart is apt to mis 
 construe the smallest things. Richard thinks my 
 love for him not deep enough. UeJadieves that 
 hi&^for me could .compass mine about a thousand 
 times. 
 
 ROBIN. I see. Thy sighs do not reach down 
 to thy toes and the earth beneath, as his do. 
 
 KATHERINE [smiling]. Thou hast caught the 
 spirit of it: He thinks me careless, shallow, un 
 concerned. If he but knew how dear I tender 
 him! To lose his ring will grieve him past en 
 durance. 
 
 ROBIN. How do you think 'twas lost? 
 
 KATHERINE. I do not know. I have no re 
 membrance when I wore it last or where I may 
 have ta'en it off. Thr^H-.45^icha-Fd'-right---4 
 am-wegligsnt, .a sorry . fault for which- 1 iusfc~flw 
 
 ROBIN. Thou hast searched for it? 
 
 KATHERINE. Oh, everywhere. 
 
 ROBIN. It will be found, and in the mean 
 time do not let Richard know 'tis gone. 
 
 KATHERINE. Suppose he asks for it? 
 
 ROBIN. Say I have it. 
 
 KATHERINE. Thou ? 
 
 ROBIN. Yes, say I took it in sport to tease 
 thee and thou couldst not get it back. 
 
 33
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 KATHERINE. I fear that would make sore 
 trouble. 
 
 ROBIN. Nay, he could not blame thee, and as 
 for me, I will win him by soft conceits and cozen 
 him with jests. 
 
 KATHERINE. I do misdoubt it. I would not 
 have thee drawn into my sad entanglement, 
 Robin. 
 
 [A noise is heard without, clamoring and shrill 
 voices, and Mistress Dodsley enters, fol 
 lowed by Mistress Chettle, and after them 
 a William and John."] 
 ,*-HANNAH. They took the wrong road even 
 
 predicted and the Egyptian escaped. 
 s DAME CHETTLE [panting and dropping into a 
 .chair]. Oh, my! Oh, my! 
 
 HANNAH. Shame upon you for witless 
 knaves, stupid as monkeys! \William and John 
 hang their heads and look sheepish.] The 
 Egyptian has the ring without doubt. 
 
 ROBIN. If they took the wrong road, why 
 then is there left the right road. 
 
 HANNAH. William and John, dost hear what 
 Master Woodcock says? 
 
 WILLIAM [pulling his forelock]. A most 
 notable gentleman. 
 
 ROBIN. Then why not forth again, this time 
 upon the right road? 
 
 HANNAH. Dost hear, William and John? 
 Try the other way, which is the right way. A 
 most sensible thought. 
 
 WILLIAM. A most notable conception. 
 
 HANNAH [furiously stamping at them]. 
 Tlien stand not there like immovable goats, but 
 
 34
 
 THE RING 
 
 . 
 
 get you gone ! Forth I Make haste 1 [Wil 
 liam and John take to their heels. Mistress 
 Ch 'ttle has been puffing and blowing all this time, 
 sitting on the settle. Hannah drops into a chair 
 for a moment, apparently exhausted, but jumps 
 up again and starts to the door after the men.] 
 Dost thou think [to Robin] that they will 4eita=. 
 "fcj^ftake the right road this time? 
 
 ROBIN [soberly']. I should think there were 
 grave doubt. 
 
 HANNAH. Then must I be after them again. 
 A -stupid man is more inlracLvtiTh! ilia, a balking 
 dettkey. [She goes hurriedly out.] 
 
 DAME CHETTLE. Now does slie know the 
 right road? 
 
 ROBIN. Tho right /goad-seen is nut yet. ^wholhr 
 
 + 
 
 unavoidable.- 
 
 DAME CHETTLE. And u'L. she take it? 
 
 ROBIN. Jwdftflg- ffem ~inf crenTe from The 
 poet) I j>huuhi llimkyprobably not. 
 
 DAME CHETTLE. Then I ought to be after 
 and tell her so. [She waddles out and Robin and 
 Kate, left alone, gaze at each other.] 
 
 ROBIN. Wilt "thou after them, Kate, to show 
 them the right road? 
 
 KATHERINE. Nay, and if they take not thef*- '(* 
 right road this time, still will the right road be t ^ AA - 
 left. 
 
 ROBIN. A cheerful thought. Hope-pesehe* 
 en thv window -"MB 1 . Now, let us sit down and 
 reason out what 'twere best to do. [Robin 
 takes Kate by the hand and leads her to the settle, 
 where they sit down, Robin leaning over with 
 elbows on his knees, thinking.'] 
 
 35 
 ^ C <
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 | m ,, - nf*- - 
 
 feaam BRUTE: Rnbm, thou uu u wise little 
 knaX*e, beyond thy years. X^ 
 
 RoBlN. I thank thee, and yet years have a 
 way of "Creeping up, to anything even srich wis 
 dom as I possess. Soon will I be too j&ld to play 
 the woman and then 
 
 KATHERINE; Why, then wilt thou play the 
 man. Rosalind .will have married Orlando and 
 the twain be one. 
 
 ROBIN. Dost thou think so? Then, if am 
 bition doth not o'erleap itself I, the boy who plays 
 Ophelia, will become the man to play Hamlet. 
 
 KATHERINE. Now, by my troth, thou art a 
 brave little cock. I delight to hear thee crow 
 my little Cock Robin. Ah, me, I had almost for 
 got there were- such a sad thing in the world as 
 a ring alas, that it must be so generally ex 
 pressed and not more particularly , placed upon 
 my finger. 1 do not believe 'tis stolen and yet 
 I have 'searched the house most carefully for it. 
 Hej^en forfend that Richard come untii x it be 
 ^und. k^**> 
 
 ROBIN* If he does, .leave him to me. 
 
 [A noise is heard. ' It comes nearer, a gruff 
 protesting, and Dame Dodsley's high- 
 
 ' pitched tones are audible above the hub-bub.] 
 
 HANNAH [without]. Nay, we will search 
 thee. Come Jik>ftg,~ thou thievish knave. Thou 
 hast it on thy person. [They break into the 
 room, Mistress Dodsley first, backing in with her 
 face toward the men, William and John, who are 
 pulling along a Gypsy. Dame Chettle last.] 
 Here is the thief. I spied him from afar, and 
 he made no attempt to escape, knowing his guilt. 
 
 36
 
 THE RING 
 
 [Dame Chettle, panting laboriously, drops into 
 a chair, the two men clutch the Gypsy, who scowls 
 and looks sullen.] Now, sir, produce the ring. 
 
 GYPSY. I have it not. 
 
 HANNAH [raising her hands]. Now what a 
 liar thou art! 
 
 WILLIAM. A most notable liar. 
 
 HANNAH. Produce the ring, I say. 
 
 GYPSY. I have it not. 
 
 HANNAH. Thou false wretch, to deny having 
 the ring when thou wert caught in the very act of 
 taking it. 
 
 WILLIAM. A most notable wretch. 
 
 HANNAH. Produce the ring, I say. Make 
 no more delay. 
 
 GYPSY. I can not produce that which I have 
 not. 
 
 HANNAH. Thou bold-faced knave. 
 
 WILLIAM. A most notable knave. 
 
 HANNAH. If thou wilt not produce the ring, 
 forthwith, I will have thee searched. [The 
 Gypsy makes no answer to this but looks even 
 more angry and sullen. William and John clutch 
 his arms the tighter.] What, dost thou still re 
 fuse? Then, William and John, take his wallet 
 from him. [There is a long scuffle in which 
 John at last gains the wallet and is about to hand 
 it to Dame Dodsley.] Give the wallet to Mas 
 ter Woodcock. Let him examine 'he contents of 
 this soiled receptacle. [She shudders from the 
 thing to her so filthy. Robin takes it, turning out 
 odd bits of coin, string, glass, ribbon, a charm, 
 etc.] 
 
 ROBIN. The ring is not in this. 
 37
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 KATHERINE. I do not think he has the ring. 
 [Kindly.] 
 
 HANNAH. Assuredly he has the ring! Tis 
 elsewhere secreted about his person, and he must 
 be thoroughly searched. Search him, William 
 and John. [They begin to search the Gypsy, 
 who resists.] 
 
 GYPSY. Let be I know naught of your 
 ring. 
 
 HANNAH. Search him diligently. [They 
 clutch him, the Gypsy resists violently, and after 
 a long and desperate struggle, he finally twists 
 himself free from the men, makes a break for 
 the door, and runs away, leaving them In awk 
 ward attitudes of great surprise and dismay.] 
 
 DAME CHETTLE. Oh, my! Oh, my! 
 
 HANNAH [almost shrieking]. Now out upon 
 you for careless fools ! Yo~aF~a,, sip w as a 
 sTRHivand let him slip through your -fingers as if 
 you had'Tjq more of them than hath a snail. 
 
 JOHN. 'Twpuld take as many fingers, Mis 
 tress, as hath a spider, to hold such an eel. 
 
 WILLIAM. A most notable eel. 
 
 HANNAH. 5 And even now you let him be run 
 ning as fast as his heels can carry "IjkQ. Catch 
 him, I say after him and catch him! 
 
 t KATHERINE. Nay, mother, do nor trouBte 
 kirn-more. I do not think he has the ring. 
 
 JOHN. We passed a tinker. Methought he 
 had the ring. 
 
 HANNAH. Why thought you that? 
 
 JOHN. 'Twas when we first went out to catch 
 the Gypsy, and the tinker looked cunningly at 
 the house. 
 
 38
 
 THE RING 
 
 ROBIN. Tinkers were thieves and tricksters 
 ever. 
 
 WILLIAM. Oh, most notable tricksters. 
 
 HANNAH. P faith I almost think he has the 
 ring. 
 
 ROBIN. 'Tis like enough. 
 
 HANNAH. Let us forth and set upon his 
 track. Perhaps we will meet again with that ly 
 ing, thieving Egyptian. Forward, William and 
 John, there is no time to lose. 
 
 [She goes out, followed by the two men, 
 Dame Chettle waddles in the rear of the 
 procession. Robin and Kate look at each 
 other and then both burst- out laughing. 
 Kate throws herself into the settle.] 
 
 KATHERINE. Oh, Robin, I think I am not 
 merry; I think I am mad, rather. 
 
 ROBIN [with assumed dismay]. The one is 
 the most-. diabolical- counterfeit of the other. 
 Now -rtttth-'the fiend laid hold -on tfoee. 
 
 KATHERINE. -T-mly, I almost believe it. -I 
 am so tormented. I dread Richard's coming. 
 
 ROBIN. If he comes, be rid of him. 
 
 KATHERINE. Be rid of Richard? 
 
 ROBIN. Send him away. 
 
 KATHERINE [haughtily]. That I would not 
 do if I so desired and I do not so desire. 
 
 ROBIN. Oh, very well, then, take him for a 
 walk and leave me here to settle with your 
 mother. 
 
 KATHERINE. I fear you do not know my 
 mother. 
 
 [A noise of footsteps is heard outside and 
 
 39
 
 *^j SHORT PLAYS 
 
 Richard Powell enters. Seeing Robin, he 
 sings some words from " Twelfth Night." 
 
 is a tall, handsome, dark-eyed, pale and 
 frowning young man. He is dressed some 
 what foppishly in a suit of purple with deep 
 yellow trimming, and possesses evidently an 
 overabundance of egotism with much im- 
 ^A portance of manner.] 
 
 RICHARD [singing]. " Ho, Robin, jolly Robin, 
 tell me where my lady is ?" [To Kate.] Greet 
 ing to thee, my lady and my love. [He kisses 
 her hand, she giving him her right and keeping 
 the left safely tucked away behind her.] 
 
 KATHERINE. Dear Richard [putting her left 
 arm around his neck, then when he attempts to 
 take this hand she withdraws it], I am so glad 
 thou hast come, for I have not tasted the air to 
 day and would like so much to have a walk. 
 
 RICHARD. And is that the reason you are glad 
 to see me? [Of ended] 
 
 KATHERINE [coyly]. Nay, that is not all the 
 reason. 
 
 RICHARD [smiling]. Suppose I will not take 
 thee? 
 
 KATHERINE [winningly]. Then must I en 
 treat thee. 
 
 RICHARD [with, feigned sternness]. Then 
 would I be very obdurate to be so entreated. 
 [Settles himself back in a chair and folds his 
 arms] Go on, entreat me. 
 
 KATHERINE. The day is fair, my lord. 
 RICHARD. Thou art my day, and fair to me 
 alway. 
 
 40
 
 THE RING 
 
 CATHERINE. The air is fresh, my lord. 
 
 RICHARD. Not fresher than thy smile which 
 doth ni here beguile. 
 
 KATHERINE. But, oh, the sky above the 
 fields is blu'ej my lord. 
 
 RICHARD. The sky is not moffe blue than is 
 my sweetheart true. 
 
 KATHERINE. Here dost thou hear no tune of 
 birds, my lord. 
 
 RICHARD. Here do I hear thy words, sweeter 
 than tune of birds. 
 
 KATHERINE. There wouldst thou have all 
 these and me beside. 
 
 RICHARD. And sweet must these things be 
 ta'en through the love of thee. 
 
 KAT4fE*JN-E.- Then wHt thou- come, my lord ? 
 
 RICHARD. Forsooth thou dost entreat, then 
 must I come, my sweet. 
 
 KATHERINE. Put it all into a play, Richard, 
 for thoju wilt some day come to comedy when 
 tha.t tragedy hath made thee care more for the 
 little merry things of life. Comfort each other 
 whilst that I am gone for my hat^ 
 
 {She kisses him lightly on the brow and goes 
 out.~\ 
 
 RICHARD. Robin, my lad, is she not rare? 
 
 ROBIN. So rare I almost think thou dost not 
 hold her high enough. 
 
 RICHARD. Nay, 'twere impossible to hold 
 her higher than I do. I know that all virtues 
 reside in her. As beauty hath fashioned her 
 without so goodness hath appointed her within. 
 Fair and lovely as the rose is she, and as the 
 
 41
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 fragrance of the rose, her soul exhales in thought 
 arict"Tfeedr ""The- spirit of gentleness,- rnethinks, 
 did hover over all the Dearth: when she was born. 
 Oh, 'tis a thing beyond the dreams of happiness 
 to have a being so perfect love me. 
 
 ROBIN [looking at him intently']. Thou must 
 take great joy in her sure faith. 
 
 RICHARD. That is the best of all I can be 
 lieve in her. I can rely upon her truth with 
 never a question. I lie .upon her faith as -on a 
 bed of violets. jr 
 
 "StJoBiN. A poet's answer. Yet a bed of vio 
 lets '"might damp thy coat or spirits if too long 
 indulge*! in. 
 
 RICHARD [smiling'}. Thou art too young to 
 be converited to a lover's faitlj/ When thou art 
 older then tKpu wilt not make a mock of senti 
 ment. Wert thou not at/the play this after 
 noon? 
 
 ROBIN. No, not. to-cjfity. Thou wast there? 
 
 RICHARD. Yes, an^ sat upon the stage not 
 to show a brave new^xloublet nor a handsome 
 cloak as I so often have seen others do, and not 
 to flout the actors/or make jests and air a very 
 vain and foolish/wit, but rather to listen with a 
 mind intent upon the marvelous words. I for 
 get the din and rudeness of the pit, the lordings' 
 idle show, the roughness of the stage, and only 
 hear the play, which as it doth proceed",^ 4oth ever 
 grow and glow like to a May sunrise when fields 
 and hills and streams are fresh and fair and full 
 ^1 joy. 
 
 \_Katherine returns with her hat on, her left 
 glove on, the right one In her hand.] 
 42
 
 THE RING 
 
 ROBIN. May I wait to see your father? 
 
 KATHERINE. He is late and may have gone 
 to the Mermaid with the other actors for supper. 
 I like not to leave thee so alone. 
 
 ROBIN. If he does not come soon, then I will 
 go to find him. 
 
 KATHERINE. Then good-by. Find a book 
 to read and make thyself at home. 
 
 RICHARD. Good-by, dear lad. 
 
 ROBIN. Farewell, friends. [They go out 
 and he walks about the room humming to him 
 self, and finally picks up a book and begins to 
 read, stretching himself out on the settle. He \. 
 suddenly stops reading, and sits up thinking. He 
 reaches over to the table and feels all over it, 
 displacing things. Finally he gets up and hunts 
 about, going down on his hands and knees and 
 peering about on the floor. A noise is. Jiear-d. 
 fL.~listtt*.,. Jt^b-dcames perceptible as several 
 voices, the high tones vf Hannah distmgitifhabh 
 ab&ve the others. Rob*in~is intent,- anx'wu& f yet 
 smiling. The yells of a man are heard: " Let 
 me be! Of with you, thou dost hurt me!" and 
 so on, and then the stern voice of Richard Powell. 
 Robin takes , up his book, regimes his seat, and 
 pr-etrfiij> to he reail'iny abstractedly when they 
 all burst into the room, Hannah first, then the 
 
 43
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 two men dragging the Tinker, then Richard 
 looking like a thunder-cloud, then Katherine, and 
 at last Dame C kettle, red-faced and panting.] 
 
 HANNAH [very excitedly]. Here we have 
 the thief at last. Beshrew me, but I thought 
 we should never catch him; he did run so. 
 
 DAME CHETTLE. Oh, my! Oh, my! [She 
 drops down into a chair, panting and fanning her 
 self.] 
 
 HANNAH. He hath heels like a coursing 
 hound 
 
 WILLIAM. A most notable hound. 
 
 [The Tinker raises his ragged heel and looks 
 at it with a grimace.] 
 
 HANNAH. And when we did at last have him 
 in our hands John caught him first by the tail 
 of his coat, which gave way like the shell from 
 an egg [the Tinker looks around and surveys 
 the remnant of the tail of his coat with another 
 grimace], and It seemed well ...nigh impossible to 
 grasp- "any 'corner of him, but when at last we 
 did have him 'twas as if we had him not he 
 screwed and twisted like a hyena 
 
 WIL^JAM. A most notable hyena. 
 
 [The Junker suddenly assumes a horribly fierce 
 look fyd jumps at them as if he would bite 
 them, at^which they all spring back and 
 shriek anthe servants almost lose their 
 
 ROBIN. Art thou sure that this is the thief? 
 
 HANNAH. 'Tis morally certain. He doth 
 not deny it. 
 
 TINKER. Nay, then, I am a thief, but not 
 that thief. 
 
 44
 
 THE RING 
 
 HANNAH. What dost thou mean with iky 
 hypcrbults ? 
 
 TINKER. I mean that your thief being else 
 where, I am not he. 
 
 ^ But you have the ring. 
 , Nay, -not that ring. That ring be- 
 e where* I have 4t not. 
 
 HANNAH. I will not listen to thy idle talk. 
 The long and the short of it is, thou must give up 
 the ring. 
 
 TINKER. The long of it is th&^fig, being 
 further off. And the short of. ttisl, being short 
 of the ring. 
 
 ROBIN. Why, excellent Tinker, thou dost 
 tinker witjj Words as with pewter pans. 
 
 HANNAH. I say to thee, produce the ring. 
 
 .TINKER. Now how may I product that 
 whkh I did not abduct? 
 
 HANNAH. If thou dost not give up the ring 
 of thy own accord, I will have thee searched. 
 
 TINKER. Now I am a truthful Tinker and 
 though I be a thief, an honest thief, and my hon- 
 esty importunes me to acknowledge that I did 
 not take the ring. 
 
 HANNAH. Search him, William and John. 
 [They begin the search.'] 
 
 TINKER. Now doth the Bible say truly that 
 from a man that hath not shall be taken even that 
 which he hath. 
 
 ROBIN. Nay, perchance he told the truth. 
 
 HANNAH. He is a lying, thieving Tinker. 
 
 ROBIN. But here is the one sunny spot in his 
 darkjife. He has not the ring because I have 
 the ring. 
 
 45
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 KATHERINE [starting]. No, no! 
 
 RICHARD [who has preserved a gloomy silence 
 with arms folded, at the back of the room, now 
 strides forward to Robin.] Thou hast the ring? 
 
 ROBIN. Gramercy, yes, who else? 
 
 RICHARD. How had you it? 
 
 ROBIN. Nay, Richard, do not glare so. I 
 took it in a jest to tease thy sweetheart, who is 
 so foolish fond of thee, and she, fearing thy an 
 ger against me, would not avouch my guilt. 
 Sore^-thou tarest-as-.t the seven deatHy-stfw. 
 
 RICHARD. Thou little piece of impudence, 
 dost thou think that thou canst batten on my 
 love for thee and take advantage of it and of thy 
 youth ? 
 
 KATHERINE. Oh, Richard, believe him not. 
 He did not take the ring. What happened to it 
 I can not truly tell, but I have lost the ring and 
 he has not the ring. 
 
 ROBIN. She would but excuse my fault. 
 
 RICHARD. You have the ring? 
 
 ROBIN. I have the ring. 
 
 RICHARD. Then give it up to me before I 
 strike you down. 
 
 ROBIN. Thy words are full of menace and of 
 hate. 
 
 RICHARD [striding up and down after Robin, 
 who keeps just out of his way]. Provoke me not 
 further but give up the ring. 
 
 ROBIN. Keep hands off me and cool thine an 
 ger down. 
 
 RICHARD. Thou little cockscomb, thou fool 
 hardy wight ! To dream that thou couldst come 
 between me and my love. Thou vain and fool- 
 
 46
 
 THE RING 
 
 ish boy to dare affront me and meddle with af 
 fairs thou art witless of! l*ba -contemptuous 
 sm&LL,oaLajHl worse tha-. fool, -for deception 
 doth-sk-apon thy back. [He works himself into 
 a fury and strides after Robin, who continually 
 evades him.~\ 
 
 KATHERINE. Oh, Richard, I beseech thee! 
 
 RICHARD. Speak not to me, you did deceive 
 me, too. 
 
 KATHERINE. Nay, dear! 
 
 RICHARD. I say you did. 
 
 KATHERINE. Oh, Richard, can you speak so 
 to me? 
 
 RICHARD. How have you used me? --HOTT 
 have you abused the love- i^are -you? 
 
 KATHERINE. Never, Richard, never. 
 
 RICHARD. Aye v but. you~h^je.,--~~Nwt. -de 
 ceive me more. ''"Do not entreat me. I- will fore- 
 gO~you. I must avoid one who is so slight of 
 heart. One who could connive in affection with 
 [to Robin] Oh, thou young rogue, t'O m"a"fce 
 a-rntrck-ef thmgs-totrsarred-far for thy~s"hattow~ 
 imrter9tafi4tg k l How mine anger waxes at sight 
 of thy impertinent rosy cheek! 
 
 KATHERINE. Oh, sir, I implore thee! He 
 did not take the ring. Go on, search the Tinker. 
 
 HANNAH. To be sure, search the Tinker. 
 
 RICHARD. Thou dost need a lesson It53^"a- 
 pumshiHeRt and I'll give it thee, thou little med 
 dlesome villain, thou ! [He strikes at Robin and 
 grabs him by the collar.'] 
 
 KATHERINE. Oh, do not hurt him! [Han 
 nah shrieks and Dame Chettle screams.~\ 
 
 DAME CHETTLE. Oh, my! Oh, my! 
 47
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 \The Tinker yells as one of the men finches 
 him, they having gone on with their work of 
 searching him. The door opens in all this 
 tumult and Peter Dodsley enters.] 
 PETER. Good folk, good folkl What devil 
 pursueth you ? Y<~-c/'-wx 
 
 \_They all start and stand stock-still. Richard 
 drops Robin. f*v {<?'> ye ranges r&und""the 
 t>9i^>^m4M^^^n -Mistress -Chettle.,] 
 PETER"? -Why ? Mistress Chettle, thou art as 
 breathless as m&, ; ajr before a summer storm. 
 But it would seem tn^^thers were not without 
 wind to their whistles, if I might judge from the 
 'heacd *a& Lapproached- the door. 
 
 KATHERINE. Father, my ring is gone. 
 
 HANNAH. First it fell in the dish of stewed 
 prunes, and then it was dropped in the trencher, 
 and then it was dropped on the floor, and then an 
 Egyptian took it 
 
 WILLIAM. Notably black. 
 
 HANNAH. And then this Tinker here, whom 
 we were searching even now. 
 
 KATHERINE. And then frtTlfe Robin, to shield 
 me, said he stole it in jest. Richard is angry. 
 Dear father, speak to him! Pacify him! 
 
 PETER. And it was taken in jest? 
 
 RICHARD. A very sorry jest. 
 
 PETER. Poor Richard, thou wert fashioned 
 for tragedy. Yet, ^mcthLnks.^ thou wilt .never un- 
 deiFstand -tragedy, until thou hast produced a sense 
 of comedy. Heaven defend thee, Kate, from 
 such a cross-grained husband as Dick is like to 
 make. Poor little Robin ! Come, make friends 
 with him, Dick. What! 'Twas only a jest? 
 
 48
 
 THE RING 
 
 A jocund j'Oof? Shall there be no more laughter 
 because one, Master Richard Powell, is melan 
 choly ? Come, Dick, come, my sweet Dick, thou 
 wilt forgive a jest? 
 
 RICHARD. Some jests are not to be forgiven. 
 
 PETER. Then am I in sad plight, for I for 
 sooth, have played a jest even like to this. 
 
 KATHERINE. But Robin did not take the ring. 
 
 PETER. Why, then have you all been ringed 
 round by a trickster and followed a circle of mis 
 takes. Now who must have the ring? My 
 good wife says the Tinker has the ring, and the 
 Tinker's answer rings true though he says he 
 has not the ring. Kate declares that Robin 
 lacks the ring and Robin vows he has the ring. 
 Richard doth solemnly declare he wants the ring 
 and I as solemnly protest I have the ring. 
 [Holding it up to the view of them all.] We did 
 need a ring for a property in the merry comedy 
 of " Twelfth Night " this afternoon, and I, to 
 tease my girl, my Kate, took hers without her 
 knowledge or her commendation. Tfe*-****^ 
 why, 'tis a rare little -ring tlttl commend' kactf. 
 Forsooth, Richard, canst thou now forgive a jest 
 or will you refuse me for a father-in-law? 
 
 RICHARD. 'I faith, sir, if I had but known 
 who did it! 
 
 PETER. 'I faith, dear Dick, then learn to 
 take a jest where it doth find thee, and give pos 
 session where it doth belong. [He gives Rich 
 ard the ring and carries his hand to that of 
 Kate.} Those who had the ring this afternoon 
 in the play were fain to say they wanted it not, 
 and those who had it not were quite sure they 
 
 49
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 wanted it. So wags the world. And I, lacking 
 my supper, am quite sure I want it. So, dear 
 dame, let me ask these friends to sup with us 
 here and now. And [his eye being attracted 
 to the Tinker] let all poor wights assembled here 
 have benefit of the mischance that brought them 
 hither. 
 
 [CURTAIN.] 
 
 50
 
 THE ROSE. 
 
 SIR RICHARD, a young nobleman* 
 THE LADY SILVIA. 
 EUSTACE, a page. 
 
 [SCENE: An apartment a tower room, 
 perhaps at the end of a long windy hall in 
 a castle of the time of Elizabeth. It has two 
 entrances, the larger is at the back of the stage 
 heavily curtained, the smaller at the extreme 
 left is like a secret door and is also curtained. 
 The furniture is weighty dark oak deeply 
 carved, there are heavy hangings, and tapes 
 try and armor deck the walls. On the right is 
 a fire-place with logs burning low and in front 
 of it, facing half round, is a carved high-backed 
 bench. Sir Richard, followed by Eustace, en 
 ters through the curtains at the secret door on 
 the left. Sir Richard wears doublet or coat 
 of blue velvet with lavender trimmings, laven 
 der hose, and a cape of deep orange. The 
 youth, Eustace, is in satin coat of rose with 
 slashed sleeves showing light green beneath, 
 and hose of pale green. He carries a guitar.] 
 
 EUSTACE. You will not tell me, then, what 
 
 troubles you ? 
 RICHARD. You're old, dear boy, beyond your 
 
 years and yet, 
 Believe me, there are feelings that the soul 
 
 51
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 Is ripe for only with the ripening time. 
 
 It is a pretty and a kindly law 
 
 That life tests not the tender flesh of babes 
 
 In the same scales of rude experience 
 
 She uses 'gainst the muscles of strong men. 
 
 EUSTACE. But I, my lord, am not a babe. 
 
 RICHARD [turning and regarding him with a 
 smile\. Not quite! 
 
 EUSTACE. Perhaps I've lived more in my mea 
 gre years 
 Than you suppose. 
 
 RICHARD. I would not underrate you, 
 
 But if a seed falls not in fallow soil 
 It will not grow, or sprouts up dwarfed and poor. 
 The soil of your young soul is not yet ripe 
 To nourish seeds that may take root in mine 
 And bear the fruit of rich experience. 
 
 EUSTACE. I can not follow up your figures fair 
 But yet conceding all you say is true, 
 That it would be impossible for me 
 To have the same experience as you 
 May I not feel your trouble? Or your ruth? 
 And help to bear it through my sympathy? 
 
 RICHARD. Real sympathy comes not from in 
 experience. 
 
 EUSTACE. With all your weight of years 
 
 \smtHng], there you mistake. 
 Real sympathy comes from a tender heart. 
 
 RICHARD. The Queen's heart's tender, but 
 
 EUSTACE. The Queen's the Queen. 
 
 RICHARD. Ah, yes, I know! I know! And 
 
 I will do 
 
 Her bidding loyally. Kind Heaven forfend 
 That I should learn allegiance from a page I 
 
 52
 
 THE ROSE 
 
 EUSTACE. Then is it true? The rumor 
 
 spread last night, 
 
 And over which the court's so much amazed? 
 RICHARD. The court had better wisely hold 
 
 its tongue. 
 The rumor that you speak of I've not heard. 
 
 They dare to cackle when one's back is 
 
 turned! 
 
 But I do leave to-morrow with the dawn, 
 It is the Queen's will, therefore is it right. 
 I go to join a band of gentlemen 
 
 And rogues that sails to seek the colonies, 
 There to maintain a province for the Queen, 
 Which it is hoped will grow to something great, 
 Another kingdom overseas for her, 
 
 In that new land of wondrous fair report. 
 
 [He walks over to the fireplace and stands gaz 
 ing at the dying embers with his back to 
 Eustace. ] 
 
 EUSTACE [following him]. 
 Do you remain forever in that place? 
 
 RICHARD. What time I shall return is not yet 
 
 named. 
 There will be talk concerning it and me [turns 
 
 round to Eustace], 
 
 Other fair names perchance will be dragged in. 
 [He strides up to Eustace and grasps him al 
 most roughly by the shoulder.'] 
 Boy, gossip is a vile worm crawling thick, 
 Whenever you do find it, trample it 1 
 
 EUSTACE. My lord, when I hear aught 
 
 against your name, 
 Trust me, I will defend it properly. 
 
 [They go out as Eustace speaks. Silvia steals 
 
 53
 
 in through the curtained entrance on the left. 
 She has evidently heard voices and is listen 
 ing. She crosses to the center of the room, 
 stops and conies back, stands about as if 
 thinking, finally glides to the bench in front 
 of the fire and sits down looking at the em 
 bers, leaning over towards the fire with her 
 hands clasped in front of her. She sits a 
 few moments in utter silence, making a tab 
 leau, then Eustace returns through the cen 
 ter door.] 
 
 SILVIA [looking up and smiling]. 
 Ah, Eustace, I was hoping you would come. 
 EUSTACE [dropping his head and looking 
 
 down]. 
 
 You draw me always to you when you will. 
 [She regards him smiling then, after a pause, 
 
 says:] 
 SILVIA. I feel so strangely lone to-night and 
 
 sad. 
 What night is it? 
 
 [Eustace has had his guitar in his hand. He 
 now leans it against the wall at the back of 
 the room and comes over towards her.] 
 EUSTACE, It is St. Agnes' Eve. 
 
 SILVIA. Ah, then, poor saint, her soul must 
 
 walk abroad, 
 
 And that is why the wild winds wail so shrill, 
 And why the clouds go by like trailing shrouds, 
 And why the elm trees sway as in despair, 
 And why I feel foreboding and unrest. 
 On such a night I think of country roads 
 And deep beech woods with ghosts behind each 
 tree, 
 
 54
 
 THE ROSE 
 
 And eerie hooting owls and far away 
 The fearsome howling of a dismal dog, 
 And on a lonesome bough a robin cold, 
 Despite his orange feathers, in the wind. 
 On such a night I'm fain to wander forth 
 And join them in their wild performances. 
 
 EUSTACE. You like a night like this? 
 
 SILVIA. No, but I feel 
 
 Its magic grip my heart. 
 
 EUSTACE [he comes closer]. It is because 
 You are a part of all the witchery 
 That sways the trees and beasts and hearts of 
 men. 
 
 SILVIA. But hearts of boys come not within my 
 sway. 
 
 EUSTACE. They are already yours, contented 
 
 with 
 The honey-dew of pleasure from your smile. 
 
 SILVIA. Ah, Eustace, what a courtier you will 
 
 make, 
 
 And what a wooer when you come to woo ! 
 Already I grow envious of her, 
 And grudge the pretty sonnets and the songs 
 You'll make for her and sing on summer nights. 
 On summer nights ! 
 
 [She looks into the dying fire and shivers.] 
 Ah, listen to the wind! 
 
 EUSTACE. Can one be jealous of one's own 
 fair self? 
 
 SILVIA [turning to him and smiling sweetly]. 
 Dear boy, you'll love again and yet again 
 A hundred times before you come to wed. 
 You are my friend and I can count on that, 
 For I do know and trust your true young heart. 
 
 55
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 EUSTACE. Of our two hearts mine's older by a 
 
 day, 
 
 Though it lived not till yours began to beat. 
 SILVIA. You must not talk so, surely not to 
 night, 
 
 When phantoms ride upon the wind outside 
 And gossip slips and slides within the court. 
 They talk and talk and ever still they talk 
 And tell of this one now and now of that. 
 To-day I think they meddle with my name 
 Tell me what you have heard. 
 
 EUSTACE [trying to evade her and make light of 
 
 it~\. I've not heard much. 
 
 SILVIA. But I would know that much I'm 
 
 curious. 
 EUSTACE. Therefore you should not be so 
 
 gratified. 
 SILVIA. I'm also serious. Eustace, tell me, 
 
 please. 
 
 'Tis best that gossip come, if come it must, 
 Upon a friendly not a spiteful tongue. 
 
 EUSTACE. They say the Queen has heard and 
 
 thinks it true 
 
 Sir Richard loves you and that you return 
 His deep affection yet an hundredfold. 
 
 [She scans his face in deep earnestness and 
 
 amazement, then slowly turns her eyes away 
 
 and gazes straight In front of her In deep 
 
 honesty. She speaks low as If to herself.] 
 
 SILVIA. He does not look at me, he scarcely 
 
 knows 
 I live then how could I 
 
 EUSTACE. They say the Queen 
 
 Herself cares for my lord and will not let 
 
 56
 
 THE ROSE 
 
 Another have his love, so she has planned 
 To send him out of England, overseas. 
 
 [Silvia has not heard this before and takes it 
 in slowly, wonderingly, abstractedly. She 
 looks at Eustace and finally down at her own 
 hands lying quietly in her lap. Then she 
 speaks low.~\ 
 SILVIA. And I the small unconscious cause of 
 
 this? 
 [After another pause.~\ Why does she not send 
 
 me away from court? 
 
 No one would miss me I would gladly go. 
 Jealous of me she, the great Queen, of me? 
 To send him overseas for doing naught, 
 Who's needed here. It is unjust, unjust ! [A 
 
 long pause.'] 
 EUSTACE. Your going from the court would do 
 
 no good, 
 
 My lord would follow you if that he cared. 
 [Another pause, Eustace watching her.] 
 EUSTACE. 'Tis not your fault nor does it lie 
 
 with you 
 To mend it. Worry not. The Queen's the 
 
 Queen. 
 
 [He is silently watching in the next pause un 
 til finally she looks up and speaks in a dif 
 ferent tone.] 
 You are so good to wear my little rose. 
 
 SILVIA [brightening]. 'Tis a good little rose 
 
 and very fair, 
 
 The virtue's in the flower and not in me. 
 Sing me the song again you sang last night. 
 
 [Eustace goes and gets his guitar, tunes it and 
 sings the song:] 
 
 57
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 EUSTACE [singing'], 
 
 Ah, take the rose, 
 Its leaves unclose 
 
 A thousand tender thoughts of thee, 
 Thy beauty rare, thy gentle grace, 
 Thy fair simplicity. 
 
 Ah, take the rose, 
 For with it goes, 
 My love, my tender love of thee, 
 And may it find a little place 
 Within thy memory. 
 
 [Sir Richard returns and parts the curtains at 
 the center door. Silvia starts to her feet 
 and stands waiting for his advance. He 
 has stopped at seeing Silvia and Eustace to 
 gether. Eustace, who has had his back to 
 the door, turns and drops behind Silvia on 
 the other side from the other man. Rich 
 ard takes a stride or two forward, at first 
 he looks from one to the other haughtily, 
 then his gaze remains fixed on Silvia.] 
 RICHARD. I fear I interrupt a pretty scene 
 Of love-making and soulful serenade. 
 
 [Eustace exclaims and steps more into the 
 
 background.] 
 SILVIA [becoming more dignified and with a 
 
 shade of anger]. 
 
 Is it a sin, my lord, to sing a song? 
 I thought the music sweet and think so still 
 Despite the disapproval of my lord. 
 [More lightly.'} Perhaps some weightier matter 
 brought the frown. 
 58
 
 THE ROSE 
 
 We'll deem the notes of music innocent 
 Until pronounced quite guilty by the court. 
 You are the judge, my lord, be merciful! 
 
 RICHARD. Tis true a weightier matter brought 
 
 the frown. 
 I sought you everywhere and find you here 
 
 [As if breaking off the thread of his thought.'} 
 It is essential that I speak with you 
 Of something imminent and bearing great 
 Import to me. Eustace, by your leave. 
 
 [For the first time since his entrance he shifts 
 his gaze to Eustace and his look is one of 
 command. He makes a gesture of dismis 
 sal. Eustace bows low and with dignity 
 and grace goes out through the curtains at 
 the center door. Silvia looks after Eustace, 
 then silently and intently regards Richard, 
 who drops his eyes to the floor and is agi 
 tated. Then he raises his head and they 
 gaze at each other a few moments before he 
 speaks.] 
 RICHARD. You made it plain just now that 
 
 what I like 
 Or disapprove has little weight with you. 
 
 SILVIA [very gently]. You have no right to 
 
 draw an inference 
 So strangely strained and twisted from my 
 
 words. 
 I only said I thought the music sweet. 
 
 RICHARD [with heat]. And meant you like the 
 
 singer passing well. 
 SILVIA [very low and gently]. I do, my lord, 
 
 but it is quite unjust 
 For you to misinterpret what I say. 
 
 59
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 RICHARD. Ah, can you flout me with a page's 
 
 love? 
 I came upon him wooing you 
 
 SILVIA. My lord, 
 
 You were unkind to Eustace and to me, 
 You were so sharp with him and as for me, 
 You have no right to question my intent. 
 We were small playmates back in childhood days, 
 And now our friendship's haply here renewed 
 After an interval of separate years. 
 
 RICHARD. I knew not your acquaintance was so 
 
 old. 
 The love you bear each other is not new? 
 
 SILVIA. I almost think you wilfully mistake. 
 He brings to mind the little girl I was, 
 And country lanes and springtime's deep blue sky 
 And robins with their music wistful-gay 
 And apple-orchards pink with fairy bloom 
 And little lone cold brooks so zealous in 
 Their little busy, pushing, plashing way. 
 
 RICHARD. But he did sing a love-song to you 
 now? 
 
 SILVIA. I did not sing it back again to him. 
 Lovers are many, ballads and sonnets grow 
 Like small green poplar leaves, a myriad. 
 
 RICHARD. And drop the soonest in the first 
 
 strong wind. 
 'Tis not a night for tender leaves of spring. 
 
 SILVIA. Therefore the more should I not cher 
 ish them? 
 
 On such a night as this when the fierce wind 
 Drives in the cold from underneath the door, 
 Forcing a rigor up into the soul, 
 
 60
 
 THE ROSE 
 
 When hearts seem frozen like the dull hard 
 
 ground, 
 
 And portents cry and clamor to be heard, 
 One longs for sympathy and memory 
 Of summer fields and days when life was glad 
 And warm with gentleness and simple faith. 
 [She droops into the corner of the bench to 
 wards him. He comes closer and gazes at 
 her sear chin gly.~\ 
 RICHARD. Is life here at the court unkind to 
 
 you? 
 
 SILVIA. Ah, no, the court has many ladies good 
 And gracious gentlemen, only to-night 
 I feel a little child unfit to cope 
 With difficult problems life must bring to all. 
 [His voice becomes very gentle as he says:~\ 
 RICHARD. Have you encountered problems 
 
 then so soon? 
 SILVIA. Questions of choice come early, do not 
 
 they ? 
 Questions of self-effacement follow soon. 
 
 [He looks at her surprised. She waits a few 
 moments, hoping he will speak. He does 
 not and she goes on.~\ 
 
 SILVIA. A problem still more difficult to solve 
 It is when one would very quickly choose 
 To cancel self but may not since the right 
 Lies with my masters, only, not with me. 
 
 [He sits down by her on the bench but still 
 
 does not speak.] 
 SILVIA. You sought me out with something you 
 
 would say? 
 
 RICHARD. It is so hard to say hard to begin, 
 61
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 And having once begun, I fear I'll tell 
 Too much. My heart is very, very full. 
 
 SILVIA. Perhaps I know a little. [Looking at 
 him timidly.} 
 
 RICHARD. Do you know 
 
 That I am sent away? 
 
 SILVIA. Yes, I have heard. 
 
 RICHARD. The Queen will give no reason I 
 
 will not 
 
 Credit the silly reason others give. 
 My plans are all o'erturned, my dearest hopes 
 Are fallen like an infant's house of blocks. 
 I'm torn asunder 'twixt my loyalty 
 And duty to myself and to my love. 
 Why should she send me, give no cause for it? 
 
 [He rises and -paces up and down for a few 
 
 moments.'} 
 
 Ah, Silvia, I walk as in a dream ! 
 It is so sudden, so unnatural. 
 Only to-night she told me, though I heard 
 The rumor flying through the court this morn. 
 
 SILVIA. 'Tis true, then, from the Queen's own 
 lips, 'tis true? 
 
 RICHARD. She sent for me, I had an audience 
 A few hours since. 
 
 [He walks across the room, she watching him 
 silently. After a pause he continues.} 
 
 She was not like herself. 
 She seemed secretive, furtive, strangely cold. 
 She questioned me on subjects various, 
 And foreign to our thought, but finally 
 She said the word, she said that I must go. 
 
 SILVIA. What reason did she give? 
 
 RICHARD. I told you, none. 
 
 62
 
 THE ROSE 
 
 SILVIA. But could you mildly yield to her un 
 just? 
 RICHARD. Not so, I mildly yield my rights to 
 
 none. 
 
 How could you think I would? But you forget 
 She is the Queen. Ah, Heaven, she is die 
 
 Queen ! 
 
 I have said all I could argued prayed 
 My fealty binds me for the time I yield. 
 The expedition sails in early spring, 
 Until that time I'll be away from here. 
 
 [He stands gazing at her with all his love in 
 
 his eyes.~\ 
 
 I may not ever see your face again. 
 I go to-morrow with the early dawn. 
 [Silvia starts quickly and exclaims.'} 
 SILVIA. To-morrow with the dawn? Ah, not 
 
 so soon! 
 RICHARD. I have come here to-night to say 
 
 good-by, 
 To tell you that I love you. 
 
 SILVIA [looking up at him entreatingly~\. 
 
 Do not go ! 
 
 RICHARD. You care a little, then? 
 SILVIA. All that I may. 
 
 [She rises and stands leaning against the back, 
 of the bench. He starts toward her with an 
 exclamation, then stops, puts the back of his 
 hand over his eyes a moment, then passes 
 it over on one side of his brow.] 
 RICHARD. It is not right for me to take your 
 
 love, 
 
 Not right for me to have your promises, 
 But only right for me to give you mine. 
 
 63
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 I go for her, but leave my heart with you, 
 Not with the Queen my love is all for you, 
 My thoughts from far away will be with you, 
 My longing to return will be for you. 
 Dear Love, I will come back again to you, 
 My wish, my will, my life will be for that. 
 Ah, let me look at you one moment more 
 And let my sharpened wit now etch the sight. 
 Of you as you are now upon my brain: 
 My eyes are always seeing you I know 
 Just how you stand, the silent gentleness 
 Each gesture has. My fancy adds you to 
 Scenes here or anywhere the firm white wrist, 
 The clear and honest glory of your eyes. 
 This special vision will I keep to yield 
 Me solace at the end of weary day 
 When night has come and I may dream of you. 
 [After a moments -pause and with a slight 
 
 change of tone.} 
 
 If you will give me something I may wear 
 Of yours 
 
 SILVIA [taking a step or two toward him im 
 pulsively], 
 
 I would give you anything. 
 {She takes of a cross and chain and is about to 
 put it about his neck, but he stops her, tak 
 ing it out of her hands and replacing it about 
 her own.~\ 
 RICHARD. No, not the cross, something quite 
 
 valueless 
 
 Except for what it means to you and me, 
 Something more delicate that I may keep 
 Even if it fades you'll let me take the rose ? 
 [She gives it to him, he bows over it, kneel- 
 64
 
 THE ROSE 
 
 ing and kissing her hand. Then he rises, 
 takes her in his arms for a moment, re 
 leases her and swiftly, without ever look 
 ing back, he goes out through the cur 
 tains at the back of the room. She is left 
 desolate, standing looking after him. From 
 the left and far away Eustace is heard sing 
 ing. Silvia goes to the bench and drops 
 into it, hiding away in the corner as far as 
 possible, pale and chill, holding the cross to 
 her lips as she gazes at the embers almost 
 fallen to ashes. Eustace is heard singing.] 
 EUSTACE. 
 
 Ah, take the rose, 
 For with it goes 
 
 My love, my tender love of thee, 
 And may it find a little place 
 Within thy memory!
 
 LUCK? 
 A FARCE COMEDY. 
 
 CHARACTERS AS THEY APPEAR. 
 
 NORAH, a maid at the Faughn's. 
 
 EVELYN VAUGHN, engaged to Roger Campbell. 
 
 DR. ROGER CAMPBELL, a young surgeon. 
 
 Miss WRIGHT. 
 
 MRS. FULSOM. 
 
 Miss CARMICHAEL. 
 
 Miss BAILEY. 
 
 MRS. YOUNG. 
 
 MR. MELLICENT, a young clergyman. 
 
 DR. WILSON, a professor of psychology. 
 
 FIRST POLICEMAN. 
 
 SECOND POLICEMAN. 
 
 PETER, the Campbell's man. 
 
 SCENES. 
 
 ACT I. Library at the Vaughn's. The 29th 
 of October, afternoon. 
 
 ACT II. Home of Mrs. Maxwell. The 3Oth 
 of October, afternoon. 
 
 ACT III. Tea room of the Beechmont Country 
 Club. The 3ist of October, after 
 noon. 
 
 ACT IV. Library at the Vaughn's. The 3ist 
 
 of October, evening. 
 
 67
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 [The library In the Vaughn home. The 
 room is furnished in heavy mahogany and 
 has low bookcases around the walls with a 
 few fine prints hanging above them. There 
 is a big table a little to one side of the 
 center of the room, covered with books and 
 magazines, and on it, too, a big electric 
 lamp. A chair is at either side of the table. 
 There are other chairs, a couch, a heavy teak- 
 wood tabouret in a corner of the front part 
 of the room. On a bookcase is a Japanese jar 
 having on it the three wise monkeys of Japan. 
 It is overturned and its contents of rose- 
 petal pot-pourri scattered. A rosy-cheeked 
 Irish maid enters through the curtains at the 
 door on the left side of the room towards the 
 back, and rushes diagonally across to the 
 tabouret. She pants wildly and is carrying a 
 huge jar of pink Killarney roses. She gets the 
 jar safely on the tabouret, then slips on the 
 polished -floor and sprawls awkwardly at full 
 length.'] 
 
 NORAH [giving a shriek and slowly getting 
 herself up]. Ach! Holy Mother be thanked 
 'twas me an' not the roses! 'Tis the fairies be 
 up to their old thricks, trippin' ye an' sich. At 
 Hallowe'en they do be playin' mad pranks and 
 givin' iverybody bad luck. [She goes through 
 the room straightening things, picks up news 
 papers that have been scattered over the floor, 
 arranges the pillows on the couch, and so on. 
 She goes to the bookcase and begins putting back 
 the spilled rose leaves and as she does so a young 
 
 68
 
 LUCK? 
 
 lady carrying a little black kitten comes in through 
 the curtains at the same entrance. ~\ 
 
 EVELYN. What on earth were you doing, 
 Norah ? 
 
 NORAH. 'Twas the jar knocked over, miss. 
 I surmise Timmy must have did it. 
 
 EVELYN. But that little jar turned over didn't 
 make the awful crash I heard a moment ago. 
 
 NORAH. No, miss, the crash wasn't the jar, 
 that was me yet sure 'twas a jar, too. [She 
 looks rueful and rubs her hip.'] But I think 
 Timmy must have did this. 
 
 EVELYN [to the kitten']. Did you do this, 
 you little de'il? Maybe the fairies were up to 
 pranks, Norah. It is nearly Hallowe'en, you 
 know, and they seem to be more lively at this time 
 of year than at any other. Do you believe in 
 fairies, Norah? 
 
 NORAH. There is some as don't, miss, but as 
 for me [shaking her head and crossing herself 
 as one should say " I know too much, I am too 
 wise not to believe"']. 
 
 EVELYN. So do I, Norah. I believe in 
 fairies, though perhaps mine are not just exactly 
 like yours. There are fairies of the mind as well 
 as of the eyes, you know. 
 
 NORAH [looking very mystified and rolling her 
 eyes from one corner of the room to the other 
 as if expecting to see something untoward']. No, 
 miss, I didn't. 
 
 EVELYN. Well, there are. And when you 
 come to study experimental psychology and va 
 rieties of hypnotic experience and especially 
 esoteric Buddhism, you'll realize it. 
 
 69
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 NORAH. Saints preserve us, miss! It seems 
 to me as though the little old Irish fairies could 
 do enough harm without addin' any such new 
 fangled ones to help thim in their little diviltries. 
 
 EVELYN. They aren't new only stupid peo 
 ple are just beginning to find them out. [To the 
 kitten.'} Timmy, if you're going to be destruc 
 tive, you'll have to go. Society doesn't harbor 
 destructive little animals. Norah, didn't you say 
 your aunt would be glad to have him? Well, 
 you can take him home to her whenever you have 
 time. 
 
 NORAH. If I was you, miss, I wouldn't give 
 him away. 'Tis great good luck to have a black 
 cat follow you the way he did, an' the people 
 that owned him said you could have him, so he's 
 a free gift as well, and it's bad luck to put away 
 a gift. 
 
 EVELYN. I like him, bless his little heart! 
 [She strokes and pets him.} But the family 
 doesn't approve of him even in his state of inno 
 cence, and if he should break a vase or some 
 thing goodness knows what would happen. No, 
 he'll have to go. He'll have a good home with 
 your aunt and be just as happy there as with me, 
 and I think you'd better take him at once be 
 fore I get any fonder of him. {Holding the kit 
 ten up In her hands and dangling his little legs 
 In front of her.} If you become too attached 
 to good luck, it makes you soft so you can't stand 
 bad luck. I like people with lots of pluck who 
 can bear bad luck. 
 
 NORAH. Oh, as for me, I wisht nobody would 
 never have bad luck at all, at all, miss. 
 
 70
 
 LUCK? 
 
 [Evelyn goes out through the same door, car 
 rying the kitten. Norah has stopped re 
 spectfully while her mistress talked to her; 
 she now finishes putting the rose leaves back 
 in the jar, takes the corner of her apron to 
 dust it and places it back where it stood, and 
 then she goes out the same door. She has 
 not more than disappeared when the door 
 bell is heard to ring. Norah appears again 
 at the same door and passes through the 
 room to answer the bell. In a second a 
 young man enters, followed by the maid. 
 He looks very gay and happy, has his hat 
 under his arm and is beginning to take of 
 his gloves.] 
 
 CAMPBELL. She's at home, is she, Norah? 
 NORAH [archly]. I would be thinkin' per 
 haps she knew you might be comin', sir. 
 
 CAMPBELL [putting his hat on one end of the 
 bookcase]. No, she didn't, for I didn't tele 
 phone her. 
 
 NORAH. Maybe she knew, anyhow, sir. 
 CAMPBELL. No, she couldn't possibly. For 
 I didn't know myself till two minutes before I 
 started. 
 
 NORAH. Perhaps she surmised you was corn- 
 in' before the idea entered your own head, your 
 self, sir. 
 
 CAMPBELL. Oh, fiddlesticks! {He has been 
 walking about in a sort of happy nervousness, 
 pulling off the fingers of his gloves.] That 
 sounds like the nonsense so-called educated peo 
 ple talk nowadays. Whoever put such an idiotic 
 notion into your pretty head? [He stands in 
 
 71
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 front of her, smiling and pulls a half-dollar out 
 of his pocket, holding both hands behind him.'} 
 Which hand will you take? [Then, extending 
 them, the right hand holding the money and the 
 left hand holding his gloves.] But pshaw! No 
 body could ever give you the mitten. [He gives 
 her the money, waving the gloves in the air to. 
 illustrate his joke.] 
 
 NORAH [with delightful coyness]. Sure, 
 you're as handsome a gintleman as you're giner- 
 ous. [She has a rich Irish brogue.] 
 
 CAMPBELL. Norah, such kisses as yours 
 ought never to have been wasted on a stone, but 
 evidently you have kissed the Blarney Stone. 
 My thanks to it. Now, run and tell her I'm 
 here. 
 
 [Norah goes out through the curtains at the 
 left back door. The young man puts his 
 gloves together and places them on the 
 tabouret under the roses while he leans 
 down to smell them and smile. He has evi 
 dently sent them. He walks about with his 
 hands behind him and then thrusts them into 
 his pockets, whistling softly. He goes to 
 the low bookcase and picks up the Japanese 
 jar. Finally when he is on the opposite side 
 of the room Evelyn enters through the same 
 left door. She is dressed in blue, is flushed 
 and joyous. He turns and strides forward 
 and they meet considerably on her side of 
 the center of the room. He catches her 
 hands, swings them to and fro, beaming, 
 then throws them around his shoulders, 
 takes her in his arms and kisses her. He re- 
 72
 
 LUCK? 
 
 leases her, holding her from him and regard 
 ing her with delight.] 
 
 CAMPBELL. Isn't it a bully day? It's so fine 
 I had to come. It's a funny thing that when 
 ever the day is particularly fine I want to see you. 
 
 EVELYN. I thought you said whenever it was 
 rainy you wanted to see me. 
 
 CAMPBELL. I do. It's a peculiar effect the 
 weather has on me whatever it is, it makes me 
 want to see you! [They both laugh.] 
 
 EVELYN. You crazy boy, I knew you were 
 coming. [She sits down at the left side of the 
 table.] 
 
 CAMPBELL. Oh, that's not hard. You'd be 
 pretty sure to guess right about that nine times 
 out of ten, wouldn't you? [He laughs.] Don't 
 draw telepathic inferences from the conduct of 
 a man who is in love with you. [He sits down 
 on a corner of the table nearest her.] How have 
 you managed to put in the day without me? 
 
 EVELYN [in playful satire]. I've lived on the 
 hope of seeing you. 
 
 CAMPBELL {regarding her critically]. You 
 don't look as if you had pined enough. 
 
 EVELYN. I'm the kind that doesn't show trou 
 ble. And beside, the great happiness of your 
 presence has driven away now all the traces of 
 sorrow. 
 
 CAMPBELL [growing serious]. Evelyn, you 
 talk as if you were making fun of our love. 
 
 EVELYN. Why, dea 
 
 CAMPBELL [quickly]. Say it! 
 
 EVELYN. Roger! 
 
 CAMPBELL. No, the other ! 
 
 73
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 EVELYN. Dearest! [With a little gulp and 
 smiling side-glance at him.] You began it. 
 [He immediately slides over and sits on the arm 
 of her chair.~\ Oh, please don't! Some one 
 may come in any minute. 
 
 CAMPBELL. I don't care if they do. 
 
 EVELYN. I do. You don't know how they 
 tease me about you, anyway. 
 
 CAMPBELL. I like them to tease me. I like 
 them to talk about you all the time. 
 
 EVELYN. Do get up! 
 
 CAMPBELL [rising impatiently}. Well, then, 
 let's go for a walk. [Looking at his watch.] I 
 haven't much time to spare. It will do you 
 good after sitting here fretting for me all these 
 live-long hours. [He gives her a funny, quizzi 
 cal look and grins.~\ Honestly, Evelyn, it is a 
 glorious day. You never saw such a blue sky 
 it's more bewitching than ever in spring. I came 
 along under some golden and flaming trees and 
 they seemed like autumn's votive offering to the 
 spirit of fire. Lord, but they were glorious! 
 
 EVELYN [smiling appreciation]. I'd love to 
 go, only I have a little thing I want to give you 
 first. 
 
 CAMPBELL [with delight and deep emotion]. 
 A present! Bless your heart! 
 
 [She runs out of the room and is gone only a 
 few moments. He stands about smiling. 
 He is very evidently in the seventh heaven 
 where dwell young men in the first days of 
 their engagement. She returns and stands 
 with her hands behind her. They both 
 
 74
 
 LUCK? 
 
 laugh, gaze at each other and are ecstatically 
 happy.} 
 
 EVELYN. Something for you. Now, shut 
 your eyes and see what the queen will send you. 
 [Campbell obeys. She takes his left hand and 
 slips on the little finger a very large silver ring 
 with a Swastika cross in light blue enamel on 
 the top of it. He opens his eyes, holds up his 
 hand and gazes abstractedly at the ring, then at 
 her, in a thoroughly non-plussed way. She 
 smiles at him but he does not smile back. He 
 looks at the ring. Finally he speaks.} 
 
 CAMPBELL. Evelyn, you don't really expect 
 me to wear that? [Holding up his hand and 
 wriggling his little finger.} 
 
 EVELYN. Why, surely, why else would I give 
 it to you? [Her smile has died away and she 
 seems a little chilled.} 
 
 CAMPBELL [still holding up his hand in an 
 awkward fashion and speaking with a tone and 
 manner slightly patronizing}. Any sort of ring 
 on a man is bad enough, but a silver ring set with 
 blue enamel is the inappropriate allowed to 
 bawl from a housetop. 
 
 EVELYN [disappointed, but trying for an 
 understanding}. Oh, I agree with you about 
 rings in general but this is different. 
 
 CAMPBELL. It's worse. 
 
 EVELYN. It is unique and symbolical. It 
 isn't like wearing a diamond ring. I wouldn't 
 ask you to go about adorned like a drummer. 
 
 CAMPBELL. No, but I'd be moderately incon 
 spicuous then, almost as if I wore a hat. Peo 
 ple have grown tolerant of misapplied diamonds. 
 
 75
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 But the Swastika swarms like an invasion of Goths 
 still untamed. You want me to join the horde 
 of belt-buckles and hat-pins. 
 
 EVELYN. You contradict yourself. 
 CAMPBELL. I'm too amazed to be logical. I 
 can't see how you would expect me to wear a 
 thing like this. It's as prevalent as peanuts. 
 
 EVELYN. A thing that has intrinsic beauty is 
 not hurt by popularity. 
 
 CAMPBELL. Oh, intrinsic beauty is all right. 
 But you'll have to admit that this thing has the 
 extraordinary combination of the qualities of 
 oddity and popularity. 
 
 [Evelyn does not answer but goes over to the 
 couch and sits down with a sigh as if to 
 wait patiently till his argumentative mood 
 has passed. He marches up and down the 
 room, looking at the ring every now and 
 then, holding up for inspection and wriggling 
 his little finger.'} 
 
 CAMPBELL. Why did you choose a thing so 
 strange? Why is the extraordinary always an 
 excuse to you for breaking conventions and sane 
 principles? Why has the caviare so peculiar a 
 fascination for a fastidious young woman like 
 you? 
 
 EVELYN [growing a little dignified and icy~\. 
 I was not aware it had. Nobody ever told me 
 before that I broke conventions and sane prin 
 ciples. 
 
 CAMPBELL. Nobody was ever so honest be 
 fore with you. I can't understand how a girl 
 of such good family, so well brought up, can be 
 so unconventional and care so much for the queer. 
 
 76
 
 LUCK? 
 
 I suppose you picked this up just because it was 
 queer. 
 
 EVELYN. Perhaps my family have been too 
 proper and that's why I'm not. But there's noth 
 ing queer in this. 
 
 CAMPBELL. There isn't, eh? Me wearing a 
 blue enamel ring! 
 
 EVELYN. A man ought to be independent 
 enough to wear anything. And, beside, I don't 
 think it's very kind in you. to think I would 
 choose something for you because it was queer. 
 It was the symbolism of it that attracted me. 
 
 CAMPBELL. There you go again! [Stopping 
 short and gesturing with irritation.'] Why can't 
 you leave symbolism to priests and painters? It 
 is extremely absurd and what is more and worse 
 it's unsanitary. 
 
 EVELYN. You can wash this ring in carbolic 
 acid every day, if you want to. 
 
 CAMPBELL [very much exasperated]. Why 
 not just leave it in a bottle of alcohol and only 
 pretend to be wearing it that would be the 
 superlative example of your symbolism. 
 
 EVELYN. Or of your cynicism. 
 
 CAMPBELL. But it is the principle of the 
 thing. Why do you 
 
 EVELYN. Roger, we have gone all over this 
 several times before. 
 
 CAMPBELL. Yes, I know we have. But here 
 it is all up in the air again. You are supposed 
 to be intelligent, you are intelligent, and yet you 
 behave sometimes as if you believed in the most 
 flagrant and idiotic superstitions that even Norah 
 would laugh at. 
 
 77
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 EVELYN [unmoved]. Would she? 
 
 ROGER [hotly]. Certainly. Well, then, why 
 don't you deny it? Why don't you say some 
 thing? 
 
 EVELYN. I wonder. 
 
 CAMPBELL. I don't understand it. I don't 
 understand how you can combine the two quali 
 ties how you can hate conventionalities as you 
 do and yet worship all sorts of puerile and idiotic 
 symbolism. 
 
 EVELYN. Perhaps nobody is consistent. 
 You weren't a moment ago. [She sits staring at 
 the floor.'] 
 
 CAMPBELL [standing still and looking at her~\. 
 And even now you are not retreating from your 
 position in the least. 
 
 EVELYN [opening her eyes wide and looking at 
 him calmly]. Why should I? 
 
 CAMPBELL [with a trifle of embarrassment]. 
 Well, one might expect you to try to see things 
 as I do. 
 
 EVELYN. I think I do generally. 
 
 CAMPBELL [hotly]. I don't think you do at 
 all. I don't think you try to. 
 
 EVELYN [slowly]. I am wondering. I am 
 trying to think why once in a while you should 
 take these unaccountable fits of obstinacy and 
 belligerence why you should become so diffi 
 cult 
 
 CAMPBELL [quickly]. To manage, I sup 
 pose. So you try to manage me, do you? Well, 
 on the other hand, I try to excuse it in you, but 
 really I can not understand why you do not en 
 deavor to see things sensibly and to overcome 
 
 78
 
 LUCK? 
 
 your taste for humbug. It is the principle of 
 the thing. \He sits down on the left side of the 
 table.} 
 
 EVELYN. That is exactly what I was think 
 ing of. Of course the ring is nothing it is of 
 silver, of no value, but it is pretty, artistic, 
 unique, and I was attracted to it for that. Then 
 the Swastika cross on it means good luck. But 
 it was something more the silver and the blue 
 enamel meant the blue sky and the grey clouds, 
 the sky we have always looked to and that was 
 a sign between us when we were separated from 
 each other. So the ring was doubly symbolic 
 with a peculiar meaning to you and me that 
 nothing else could have. 
 
 CAMPBELL \he has listened to her speech but 
 then catches sight of the ring again, shakes his 
 head, rises and speaks rapidly]. Can't you see 
 how ridiculous it is for me to wear a thing like 
 this? Imagine me demonstrating anatomy to a 
 class of medical students in the dissecting room. 
 Can't you see the picture? I with my knife 
 in one hand [gesturing with his right hand], 
 and this piece of superstition and folly [holding 
 up the left hand with the ring on it] on the other? 
 Can't you see how ridiculous it is? 
 
 EVELYN. No, I do not see that it is ridiculous 
 at all! To me it is merely beautiful. 
 
 CAMPBELL. It is ridiculous. It is absurd, 
 silly, puerile. And it is all that in you that 
 makes you want to do such things, and want to 
 make me do them. Pshaw ! You ought to 
 know better, Evelyn. A girl of your sense! 
 You ought to have outgrown such folly. You 
 
 79
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 are forgetting your position. You are forget 
 ting that you are grown up and engaged to be 
 married. You are forgetting my position. You 
 are permitting yourself to be silly and childish 
 and worse you are actually indulging and en 
 couraging yourself in it. [He strides about, ex 
 asperated, angry, and hot. She sits still watch 
 ing him from her seat without turning her head. 
 At last she says very quietly. ] 
 
 EVELYN. Will you wear the ring? 
 
 CAMPBELL [surprised into austere bluntness~\. 
 No, certainly not. 
 
 EVELYN. Then then you might as well 
 give it back and all that goes with it. 
 
 CAMPBELL [in a tone of surprise and alarm}. 
 Surely you don't mean that? 
 
 EVELYN. I think I do. You said it was a 
 matter of principle. 
 
 CAMPBELL. It is. You are asking me not 
 only to seem but to feel absurd for a silly whim 
 of yours. 
 
 EVELYN [rising]. And you are refusing to do 
 the first little thing you are asked to do for my 
 sake. 
 
 CAMPBELL. You are asking too much. 
 
 EVELYN. You are refusing too much. 
 
 CAMPBELL. Am I to understand that you 
 really mean what you are saying? 
 
 EVELYN. You have given me the impression 
 that you meant what you were saying. 
 
 CAMPBELL. But this can't be final. 
 
 EVELYN. You are making it so. 
 
 CAMPBELL. No, by Jove, I'm not you are. 
 
 EVELYN. You don't need to raise your voice 
 80
 
 LUCK? 
 
 so. I think you said you would not wear the 
 ring? 
 
 CAMPBELL. Of course. 
 
 EVELYN. Then there is no more need for 
 further talk about it. 
 
 [Campbell stands a moment in uncertainty, 
 then pulls the ring of his finger with some 
 difficulty.] 
 
 CAMPBELL. Do you really mean it? 
 
 EVELYN. I do. 
 
 [He goes to the bookcase and gets his hat, 
 turns and faces her.'] 
 
 CAMPBELL [with perturbation]. Good-by. 
 
 EVELYN. Good-by. 
 
 [Campbell walks out of the door at the right 
 he has forgotten his gloves. After he is 
 of the stage she goes across to the roses and 
 stands looking at them. Campbell returns, 
 standing in the doorway at the right.] 
 
 CAMPBELL. You will maybe think this over 
 and if for any reason whatever you may want 
 me 
 
 EVELYN [not turning round]. I shall not 
 want you. 
 
 CAMPBELL. Oh, very well, then. Good-by. 
 
 EVELYN. Good-by. 
 
 [He stands looking at her a moment reluc 
 tantly and dubiously. Then he goes out at 
 right. After she is sure he has gone, she 
 goes to the table and picks up the ring. 
 She holds it up, regarding it with a vast 
 malevolence, pressing her lips close together. 
 Finally she takes it to the Japanese jar and 
 drops it in. After that she slowly goes to 
 81
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 the tabouret where the roses stand, throws 
 herself on the floor under the roses and in 
 a huddled-up heap, a rose pulled down to 
 her face, she cries in desolation. A noise 
 of footsteps is heard at the left. Evelyn 
 calls out in a tear-choked voice.] 
 EVELYN. Oh, Norah, I have changed my 
 mind about Timmy. I am not going to give him 
 away. 
 
 NORAH. Oh, but I just come back from tak- 
 in' him home, miss. He's gone. 
 
 [The curtain goes down with Evelyn bowed 
 below the roses, weeping. ,] 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 [SCENE: A room in the home of Mrs. 
 Marshall, who is giving a tea. It is a pretty 
 room, with many jars of flowers about and the 
 ladies in their reception gowns make the scene 
 gay. There is a table with a punch-bowl, cups, 
 and so on.~\ 
 
 Miss WRIGHT [coming in]. Nell, I want you 
 to meet my friend, Miss Carmichael Mrs. Ful- 
 som. 
 
 MRS. FULSOM [fulsomely]. Are you the 
 Miss Carmichael of Chicago? 
 
 Miss CARMICHAEL. Well, I don't know 
 whether I am or not. I am from Chicago. 
 
 MRS. FULSOM. Oh, then, you are. I hear 
 you are perfectly divinely, absolutely unscrupu 
 lous in the clever things you say. 
 
 82
 
 LUCK? 
 
 Miss CARMICHAEL. Chicago is a breezy 
 place, but I hope I'm not such a wind-bag. 
 
 MRS. FULSOM. Oh, what is more exhilarating 
 than a sharp tongue! 
 
 Miss CARMICHAEL. A sharp conscience, per 
 haps. But a conscience is a spiritual appendix 
 nowadays. 
 
 MRS. FULSOM. I love clever talk. 
 
 Miss CARMICHAEL. One only talks when 
 there is nothing doing. When people are really 
 acting there is no room for conversation. 
 
 MRS. FULSOM. Then you will talk here. 
 Things are awfully dull. 
 
 Miss CARMICHAEL. I rather fancy things are 
 happening here. Then one doesn't talk much. 
 
 Miss BAILEY. Have you heard that Evelyn's 
 engagement to Roger Campbell is broken? 
 
 MRS. FULSOM [with great excitement]. Yes! 
 They were coming to my house last night for 
 some bridge and after dinner she sent a note to 
 say that she had a headache, and he had his of 
 fice girl telephone that he was called away on a 
 case. So of course, I knew! I had to ask some 
 other people and naturally was compelled to ex 
 plain the situation. 
 
 Miss CARMICHAEL. Situations that aren't 
 self-explanatory are worse than situations that ex 
 plain themselves. 
 
 MRS. FULSOM. Perhaps that is the way it 
 leaked out. I would be so sorry to have it come 
 through me, but I suppose it had to come through 
 somebody. I must regard myself as the unwill 
 ing agent. 
 
 Miss WRIGHT. I wonder what was the mat- 
 83
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 ter? But they never seemed suited to each 
 other, to me. They are both so hot-headed. 
 
 MRS. FULSOM. Evelyn doesn't seem so. 
 
 Miss WRIGHT. But she is. People who are 
 alike oughtn't to marry. 
 
 Miss BAILEY. But if they are very different, 
 what will their children be ? 
 
 MRS. FULSOM. Oh, I wonder if that isn't 
 what produces dual personality? 
 
 Miss CARMICHAEL. Oh, dear, omnipresent 
 eugenics! Must it even invade an afternoon 
 tea? 
 
 Miss WRIGHT. I wasn't thinking of that. 
 But it takes a woman who is genial and jolly and 
 serene to get on with a man who is quick-tem 
 pered. 
 
 Miss BAILEY. One like you, my dear? 
 
 MRS. FULSOM [after an uncomfortable mo 
 ment'}. I believe the scientists have decided that 
 the little god Love is no proper eugenist. 
 
 Miss CARMICHAEL. He is the greatest! 
 
 Miss BAILEY. I heard Roger had dreadful 
 luck in his golf match to-day. He played his 
 semi-finals at noon on account of some patient or 
 other, and he was almost beaten. 
 
 Miss WRIGHT. Why, he has been in dandy 
 form and has been playing a ripping game. 
 
 Miss BAILEY. I heard he lost three of his pa 
 tients last night. Maybe that unnerved him. 
 
 MRS. FULSOM. I should think it might. 
 What a crush Sallie Marshall always manages to 
 get at her teas! 
 
 [Enter Mrs. Young, an almost elderly lady 
 84
 
 LUCK? 
 
 with grey curls, and a thin, pale young rector in 
 her tow.~\ 
 
 MRS. YOUNG. What a delightful oasis 
 
 Miss WRIGHT. In the desert of Sarah ! 
 
 MRS. YOUNG [tapping Miss Wright on the 
 cheek with her fan}. Oh, you naughty punstress 
 or would you say punstrette ? [She smiles 
 around the group with a graceful pride in her 
 own humility. Dr. Wilson enters from the 
 right.'} 
 
 DR. WILSON. Good afternoon, ladies. I 
 saw Mrs. Young headed for somewhere that I 
 knew would be delightful, a cosy nook, a shady 
 dell, an overflowing spring of frappe, perhaps 
 something cool and delicious with nymphs and 
 goddesses, so I followed. I am rewarded for 
 my intelligence. 
 
 Miss WRIGHT. You are not warm to-day? 
 
 DR. WILSON. There is such a throng in the 
 drawing-room. Sometimes I almost think that 
 people hurry in haste to repine in pleasure. 
 
 MRS. YOUNG. Oh, you witty man 1 
 
 Miss WRIGHT. I was glad enough to get into 
 the house. Coming over in the automobile it 
 was so cold I couldn't talk to Betsy [taking 
 Miss Carmichael's arm}. Whenever I opened 
 my mouth the wind blew holes through my 
 teeth. 
 
 Miss CARMICHAEL. I was resigned. I'd 
 rather have gaps in the conversation than in your 
 teeth. 
 
 [Evelyn enters from the right. They greet 
 
 ' her.} 
 
 85
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 MRS. YOUNG. Mr. Mellicent and I [indicat 
 ing the pale young clergyman, who bows pro 
 foundly] have been discussing dreams and I want 
 to refer the matter to you, doctor. Do you be 
 lieve in dreams? 
 
 DR. WILSON [beaming with a quizzical look']. 
 Why er yes, I think they are delightful. 
 
 MRS. YOUNG. Yes, I know, one enjoys a 
 pleasant dream, but do you consider them signifi 
 cant? 
 
 DR. WILSON. Oh, very. Of lobster a la 
 Newburgh or salads or pate de foi gras or even 
 an innocent Puritan New England pie. 
 
 MRS. YOUNG. Still, you do not wholly appre 
 hend me. I mean are they significant psychically? 
 Or would you say psychologically? [She smiles 
 around at them with her air of humility asking 
 for assistance.] I dream a great deal and I find 
 my dreams so fascinating. I make it a rule to 
 tell them always at the breakfast table, particu 
 larly if I have guests. I think it promotes con 
 versation at that period of the day when persons 
 do not usually feel stimulated to it. 
 
 DR. WILSON [profoundly]. Dreams have al 
 ways been and still are the subject of deep inter 
 est to all those who are investigating psychic 
 phenomena. 
 
 MRS. YOUNG [enthusiastically]. Oh, how 
 clever of you to say so ! I knew you couldn't dis 
 believe in premonitions. 
 
 DR. WILSON [surprised]. I don't know that 
 I meant that altogether that I meant to go 
 so far. And the term premonition is not so 
 
 86
 
 LUCK? 
 
 much used nowadays. Intuition is the latest 
 thing. 
 
 Miss WRIGHT. Well, people can call it pre 
 monition or whatever they choose, but I believe 
 in it. 
 
 EVELYN. You have great hardihood to say 
 so. 
 
 DR. WILSON. Oh, my dear young lady, not 
 to-day. Twenty years ago, perhaps, physical sci 
 ence called everything that wasn't a germ super 
 stition, but in the reaction now everybody talks 
 psychic phenomena except perhaps the few 
 who really have experiences that are significant. 
 [He looks at her pointedly.'} 
 
 EVELYN. No one ought to hold back any 
 thing that might prove valuable to humanity. It 
 is quite proper for the individual to allow his 
 feelings to be vivisected for the sake of the race. 
 Let's begin. Now why do you believe in pre 
 monitions? [To Miss Wrig\it.~\ 
 
 MRS. FULSOM [who has been devoting herself 
 to Miss Carmichael}. I want your friend to 
 meet a friend of mine [to Miss Wright\, may I 
 borrow her a few minutes? I'll bring her back 
 safely. 
 
 Miss WRIGHT [smiling and nodding to Mrs. 
 Fulsom]. Why, Evelyn, the way I feel about 
 things. Now, I am perfectly sure that Roger 
 Campbell is going to be beaten at golf in the 
 finals to-morrow. [She relapses into a flushing 
 state of embarrassment, conscious that she has 
 put her foot into it, and the entire group is awk 
 wardly silent except Mrs. Youna, who does not 
 
 87
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 realize the situation and looks about smiling at 
 the others.] 
 
 MRS. YOUNG. Thought-transference is an 
 other very interesting phenomena or would 
 you say phenomenon? [She again looks about 
 with the same smiling graceful pride in her own 
 humility.'] 
 
 Miss BAILEY. Oh, that is a subject that I am 
 immensely interested in. How far, doctor, do 
 you think one mind can influence another? 
 
 DR. WILSON. Do you mean hypnotically, by 
 suggestion? 
 
 Miss BAILEY. Well, no, I mean unconsciously 
 or subconsciously, I suppose you would call it. 
 
 DR. WILSON. Perhaps I wouldn't call it that, 
 but could you illustrate ? 
 
 Miss BAILEY. Suppose one person is very 
 much in the thoughts of another person and sup 
 pose he has a belief in something a sort of 
 superstition, which he hardly acknowledges or 
 is even aware of, himself. Do you think that 
 belief would have a compelling influence over the 
 other person? 
 
 DR. WILSON. For example, if a girl believes 
 an electric ring of iron will cure her sweetheart's 
 rheumatism and slips it on his finger, will the 
 rheumatism be very violent when he angrily dis 
 cards it? 
 
 Miss BAILEY [laughing]. It is a little ex 
 treme, but we'll suppose it. 
 
 DR. WILSON [looking to right and left and 
 then in a 'very loud whisper with a great show of 
 secrecy]. Don't ever tell my students, but I 
 don't know! Warts have been wished off and 
 
 88
 
 LUCK? 
 
 fortunes have been won by seeing the moon over 
 the right shoulder, and people have given other 
 people good luck with a five-leaf clover. To be 
 serious, however, I have to tell you that though 
 we could talk scientifically about it for weeks and 
 use big words long as the stock-broker's tape, I 
 don't know how much influence one mind has 
 over another. [Looking at Evelyn again.'} 
 People who really have experiences are so se 
 cretive about them, it's hard to get data. 
 
 Miss BAILEY. I quite sympathize with them. 
 Suppose you had a hope or a fear hardly acknowl 
 edged to yourself even and there seemed to be 
 evidence of its affecting some one you loved 
 would you want to discuss it? Whether you be 
 lieved in such a force or not, the proofs to make 
 it seem possible would be inviolable. 
 
 EVELYN. What big words, Josephine I 
 
 DR. WILSON. Would you call it obsession? 
 
 Miss BAILEY. Oh, I would call it something 
 more sacred. The feeling of such a person over 
 another person would be something between a re 
 ligious ecstasy and a self-conviction of sin. 
 [Profoundly and earnestly.] 
 
 Miss WRIGHT. Well, I don't think people 
 have any business to poke into other minds and 
 influence them. It's as bad as stealing silver 
 spoons. 
 
 Miss BAILEY. Suppose they don't know it, or 
 that it is a force they can't control even if they 
 do know. 
 
 EVELYN. All this is very entertaining but 
 so 
 
 89
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 DR. WILSON [interrupting quickly]. Per 
 sonal? 
 
 EVELYN [sweetly]. No, I was going to say 
 so caviare to the general. Such queer talk for a 
 tea caviare why don't you stick to ices ? 
 [She turns as if to go.] 
 
 DR. WILSON. Too vague, you think? [De 
 taining her.] Come out to the University where 
 we are trying to do some practical work. Dr. 
 Roger Campbell was to have given a lecture on 
 psychology of the brain this afternoon that's 
 material enough, isn't it? 
 
 EVELYN [nonchalantly]. And didn't he? 
 
 DR. WILSON. He was unable to carry out his 
 purpose. 
 
 EVELYN. That seems unlike him. 
 
 Miss WRIGHT. Was he stage-struck? Lose 
 his head? 
 
 DR. WILSON. Not exactly his head he lost 
 his brain. 
 
 MRS. YOUNG. I can't believe it I 
 
 DR. WILSON. It seemed an easy matter for 
 him to get a brain because he is pathologist at the 
 city hospital, you know or did you know ? 
 [Inquiringly of Evelyn.] 
 
 EVELYN. I think I have heard so. 
 
 DR. WILSON. So he had access to unusual 
 things. But the husband of the sometime owner 
 of this particular brain turned up unexpectedly 
 and made allegations about his late wife's lack 
 ing certain organs which he seemed to think nec 
 essary to her full equipment for the next world 
 and further stated that the autopsy was held 
 without the permission of the bereaved family. 
 
 90
 
 LUCK? 
 
 Not to put too fine a point on it, he demanded 
 the recalcitrant brain and had the doctor ar 
 rested. 
 
 MRS. YOUNG. Arrested, oh, how horrible! 
 Oh, dear me, he is not still languishing in prison? 
 
 DR. WILSON. Oh, no, a doctor hasn't time 
 for that. 
 
 EVELYN. A doctor never has time for any 
 thing he doesn't like. 
 
 DR. WILSON. A doctor can always furnish 
 an alibi. The imaginary patient is the doctor's 
 unfailing alibi. 
 
 [Mrs. Fulsom and Miss Carmichael come in in 
 a wild state of excitement. ~\ 
 
 MRS. FULSOM. What under the sun do you 
 think? [They are all intensely interested.] An 
 unheard-of thing is happening! [They become 
 somewhat excited.] A most outrageous thing! 
 [Their excitement grows.] 
 
 Miss BAILEY. Oh, tell us don't keep us in 
 suspense. 
 
 MRS. YOUNG. Oh, please! 
 
 MRS. FULSOM. There are two policemen out 
 side! 
 
 Miss WRIGHT. Policemen? 
 
 MRS. FULSOM. Yes, two large, capable, ro 
 bust, red-faced, blue policemen determined to 
 force an entrance. 
 
 Miss BAILEY. They must be detailed here 
 to guard the tea. 
 
 Miss WRIGHT. Nonsense! 
 
 Miss BAILEY. Why, it would be perfectly pos 
 sible nowadays with so many cases of klepto 
 mania in society. 
 
 91
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 MRS. FULSOM. But it isn't that at all. Their 
 business is more more sanguinary. 
 
 Miss WRIGHT. For heaven's sake, what do 
 they want? Are they drunk? 
 
 MRS. FULSOM. No, they are deadly sober. 
 
 Miss WRIGHT. What on earth do they want? 
 
 MRS. FULSOM. That is the extraordinary and 
 dreadful part of it. They want Roger Camp 
 bell! They have a warrant for his arrest and 
 they have tracked him here. They won't be dis 
 suaded from it. They say they are sorry to 
 disconcert a tea but that the law is the law. 
 They are very nice about it. They say they are 
 willing to come in anywhere, through the roof 
 and attic by means of a ladder, or through a cellar 
 window, or the back kitchen door. They are 
 not intent upon the front door and the drawing- 
 room. But even with their manners it is so 
 dreadful. 
 
 MRS. YOUNG. Even a refined arrest is so 
 so malevolent! [Looking round with her us 
 ual propitiatory alr.~] 
 
 MRS. FULSOM. They say he'd much better be 
 told so he can sneak out the back door with 
 them quietly, but, of course, no one wants to tell 
 him. 
 
 MRS. YOUNG. Oh, Mr. Mellicent, couldn't 
 you break the news to him you could do it 
 so gently. 
 
 MR. MELLICENT [/or the first time opening 
 his lips']. I I 
 
 MRS. YOUNG. Or, better still, go and per 
 suade those policemen to go away? You can be 
 so persuasive! 
 
 92
 
 LUCK? 
 
 MR. MELLICENT. I I I should be most 
 happy. 
 
 EVELYN [turning to go toward the door]. 
 How singular at a tea ! [She is about to go 
 out, looking backward at them, when she runs 
 smack into Roger Campbell coming in at the 
 left.-] 
 
 CAMPBELL. Oh, I beg your pardon. 
 
 EVELYN. It was all my fault. [With mean 
 ing.] People deserve to be knocked down if 
 they don't look where they are going. 
 
 CAMPBELL. I was clumsy. 
 
 EVELYN. I wasn't looking I was unavoid 
 able. 
 
 CAMPBELL. You are, quite, but it was my 
 place to attempt to avoid you. 
 
 [She disappears through the door at the left 
 and he comes into the room. The people 
 all look at him as if he were a ghost. He 
 smiles rather constrainedly and bows.] 
 
 CAMPBELL. How do you do? 
 
 MRS. YOUNG. Oh, Dr. Campbell, we were 
 just talking about you about what were we 
 talking about? Coincidences, wasn't it? Or 
 would you say coincidence? [She flutes, smiling 
 as usual]. 
 
 CAMPBELL. I hope I haven't interrupted. 
 
 [ Two policemen enter from the right, preceded 
 by a little noise of voices and bustling on that 
 side.] 
 
 FIRST POLICEMAN. He's here, you know, all 
 right, and he's got to go. [He stops and looks 
 around at the group.] Which is him? That? 
 [He points at Mr. Mellicent. Clutching his club 
 
 93
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 he makes a stride toward that gentleman in a 
 bullying manner.] 
 
 MR. MELLICENT. Oh, dear, no! [Fright 
 ened and dropping back to the protection of the 
 ladies. ] 
 
 POLICEMAN. I thought not. You wouldn't 
 kidnap a fly, would you? 
 
 MR. MELLICENT. I really should not enjoy 
 interfering with the sacred liberty of anything, 
 even a tiny winged creature. 
 
 MRS. YOUNG. How eloquent even in such 
 adverse circumstances! 
 
 POLICEMAN. Well, friends, we're wastin' 
 time. 
 
 CAMPBELL [stepping forward]. What is it 
 you want? 
 
 POLICEMAN. A feller by the name of Dr. 
 Campbell. 
 
 CAMPBELL. I am he, what do you want? 
 
 POLICEMAN. Well, then, come along. 
 
 CAMPBELL. What for? 
 
 POLICEMAN [insinuatingly]. Well, I reckon 
 you know. 
 
 CAMPBELL. I don't. 
 
 POLICEMAN. Well maybe it'll come to you. 
 
 CAMPBELL. Explain yourself. 
 
 POLICEMAN. Well, if it ain't came to you yet, 
 maybe you'll find out soon enough. 
 
 CAMPBELL. If you have any business with us, 
 out with it. 
 
 POLICEMAN. We ain't got any business with 
 us, but with you. 
 
 CAMPBELL. What is it? 
 
 94
 
 LUCK? 
 
 POLICEMAN. Well, we don't want to give you 
 away before your friends. 
 
 DR. WILSON. Come, come, my men, don't 
 make a scene here. Go away and the doctor will 
 follow you. 
 
 POLICEMAN. Well, not much he won't follow 
 us, he'll go mil. That's what he'll do. [Threat 
 eningly.] An' we don't want none of your but- 
 tin' in, neither. The law's the law and you'd 
 better not interfere. We've had about 'nough 
 trouble over this case and we're gettin' peevish. 
 
 CAMPBELL. Get at it! Tell what you're 
 driving at! 
 
 POLICEMAN. Well, if you must know, we're 
 going to arrest you for kidnapin' that child. 
 
 CAMPBELL. For the Lord's sake, what child? 
 
 POLICEMAN. Well, it ain't goin' to do you no 
 good neither to look innocent nor to get mad. 
 
 CAMPBELL. I have kidnaped no child and I 
 refuse to be arrested. 
 
 POLICEMAN. They're right all right; they 
 got the number of your car. And so her folks 
 is dead sure it was you. You'll have to produce 
 the child. 
 
 CAMPBELL. Will somebody kindly lend me 
 a child? I'm nothing but an unworthy bachelor, 
 you know. 
 
 POLICEMAN. Well, we're wastin' time. An', 
 as I made mention of before, we're gettin' wore 
 out. You kidnaped the infant, come along. 
 
 CAMPBELL. I did not kidnap an infant. I'm 
 no such fool. If I were going to kidnap any 
 thing it would be a grown woman. I wouldn't 
 stop at a baby. 
 
 95
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 POLICEMAN. Now stop your kiddin' or I'll 
 have to use force. 
 
 CAMPBELL [growing very angry at last]. 
 Will you, though ! [He clenches his fists.'] 
 Touch me if you dare! [The two face each 
 other and a row seems imminent.] 
 
 MRS. YOUNG. Oh, dear, oh dear ! Mr. Mel- 
 licent, do part them ! 
 
 DR. WILSON. Hold on, Campbell! Remem 
 ber the ladies. There's a good fellow! 
 
 CAMPBELL. Then you'd better shoo the ladies 
 out of here. 
 
 POLICEMAN. Sure, Mike, this ain't no place 
 for ladies. 
 
 CAMPBELL. What about you? What busi 
 ness have you to enter a house this way? It 
 strikes me it's your place to get out. 
 
 POLICEMAN. I'm goin' but not alone. I 
 love company. 
 
 [The policeman starts for Campbell, who is 
 quick and muscular, hauls of with his fist and 
 hits the policeman in the face. The ladies 
 shriek. Both policemen make for Camp 
 bell] 
 
 DR. WILSON. Hold on, Campbell, don't 
 fight ! You'll have to go with them. 
 
 [There is a great tussle and confusion. The 
 policemen grab him, he slips from them, they 
 catch him again and hold him tight, one of 
 them swears.] 
 
 POLICEMAN. We'll put handcuffs on you, if 
 necessary. [Produces them.] 
 
 MRS. YOUNG. Handcuffs! Oh, Mr. Melli- 
 cent! [Clinging to that worthy's arm.] 
 
 96
 
 LUCK? 
 
 DR. WILSON. Out this way go out this 
 way, men down through the kitchen and the 
 back door. 
 
 [ The policemen drag Campbell to the door at 
 the left where Evelyn is just entering. She 
 hurries by them and across the room to the 
 other ladies. There is great confusion, ex 
 clamation and excitement, and the curtain 
 goes down as the policemen drag Campbell 
 out, followed by Dr. Wilson, leaving the 
 frightened ladies. The affray takes up two 
 or three minutes.] 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 [Tea-room of the Beechmont Country Club 
 on the next afternoon, October $ist. The 
 finals of the fall golf tournament are being 
 played. The room is filled with rocking and 
 straight backed chairs and settees of wicker and 
 some mission furniture. Some old prints and 
 modern posters are on the walls. There is 
 a large table on which the silver cups and 
 trophies are displayed. At the right is a desk 
 extension telephone on a table. On the other 
 side of the room rather in front is a low tea- 
 table where Miss Bailey, Miss Wright, and 
 Miss Carmichael are drinking tea.~\ 
 
 Miss CARMICHAEL. Marriage is just an in 
 vention of society for the suppression of genius. 
 Miss BAILEY. Oh, what deplorable cynicism! 
 Miss CARMICHAEL. No, only observation. 
 97
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 I have seen so many girls who seemed to ha^ 
 brains, marry and have their brains swallowed i 
 by their husbands. Marriage is a thought d 
 stroyer. Husbands gorge themselves on the 
 wives' intellects till the poor things have scarce 
 enough left to make pickles. 
 
 Miss WRIGHT. You talk as if pickles wei 
 made with brains instead of vinegar. 
 
 Miss CARMICHAEL. It's about half and hal 
 No cooking is savory without intellect in tl 
 preparation. That's why the French are so su 
 cessful. They are the cleverest people in tl: 
 world. Their brains are spicy. 
 
 Miss WRIGHT. All the same, being a womai 
 I believe in marriage. Maybe that's because I'i 
 not a genius but only a humdrum sort that lik< 
 to ride in a man's automobile and to be take 
 to the theater. If I were a man I might belie\ 
 in George Meredith's marriage for ten years sy 
 tern, but being a woman I want mine tied to me J 
 tight as possible I don't want anything left s 
 he can escape. 
 
 Miss BAILEY [seriously Miss Bailey is a 
 ways serious]. Do you think there are vei 
 many unhappy marriages? 
 
 Miss WRIGHT. How on earth is any one 1 
 know? After they're married people won't te 
 any more than after they're dead. One thing 
 sure, if a married man will flirt with you, you ca 
 draw your own conclusions. 
 
 Miss CARMICHAEL. Not a bit of it. A 
 men are natural polygamists and if a marrie 
 man will flirt with you it doesn't prove that \. 
 is unhappy, but only that he's versatile. 
 
 98
 
 LUCK? 
 
 doesn't prove that he's heretical, but only that he's 
 haremical. 
 
 Miss BAILEY [laughing'}. You are cynical! 
 
 Miss CARMICHAEL. No, only sensible. 
 
 [Mrs. Fulsom and Dr. Wilson enter from the 
 right side chatting gaily.'] 
 
 MRS. FULSOM. Well, what are you girls do 
 ing that you are having such a good time? 
 
 Miss CARMICHAEL. Doing what two or three 
 met together always do eating. 
 
 DR. WILSON. And what are you talking about 
 that you all are so interested in? 
 
 Miss CARMICHAEL. The subject unmarried 
 women left alone together for three minutes al 
 ways discuss matrimony. 
 
 [Mrs. Fulsom and Dr. Wilson laugh.} 
 
 DR. WILSON. Married women, I suppose, 
 don't talk about it they bear it in silence. 
 
 Miss BAILEY. Well, you know, one is really 
 privileged to have opinions if one has grown into 
 a grey-haired spinster. [She is rather an old 
 young lady with grey hair.'] 
 
 DR. WILSON [smiling'}. My dear girl, grey 
 hairs do not a spinster make, nor added years 
 old age. [He bows to her with great deference.'} 
 
 Miss WRIGHT. I think spinsters are born, not 
 made. 
 
 DR. WILSON. Yes, and it isn't a question of 
 marriage. I know many married old maids. It 
 has always seemed to me that women are divided 
 into two classes, the eternal Sappho and the eter 
 nal mother. The spinster is a sort of third es- 
 state, like the clergy. And, for that matter, 
 spinsterhood is not a question even of sex. 
 
 99
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 There are male spinsters. The division can nol 
 be made by nature through the arbitrary distinc 
 tion of sex, nor yet by man through the arbitrary 
 laws of marriage. 
 
 Miss CARMICHAEL. Oh, I have known olc 
 men spinsters they are the worst of all. 
 
 [Evelyn comes in in a hurry, evidently nerv- 
 otis.] 
 
 Miss WRIGHT. Hello, Evelyn, you give one 
 the impression of having been sent for. 
 
 EVELYN [pulling of her gloves in haste] 
 How do you do, Mrs. Fulsom? Good after 
 noon, Dr. Wilson. [She is very nervous. Be 
 gins to take off her hat, pulling out the pins, then 
 as if recollecting herself, thrusts them in again.} 
 
 Miss WRIGHT [watching Evelyn closely] 
 You still give me the idea of some one with ar 
 inward agitation. Did you forget to take youi 
 digestive tablet this morning? 
 
 EVELYN [pulling herself together and smiling 
 calmly]. Don't judge others by what the doc 
 tor prescribes for you, dear. I never need di 
 gestive tablets. 
 
 Miss BAILEY. Who is hostess for this after 
 noon? 
 
 EVELYN. I am. I was on the committee bul 
 I didn't intend to come, for I have a headache 
 
 Miss WRIGHT. You seem to have a good 
 many headaches lately. 
 
 EVELYN. Mrs. Gray is hostess, but at the last 
 minute she telephoned me she couldn't be 
 here and to take her place. I am afraid I am 
 late. 
 
 Miss BAILEY. Oh, no, you aren't. People 
 100
 
 LUCK? 
 
 lever begin to come till late in the afternoon when 
 he games are nearly over. 
 
 Miss WRIGHT [with a meaning look at Eve- 
 yn~\. I don't know what could have made me 
 hink of him but has anybody heard anything 
 ibout Roger Campbell? 
 
 Miss BAILEY. He is playing his finals this 
 ifternoon, so he must have managed to break his 
 )rison bars. 
 
 DR. WILSON. I'll tell you about him. It 
 vas his car, sure enough, that had the baby, but 
 he kidnaper was his chauffeur and not the doc- 
 :or. The man was a friend of the little girl's 
 mnt, somebody's cook, and he picked up the 
 >aby and took her for a ride. He brought her 
 n all safe and sound with cracker-jack and chew- 
 ng-gum and an ice-cream cone and the alarmed 
 r amily was pacified. But Campbell was arrested 
 igain in the evening for running into an old man. 
 Fhe old fool literally walked in front of Camp- 
 >ell's car and couldn't be avoided. He wasn't 
 nuch hurt, fortunately. 
 
 Miss WRIGHT. I thought I was going to be 
 irrested this afternoon. We had the glass front 
 ip in the car so we didn't feel the wind so much 
 ind we came whooping along and nearly demol- 
 shed a fat policeman who was crossing the street. 
 rle almost had to run and you know a police- 
 nan can't any more run than a tight oil can can. 
 Fhat is, you can what you can, and so on! Imag- 
 ne the catastrophe. We missed him by an inch. 
 vVell, Roger isn't so slow. To be arrested three 
 :imes in the course of twenty-four hours is go 
 ng some. 
 
 101
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 EVELYN. You'd better look out. Peop] 
 who ride in automobiles with glass fronts oughtn 
 to throw stones. 
 
 MRS. FULSOM. I hear the doctor is having a 
 sorts of bad luck in his game this afternoon. 
 
 [Evelyn goes out.'] 
 
 DR. WILSON. He is. He has a miserab' 
 caddy and the little fool has allowed two bal 
 to hit his shins and lose two holes for Cam] 
 bell. I'd never get in the way of a golf bal 
 myself. But caddies rush in where angels fez 
 to tread. 
 
 MRS. FULSOM. Poor little fellow! I ai 
 sure I should not want a golf ball to hit my - 
 ankles. They must hurt awfully. 
 
 DR. WILSON. They do. It's a great pity 
 hadn't hit him on the head and killed him. 
 
 MRS. FULSOM [delightedly]. Oh, you blooi 
 thirsty person! 
 
 Miss WRIGHT. Well, everybody has picke 
 Roge for the winner but I know he won't b 
 He's a dandy player but he hasn't got an ope 
 and shut cinch, for there's such a thing as luc 
 and he's having awful luck lately. 
 
 [The telephone rings. Miss Wright, who 
 standing near, answers it.] 
 
 Miss WRIGHT. Hello! Yes, this is tt 
 Country Club. Dr. Campbell? No, I can't ca 
 Dr. Campbell to the telephone. No, I can 
 possibly, the Green Committee would skin me. 
 say the Green Committee would skin me, ye 
 skin me. He must not be inter-rupted, I tell yc 
 he's playing in the finals. You are his gram 
 father's man? That doesn't impress me mud 
 
 102
 
 LUCK? 
 
 I wouldn't call him if you were his grandfather's 
 grandmother. Well, then, be frank. The old 
 gentleman is in a cage? Oh, in a rage! Heard 
 that his grandson had been speculating? Seems 
 rather likely. Heard that his grandson had 
 been arrested again? Well, what of that? Ar 
 rests occur of the best regulated automobiles. 
 If I were you I'd just try to pacify the old gen 
 tleman. He's ramping around? Up and down, 
 is he? You'd better keep him shut up in one 
 room and not let any of his devoted friends call 
 on him, for he might hear still worse things 
 things that would throw him straight into a 
 fit. Devoted friends are bad enough any time 
 but they're particularly so when you're in a cage 
 I mean in a rage. Well, I can't help it if 
 he does have the gout he can't have his grand 
 son. I should think the gout would be enough. 
 If it hurts him to stamp about, why on earth 
 doesn't he sit down? If I were you I'd give the 
 old gentleman a nice soft kitten to nurse and see 
 if that won't amuse him. If he comes to the tele 
 phone and swears, I'll have him arrested! Mer 
 ciful heavens! He is going to disinherit his 
 grandson ! 
 
 [Campbell enters, from the right, in his golf 
 
 clothes. He wears a pair of white duck 
 
 trousers somewhat soiled where he has 
 
 wiped his hands after the manner of golfing 
 
 gentlemen and he has on a white silk shirt 
 
 with turnover collar and flowing tie. His 
 
 sleeves are rolled up and he limps. Miss 
 
 Wright looks at him over her shoulder.'} 
 
 Miss WRIGHT. I can't talk over personal 
 
 103
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 matters with you in a public place. [She hangs 
 up the receiver with a bang.'] 
 
 DR. WILSON. Hello, old man, how's the 
 game? 
 
 CAMPBELL. Rotten. I came in for some tea 
 
 DR. WILSON. Nothing stronger? 
 
 CAMPBELL. Not while I'm playing, thank 
 you. Henderson wanted something, so we 
 stopped for a few minutes. My, but that tea 
 smells good. I'm terribly thirsty. 
 
 [Evelyn enters with a plate of cakes in one 
 hand and a cup of tea in the other. They 
 are clearly embarrassed, standing still ana 
 confronting each other for the moment.] 
 
 MRS. FULSOM. The doctor wants some tea, 
 Evelyn. 
 
 EVELYN. Oh, won't you have this? [Sht 
 hands him the cup, which he is about to take.] 
 
 Miss WRIGHT. How awfully fortunate thai 
 you happened to have just what he wanted 1 \In 
 passing the cup from one hand to the other they 
 drop it. It smashes to the floor and the con 
 tents splash. They exclaim and in picking up 
 the pieces they bump into each other. Dr. Wil 
 son, then, also stoops to help. Roger limps tc 
 the table with the pieces.] 
 
 MRS. FULSOM. Aren't you a little lame? 
 
 CAMPBELL. Yes, I turned my ankle down in 
 the ravine where I lost a ball. I stepped on a 
 stone and hurt the ball of my foot. 
 
 DR. WILSON. Did you find the ball? 
 
 CAMPBELL [smiling]. Well, the ball is here 
 all right, as I have reason to know. 
 
 104
 
 DR. WILSON. But the ball? 
 
 CAMPBELL. No, I lost the ball. 
 
 DR. WILSON. Then you lost the hole? 
 
 CAMPBELL. Yes, I have lost two holes, no, 
 three, this afternoon by losing balls. 
 
 EVELYN. Won't you have a cake ? 
 
 CAMPBELL. Thank you, not a cake. 
 
 Miss WRIGHT. I should think you'd want 
 something sweet. 
 
 CAMPBELL [with a glance at Evelyn]. I do, 
 but it doesn't seem to agree with me. 
 
 Miss WRIGHT. If I had as much bad luck 
 as you, I'd take anything pleasant that came my 
 way. 
 
 CAMPBELL. I don't believe in luck, you know. 
 
 Miss WRIGHT. I don't blame you. I don't 
 see how you could any more. 
 
 CAMPBELL. I mean bad luck. I'm not super 
 stitious. 
 
 Miss WRIGHT. No? Well, I had a cousin 
 once who wasn't superstitious and once he was 
 walking under a ladder and a brick fell on his 
 head. It takes more than a brick to make some 
 people tumble, however. 
 
 MRS. FULSOM. I hear you're winning. 
 
 CAMPBELL. " Report greatly exaggerated," 
 as Mark Twain said when he was reported dead. 
 I'm not beaten yet. Which reminds me that 
 Henderson may be waiting. 
 
 Miss WRIGHT. Good luck to you ! 
 
 [He turns and gives her a cross look over his 
 shoulder, yet half -laughing, as he goes out.~\ 
 
 DR. WILSON. I am a little worried about him. 
 105
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 Some men might get discouraged under such cir 
 cumstances, such a streak of adversity, and i 
 would affect their game. 
 
 Miss WRIGHT. You mean bad luck, by you 
 streak of adversity? But I think he's looking 
 pretty hardy yet, don't you, Evelyn ? 
 
 EVELYN. I really didn't notice. 
 
 Miss WRIGHT. I observed you didn't look a 
 him much. 
 
 EVELYN. Quite as much as usual. It's no 
 my game to watch people in order to make re 
 marks at their expense afterwards. 
 
 Miss WRIGHT. If my aesthetic nature wouk 
 permit me to be vulgar, I should say, " Dear me 
 wouldn't that freeze you?" \With a glanct 
 and gesture at Evelyn. Mrs. Young and Mr 
 Mellicent enter from the right.'} 
 
 MRS. YOUNG. Isn't it a charming day ? Mr 
 Mellicent and I have been discussing the part 
 ing of autumn all the way over. He is going tc 
 make some beautiful allusions to it and quota 
 tions about it in his sermon Sunday. 
 
 Miss WRIGHT. He might quote from Tarn o 
 Shanter that seems appropriate as to seasor 
 and morality. 
 
 DR. WILSON. Won't you come out with me 
 Mellicent, and watch the game? I think the} 
 are coming in. 
 
 MR. MELLICENT. I should be charmed. 
 
 DR. WILSON. Would you like to see it, Misj 
 Carmichael? Or is gossip more sport thar 
 sport? 
 
 Miss CARMICHAEL. Indeed, I should love tc 
 come. You can't always watch a good game 
 
 106
 
 LUCK? 
 
 af golf, but gossip, like the poor, you have always 
 tvith you. 
 
 DR. WILSON [as they go out]. Golf first, gos- 
 >ip afterwards, like a cordial. 
 
 [Mr. Mellicent bows low to the ladies and the 
 
 three go out, Miss Wright preceding the two 
 
 men and Mellicent with lowered head in his 
 
 habitual manner of deference.] 
 
 Miss WRIGHT. I want to tell you about 
 
 Roge. It was his grandfather's man telephoning 
 
 ust now and he wants his grandson right away 
 
 I mean the old gentleman does. He's in a per- 
 : ect cage I mean a rage and he says he's 
 *oing to disinherit his grandson. He's heard 
 ibout all the arrests and the patients dying as 
 f Roge could help that, if they will die and 
 :he speculating and everything. I don't believe 
 le'd mind anything but the money. He's such a 
 itingy old codger. Oh, dear, I never saw such 
 L streak of bad luck. It's awful. Roge told 
 3r. Wilson that some stocks broke aWfully yes- 
 erday and worse this morning and he'd probably 
 lave to sell his automobile and maybe his office 
 'urniture. 
 
 MRS. YOUNG. He was perhaps merely joking 
 
 he's such a witty, amusing young man. 
 Miss WRIGHT. I never heard of a man jok- 
 
 ng at his own funeral. 
 
 MRS. FULSOM. It is so hard for a man to 
 irrange about money. He never has any jewelry 
 o sell. 
 
 Miss WRIGHT. No, I suppose overcoats and 
 lats are good to wear out, but don't bring in 
 nuch. 
 
 107
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 [Miss Carmichael comes rushing in in a grea 
 
 state of excitement.] 
 
 Miss WRIGHT. Why, Betsy, what's the mai 
 ter with you? Was there a lion in your path? 
 
 Miss CARMICHAEL [breathless']. Oh, it' 
 dreadful ! 
 
 Miss WRIGHT. You look it but what is? 
 Miss CARMICHAEL. It's horrible! 
 Miss WRIGHT. But what? 
 Miss CARMICHAEL. It is too much ! 
 Miss WRIGHT. I never knew you to be inai 
 ticulate before make signs. 
 
 Miss CARMICHAEL. Dr. Campbell was beate; 
 in his golf match. 
 
 Miss WRIGHT. Confound the luck ! 
 Miss CARMICHAEL. But that wasn't all. 
 ALL OF THEM. Well? 
 Miss CARMICHAEL. He was hit on the heai 
 by a golf ball and knocked senseless and they ar 
 bringing him in here now. 
 
 [They all exclaim and are properly affected b 
 
 the awful intelligence.'} 
 
 MRS. YOUNG. Oh, where is Mr. Mellicent 
 He will be able to do something. He is alway 
 so efficient. 
 
 [There is a noise of footsteps. The ladie 
 bustle about. Campbell is assisted in fro'n 
 the right by Dr. Wilson and Mr. Mellicent 
 who have their arms about him supporting 
 him. His ankle is really sprained and h> 
 leans on them. They are both very solic 
 itous, Mr. Mellicent actually so, Dr. Wil 
 son acting. Mr. Mellicent futile as usual. 
 
 108
 
 LUCK? 
 
 DR. WILSON. Get him a chair, please. 
 
 [The ladies skurry about, pulling the tables and 
 chairs out of the way and place an arm chair 
 in the center of the room. The men help 
 him to it and he sits down.'] 
 
 DR. WILSON. Do you feel better now, old 
 chap? 
 
 CAMPBELL. No, I think I feel worse. 
 
 MRS. FULSOM. Oh, some one get him a glass 
 of brandy! 
 
 MRS. YOUNG. Oh, has any one a camphor 
 bottle? Or eau de cologne? Or would he pre 
 fer smelling-salts? Would you prefer smelling- 
 salts, doctor? 
 
 [The women all crowd about him.} 
 
 MRS. FULSOM. Surely he ought to have some 
 brandy. 
 
 DR. WILSON. No, no, I think not. Not 
 brandy. But if you will not stand so close about 
 him. Let him have a little air. And if some 
 one would kindly bring a glass of water. [Miss 
 Wright, Miss Bailey, Mrs. Fulsom, and Miss 
 Carmichael all rush out to get some water.] 
 And perhaps some ice on his head would be a 
 good thing. [Evelyn, who has been hiding in the 
 background, hurries of for the ice.] 
 
 CAMPBELL. I'm all right. 
 
 DR. WILSON [in a loud whisper to Roger while 
 the women are out]. For heaven's sake, don't 
 be! Now's your chance. Pretend you're hard 
 hit. Make an impression. Act for all you're 
 worth ! 
 
 CAMPBELL. Well, I was hard hit. I am. 
 
 DR. WILSON. At it, then. Keep it up ! [In 
 109
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 the following scene Campbell acts as a man doei 
 who is a little delirious or drunk.] 
 
 [The other women all come in each with a glas: 
 of water and stand round holding the glasses 
 much in evidence and simultaneously offer 
 ing theirs to him. He looks at the glasses 
 in a dazed way.] 
 
 MRS. YOUNG. As you have a plethora oi 
 glasses, would it not be well to dash one in hh 
 face? I have heard it was salutary in cases oi 
 fainting. 
 
 [Evelyn has come in quietly and stands behina 
 his chair where he can not see her, holding a 
 chunk of ice on his head.] 
 
 CAMPBELL [rather cringing from Mrs 
 Young']. Please don't. [Water is trickling 
 from the ice on his head.] I feel as though il 
 had already been done, but maybe it is only water 
 on the brain. I feel as though I had something 
 on my mind, but I can't think what. [He turns up 
 his eyes as if to see what is on top of his head.] 
 
 DR. WILSON. You're all right, old fellow, 
 How do you feel? 
 
 CAMPBELL [very feebly and with a great wink 
 at Dr. Wilson while the women have turned their 
 heads away for a moment']. Extremely dotty. 
 I seem to see round things in the air all looking 
 at me. [He points out, waving his hand, at the 
 audience which he must be directly facing.] I 
 can't tell whether they are made of heads or golf 
 balls or rings I suppose it doesn't matter much 
 if there is nothing in them. 
 
 MRS. YOUNG. Dear me, he's wandering, isn't 
 he? 
 
 no
 
 LUCK? 
 
 CAMPBELL. No, my dear lady, I am sitting 
 ight here. It's the heads and golf balls and 
 ings that are wandering. I feel like a sick Cy- 
 ano de Bergerac sitting here as if I were 
 ccupying the center of the stage. Has any one 
 !one anything to my nose ? 
 
 MRS. YOUNG. Oh, he is certainly delirious! 
 )h, Mr. Mellicent, please say whether you think 
 e will be permanently affected? 
 
 CAMPBELL. Oh, lord, Mellicent, don't make 
 [ie effort on my account! I know what's the 
 latter with me I drank too much tea. Ever 
 rink too much tea, Mellicent? 
 
 MR. MELLICENT. I I I do not remem- 
 er to have 
 
 CAMPBELL. You're a lucky man not to have 
 memory, Mellicent. I wish I didn't remember 
 o much. You're a happy man, I wish I didn't 
 emember. But don't ever drink too much tea 
 gain. It makes queer things befall you, golf 
 alls and planetary influences. Just now an 
 erolite from Venus fell on my head. If it had 
 een from Mars it would have been more com- 
 ortably warm, so evidently it's from Venus 
 tie's the one who hands you out the icy heart. 
 As he says this Evelyn lets the piece of ice slip 
 ff and it slides down over his shoulder into his 
 ip and thence to the floor if fortunate enough 
 cross the stage out over the foot-lights and into 
 he audience. At the same time the telephone 
 Ings. Miss Wright answers it. There is con- 
 Vernation and confusion.] 
 
 CAMPBELL [looking after the piece of ice~\. 
 "here goes my marble heart, 
 in
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 Miss WRIGHT [at the telephone}. Yes? this 
 is the Country Club. Oh, you are Roger Camp 
 bell's grandfather. Oh, how do you do? Oh, 
 indeed, I meant no insinuations. I have heard 
 you have the gout. Yes, I knew you are all put 
 out. Well, they have just carried him in. 
 Yes, there has been a terrible accident and the 
 doctor has been fearfully injured. We are we 
 are [with deep gravity and impressiveness] just 
 keeping him alive with stimulants now. Good- 
 by. [Hangs up the receiver.] Maybe that will 
 fix him for a while! [Peter, Roger's grand 
 father's man, comes in at the right, the other side 
 of the stage.] 
 
 DR. WILSON [To Evelyn]. That ice must 
 have chilled you. [He walks to her and takes 
 her two hands, holding them and chafing them 
 tenderly.] 
 
 PETER [deferentially at the door]. I'm Dr. 
 Campbell's grandfather's man. 
 
 CAMPBELL [looking as miserable as possible], 
 Hello, Peter! I've been pretty hard hit. Take 
 me home! [Peter helps him. He pretends to 
 faint. 
 
 [CURTAIN.] 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 [Hallowe'en evening of the same day, Octo 
 ber T>ist. The scene is the same as in Act I, 
 the library in Evelyn's home. Nor ah enters 
 from the right and Evelyn from the left. Eve 
 lyn is quiet, preoccupied. She is pale, dressed 
 112
 
 LUCK? 
 
 in a soft white gown, open at the throat, and 
 is prettier than ever. They cross, Evelyn 
 walking slowly and unconsciously. The maid 
 hurries to the table, where she lights the lamp, 
 the room had been rather dark. Evelyn 
 throws herself into a chair and watches Norah 
 dreamily, with troubled eyes.~\ 
 
 NORAH. Timmie's come back, miss. 
 
 EVELYN. Timmie? 
 
 NORAH. The little black cat, miss. He's 
 just wandered in a few minutes ago. He found 
 his way back all by his little self and was that 
 tired, but so pleased to get home. I gave him a 
 saucer of milk. 
 
 EVELYN. Oh, the dear little thing! We'll 
 keep him this time, the sweet, blessed little fellow, 
 to find his way back all alone I 
 
 NORAH. I'm thinkin' the fairies must have 
 helped him, miss. [She goes to the small stand 
 and picks up the gloves Campbell left there. 
 She puts them down, watching Evelyn furtively. 
 Then she picks them up again and is about to 
 walk away with them, when Evelyn turns upon 
 her quickly."} 
 
 EVELYN [a little sharply]. How many times 
 have I told you not to move those gloves, No 
 rah? 
 
 NORAH. I've dusted round thim, miss, for 
 two days, according to your explicit directions, 
 miss, an' now he'll niver come no more at all, at 
 all, to claim thim! 
 
 EVELYN. Norah, what right have you to say 
 that? What do you mean?
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 NORAH. I mane the accident, miss. [Wipes 
 her eyes with the corner of her apron.'] 
 
 EVELYN. Nonsense, it wasn't much of an ac 
 cident. He was only hit by a golf ball and 
 stunned a little. They thought it was worse than 
 it was. It didn't prove to be anything serious. 
 
 NORAH. I wasn't referrin' to that, miss, but 
 to the other accident. Me friend, Mr. O'Hooli- 
 han, the policeman, jist told me 
 
 EVELYN. What was it? Tell me. 
 
 NORAH [looking away and with her handker 
 chief to her eyes.~\ I'd rather not be the one to 
 tell you, miss. 
 
 EVELYN. Norah, tell me at once. 
 
 NORAH. Well, thin, miss, me friend, Mr. 
 O'Hoolihan he's an officer, you know, miss 
 he 
 
 EVELYN. Yes, go on. [Excitedly.] 
 
 NORAH. Mr. O'Hoolihan said he told 
 me 
 
 EVELYN. Norah, out with it ! 
 
 NORAH. Mr. O'Hoolihan said that Dr. 
 Campbell's automobile was run into by an electric 
 car and all smashed up. 
 
 EVELYN [startled]. Were there people in it? 
 
 NORAH. Oh, yes, miss, the car was full of 
 people. 
 
 EVELYN. I don't mean the car, but the auto 
 mobile. [She gets up and takes a step toward 
 the maid.] 
 
 NORAH. Him, himself, miss, and was all de- 
 sthroyed, miss, like a potato under a potato 
 masher. 
 
 EVELYN. Not not ? 
 114
 
 LUCK? 
 
 NORAH. Yes, miss, jist that, miss. Kilt en- 
 toirely. 
 
 [Evelyn takes a quick sharp breath like a 
 moan. She grasps the back of the tall chair 
 for support and leans against it. Norah has 
 thrown her apron over her head as she fin 
 ishes speaking and weeps aloud under it with 
 great sobs that are said to relieve an aching 
 heart. Evelyn finally speaks brokenly."] 
 EVELYN. I can't bear this. I am going to 
 him, straight to him. [After a moment.'] 
 Norah, you are not to tell any one about the 
 accident or where I have gone. You are not 
 to speak of it to any one, Norah. [She goes out 
 at the right door and is gone a moment. Norah 
 stands with lowered apron and woe-begone face. 
 Evelyn enters again, throwing over her shoulders 
 a long and very becoming soft white wool 
 wrap.~\ 
 
 EVELYN. Be sure not to tell a soul, Norah. 
 I am going to him. 
 
 NORAH. No, miss, I'll not tell a living soul. 
 [Evelyn hurries out at right again. After she 
 has gone, the maid wipes her eyes, looks for 
 the gloves, takes them up, breaks forth into 
 fresh wailing, lays them down and goes out 
 at left, shaking her head, moaning and say 
 ing, " Oh, the poor young man" etc., in a 
 sort of croon. The doorbell is heard at 
 once. Norah comes in from the left, is 
 hurrying across the room when she sees 
 just in front of her Campbell, who is en 
 tering from the right. She utters a shriek 
 and backs precipitately and frantically.'}
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 CAMPBELL. How do you do, Norah ? Won't 
 you let me come in? 
 
 NORAH [from under her apron, which she has 
 flung over her head~\. Is it yerself, sir? 
 
 CAMPBELL. I hope it is. 
 
 NORAH [in a half -stifled voice]. Oh, are ye 
 sure, sir? 
 
 CAMPBELL. Why, yes, practically sure. 
 
 NORAH. But sure ye are a ghost able to come 
 in with the door shut? 
 
 CAMPBELL. The door was standing open, so 
 I walked in after ringing the bell. Is Miss Eve 
 lyn in ? 
 
 NORAH [lowering her apron a little at a time, 
 cautiously, watching him~\. No, sir, she ain't in, 
 she wint to \With an illuminating smile. ~\ 
 But she told me not to tell yez where she wint till 
 she came home. 
 
 CAMPBELL. Oh, she expected me, then? 
 
 NORAH. She'll be that glad to see ye, sir, 
 when she gets back. I don't think she'll be gone 
 long. [Grinning very delightedly and slyly.] 
 Will ye please make yerself at home, sir. [She 
 goes out at left. Campbell puts down his hat 
 on a chair and walks about taking off his gloves, 
 which he deposits on the rim of his hat. He 
 walks around the room, looking at things, and 
 reads to himself with exaggerated interest the 
 titles of the books. Goes to the table, finally sits 
 down in a chair with his back to the right en 
 trance, crosses his legs with an attempt at elab 
 orate ease and commences to read. He is able 
 to keep still only for a few moments, flings the 
 book away from him and gets up and walks about 
 
 116
 
 LUCK? 
 
 again. He goes to the low bookcase and picks 
 up the pot-pourri jar, examining the contents, 
 puts it down again. He walks over to the left 
 front of the room and is intently examining some 
 thing with his back to her when Evelyn enters 
 from the right back diagonally across the room 
 from him. He whirls around and they stand still 
 facing each other. She is white and intense, he 
 flushed and excited.'} 
 
 EVELYN. You! 
 
 CAMPBELL [smiling with a sort of half embar 
 rassed attempt to be at easel. I I came for 
 my gloves. 
 
 EVELYN. They would have been sent to you. 
 
 CAMPBELL. But they are still here exactly 
 where I left them. [He picks up the gloves and 
 looks at her with a question."} 
 
 EVELYN. When you found them, why didn't 
 you go? 
 
 CAMPBELL. I was invited to stay. Norah 
 said you wanted to see me. 
 
 EVELYN. Norah seems to have the truly Irish 
 gift of foresight. 
 
 CAMPBELL. We felt alike about it. I sup 
 pose it was the consanguinity of the Celtic tem 
 perament. I am beginning to believe that I am 
 neglecting that part of my inheritance pre 
 monitions, foresight, omens, and other Scottish 
 soul perquisites. 
 
 EVELYN. Have you come back to cultivate 
 them here? 
 
 CAMPBELL. You put it in a more beautifully 
 figurative way than I could have done. 
 
 EVELYN. Superstitions, symbols, and all such 
 117
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 follies. Are you going to study them scientifically 
 or for their poetic value? 
 
 CAMPBELL. Miss Vaughn, I wish you could 
 realize that I am terribly embarrassed. [He 
 thrusts one hand deep into his coat pocket.] 
 
 EVELYN. You! Really? 
 
 CAMPBELL. Yes, it's unusual, I know. But I 
 have to do a very for me unusual thing. I 
 wish you would help me. [Beseechingly, half 
 whimsically.'] 
 
 EVELYN. What do you want me to do ? 
 
 CAMPBELL. What do I want you to do? Oh, 
 lord, I should think you would know! But I've 
 got to get through my part first Evelyn, I've 
 got to acknowledge myself wholly in the wrong 
 and to apologize to you from the bottom of my 
 heart. Can you forgive me ? 
 
 EVELYN. Oh, I was frightened to death by 
 your accident just now ! 
 
 CAMPBELL. My accident? Did I have an 
 other ? 
 
 EVELYN. Oh, they told me you were killed! 
 
 CAMPBELL. So that's where you've been and 
 why you went? 
 
 EVELYN. They said you were killed and I 
 found you were not even scratched and I hated 
 you for the horrible fright you gave me. Oh, I 
 hated you. If you only knew how you made me 
 suffer! They said your automobile was run into 
 and you were killed. 
 
 CAMPBELL. I wasn't and it wasn't. It must 
 have been some other fellow. I've had so many 
 accidents that they've got into the habit of at 
 tributing them all to me. No, I haven't been 
 
 118
 
 LUCK? 
 
 even scratched, not since the golf-ball. Except by 
 my conscience. I was on the way to my Swastika 
 you are my Swastika that is why I was SO 
 miraculously preserved this time. 
 
 EVELYN. You're laughing. 
 
 CAMPBELL. For heaven's sake, let me! I 
 haven't for two whole days and four hours, fifty- 
 two hours. It wasn't the things going wrong 
 I rather enjoyed that, for they acted as a coun 
 ter irritant. And when I had lost the one thing 
 that was worth while the rest wasn't even a baga 
 telle. " From him that hath not shall be taken 
 even that which he hath " and he won't mind. 
 Also, what bothereth a man if he lose the whole 
 world, having lost his own girl? 
 
 EVELYN. Oh, how can you be so flippant 
 when the thing is so serious ? 
 
 CAMPBELL. Maybe to hide my seriousness. 
 It is a question of life and death to me. [Becom 
 ing earnest and coming close to her.'} I have 
 been a beast. I have had my cudgeling and I 
 deserved it. I want to know if you will forgive 
 me? 
 
 EVELYN. It isn't a question of forgiveness! 
 Forgiveness is for strangers it is a futile word 
 to use between people who have been as close to 
 each other as we have been. The thing is 
 deeper. It is a question of understanding. And 
 of respect. 
 
 CAMPBELL. I have gained some understand 
 ing both of you and of myself. I want to tell 
 you that I respect you utterly and that I know 
 now where all my happiness lies it lies only in 
 making you happy. I was a prig not to want 
 
 119
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 to wear the ring and I was a beast to refuse it. 
 I will wear it or anything else you wish. It is 
 for you to decide what you will do with me. 
 
 EVELYN. Oh, I was thoughtless and young 
 and foolish to want you to wear it. But it hurt 
 me so to have you think I was superstitious. Do 
 you now? I must know. 
 
 CAMPBELL. No, but you like to play with it. 
 I suppose it is the poetry of it that attracts you. 
 It does me, too, for that matter. Evelyn, will 
 you get the thing and put it on my finger? 
 
 EVELYN. But I must be sure. [She takes a 
 step towards him. He holds out his arms.] 
 No, not yet. We must be sure. Do you under 
 stand me? 
 
 CAMPBELL. I think I do, but no one can be 
 sure of that. The thing I am sure of and it 
 is the only thing that matters is that I love you 
 enough to love all the queer little things you do 
 just because they are you. I appreciate you now, 
 I don't criticize there's a difference. Please 
 get the fool thing and put it on. Good lord, I 
 want it so. 
 
 [Evelyn goes to the pot-pourri jar and extracts 
 the ring therefrom. Campbell follows her, 
 not too near.~\ 
 
 CAMPBELL. In that? I picked that up a few 
 minutes ago and was tempted to open it. 
 
 EVELYN. Yet even now you are not retreat 
 ing from your position in the least. [Smiling.] 
 
 CAMPBELL. Of course I wasn't drawn to the 
 jar in any occult way. It was the rose leaves I 
 wanted to smell. [He grins and holds up his 
 finger.] 
 
 1 20
 
 LUCK? 
 
 EVELYN. I meant if you didn't come at last, 
 to drop it into the river. 
 
 CAMPBELL. But you can't drown bad luck. 
 It has more lives than a cat. 
 
 EVELYN. But this is good luck. I didn't 
 want it without you. I give it to you and then 
 you are to put it on my finger, and I will wear it 
 as your proxy. 
 
 CAMPBELL. No, you know I am not en 
 tirely reconciled to the little outlandish thing yet. 
 Some people used to wear hair shirts next their 
 tender bodies. With a person of my disposition 
 it is more salutary to wear one's humiliation on 
 the exterior for everybody to see. 
 
 [He holds out his finger. They are both nerv 
 ous and trembling. She fumbles a little and 
 finally wedges the ring down to its place. 
 He catches her two hands in his.'] 
 
 CAMPBELL. It was you that did it, dearest. 
 You taught me sense, you made me come to you. 
 You were in my dreams, in my thoughts. You 
 were with me all the time. You were in every 
 thing. The sincerity, the sweetness of you. 
 
 EVELYN. Thought transference? [Smiling.] 
 Don't grow superstitious, dear. 
 
 CAMPBELL [smiling, too']. I don't know. 
 But what does it matter? What does anything 
 matter? So that we have this wonderful elemen 
 tal thing this love ! It is the good luck that 
 makes everything else come right. 
 
 [He takes her in his arms. Just then Norah 
 comes in at the door left, unconscious of the 
 tableau and her intrusion, with the black kit 
 ten in her arms. She smiles and pretends to 
 
 121
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 look abashed, holds up the little black cat 
 towards them as if in benediction and then 
 silently and coyly retreats on tiptoe.~\ 
 
 [CURTAIN.] 
 
 122
 
 ENTR' ACTE. 
 
 TIME: The present. 
 
 PLACE: A handsomely -furnished room in a mod 
 ern mansion. 
 PERSONS: ROMEO, JULIET, and CARMEN. 
 
 [The scene is a dress rehearsal of a play 
 some society people are producing for a char 
 ity. It has been written by one of them and 
 is to be given under her direction. All the 
 characters are noted personages of the Drama, 
 among them Romeo, Juliet, and Carmen. 
 Romeo and Juliet are lovers in the play. The 
 two people who are to take the parts are in 
 truth in love with each other, but their engage 
 ment has been broken through a misunder 
 standing due to jealousy. They are both 
 proud. Romeo believes Juliet hates him, while 
 Juliet thinks that he is in love with the girl 
 who is to take the part of Carmen. Their af 
 fair has not been known to the others, hence 
 the awkward situation which they have neither 
 of them been able to evade, of their being 
 cast for lovers. The play is to be given the 
 next evening in this private house and the 
 dress rehearsal is now going forward in the 
 drawing-room. The curtain rises disclosing an 
 unoccupied room some distance from the 
 drawing-room. It is well and tastefully fur- 
 123
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 nished and must have a long old-fashioned gilt 
 mirror and a couch. There must be a large 
 center space clear for dancing. Romeo en 
 ters, followed by Juliet. Romeo is a graceful 
 fellow with a pleasant voice, and is good-look 
 ing, dressed in a beautiful costume of light 
 blue velvet and satin with silver trimmings. 
 Juliet is in white with gold in the trimmings 
 of fillet and girdle, and the slightest touch of 
 rose. She wears a pink rose, and she has blue 
 eyes, is fair, impetuous, with a glowing love 
 liness. They are both absorbed in their manu 
 scripts, learning their parts at the last minute 
 after the manner of amateur actors. They 
 both carry a large roll of manuscript in their 
 hands.] 
 
 ROMEO. This is the room I meant. It seems 
 to be empty. I guess we can go through our 
 parts here. It's far enough from the rabble for 
 us to be able to hear each other speak. 
 
 JULIET. I never heard such a howling mob. 
 
 ROMEO. That's what a dress rehearsal is 
 it's anarchy. [ They both speak in a sort of con 
 strained politeness and consult their manuscripts.] 
 Um um where shall we begin ? 
 
 JULIET [fumbling with her manuscript]. I 
 suppose you can't put any restraint upon people 
 who give their services. 
 
 ROMEO. No, you can't put a bit in a gift 
 horse's mouth. 
 
 JULIET. When people give their services, 
 they think that's all that can be asked of them. 
 There's no further responsibility. 
 
 124
 
 ENTR' ACTE 
 
 ROMEO. No, it's the feel of the cool silver 
 dollar that produces a sense of responsibility. 
 It's money makes the manager's automobile go. 
 I'm sorry for the poor girl who is trying to man 
 age this play. Some one told me she wrote it, 
 too did she? 
 
 JULIET. Oh, yes, she wrote it. That's why 
 she is silly enough to think she knows more about 
 it than we do. 
 
 ROMEO. That's just like an author. They 
 always think they know more about their plays 
 than the actors do. Why, an actor can always 
 find a meaning the author never knew was there. 
 
 JULIET [turning the pages of her manuscript 
 again'}. Where shall we begin? [She goes over 
 to the couch and sits down.~\ 
 
 ROMEO. Before we begin, would you mind 
 telling me what charity we are giving the play 
 for? So many people have asked me. 
 
 JULIET. Do you mean to say you don't know? 
 [Romeo shakes his head and they both laugh .] 
 
 ROMEO. Of course I'm charitably inclined. 
 Any old charity works me if I can get any fun 
 out of it. 
 
 JULIET. It is for the benefit of " The Society 
 for the Erection of Portable Patent Swings for 
 the Children of Scrub Women." They were 
 - dreadfully afraid the League would get ahead of 
 them with their operetta, but they have beaten the 
 League out by a week. 
 
 ROMEO. What league? 
 
 JULIET. Oh, " The League for the Distribu 
 tion of Free Sand Piles for the Orphans of Street 
 
 125
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 Car Motormen." The two charities are ready to 
 cut each other's throats, you know. 
 
 ROMEO. No, I didn't know. But it's me for 
 the scrub women. The motormen's offspring 
 ought to inherit enough sand. 
 
 JULIET. With your usual predilection you 
 choose the sex. [Smiling sarcastically and getting 
 up.] We must get to work. 
 
 ROMEO. Of course, right you are. Now I'm 
 on. Shall we do the balcony scene? 
 
 JULIET [fumbling with her manuscript']. But 
 we're not alone in that scene. 
 
 ROMEO. We ought to be, by rights. 
 
 JULIET [scntentiously~\. I'm very glad we're 
 not. Oh, here it is where Cyrano de Bergerac 
 comes under my balcony and tries to make me 
 think he's Romeo that is, you [rather as if 
 talking to herself~\ when you are really with 
 me upstairs all the time. And I take him for one 
 of the pirates in " Peter Pan." 
 
 ROMEO. Jove, hasn't she a menagerie? She 
 has done up the whole English drama into a 
 burlesque. That's like modern nerve, 'specially 
 of the American variety. Imagine Faust and 
 Mrs. Wiggs of the Cabbage Patch in the same 
 breath. They talk at once, you know. 
 
 JULIET [without smiling and still at her manu 
 script]. Of course, they're both philosophers. 
 
 ROMEO. And of the two, I think Mrs. Wiggs 
 the less objectionable. 
 
 JULIET. Your predilection for the feminine 
 again. Oh, yes, let's begin where I tell you not 
 to eat any green apples as you go home through 
 my orchard. Oh, and by the way [in a 'very off- 
 
 126
 
 ENTR' ACTE 
 
 hand manner], in the balcony scene or anywhere 
 else you are not to kiss me. They all say you 
 are going to. 
 
 ROMEO. The play calls for it. 
 
 JULIET [sarcastically and not looking at him~\. 
 My copy doesn't. 
 
 ROMEO. Perhaps they left it out in order to 
 give you a pleasant surprise. 
 
 JULIET. You might refer to other copies. 
 
 ROMEO [bridling]. Do you mean to insinuate 
 that I inserted that stage direction in my copy? 
 
 JULIET. I don't insinuate anything but I give 
 you fair warning that if you try it, I shall slap you. 
 [Speaks slowly and firmly but lightly.'] 
 
 ROMEO [haughtily and looking very angry~\. 
 You evidently think that I am extremely anxious 
 to kiss you. 
 
 JULIET. Oh, not me, particularly. But I 
 shall be looking very nice and I know you. I 
 warn you. 
 
 ROMEO. You don't know me so well maybe as 
 you think you do. 
 
 JULIET. Oh, yes, I do. Every girl knows 
 the man who has who has 
 
 ROMEO. Been in love with her. 
 
 JULIET. Thank you. Yes, been in love with 
 her. But she is foolish to tell him so. 
 
 ROMEO. It doesn't make much difference 
 whether she tells him or not, he feels it any 
 how, like a sort of uncomfortable subconscious 
 fact in the pit of his stomach. 
 
 JULIET. You always were figurative. 
 
 ROMEO. Thank you. [Looks down at his 
 figure and then strikes an attitude in front of the 
 
 127
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 long glass and regards his reflection. Juliet also 
 surveys him up and down.] I have had one or 
 two compliments upon it but I scarcely expected 
 one from you now. 
 
 JULIET [f a sort of embarrassed coolness']. 
 Oh, I'd like you to know that I think it is aw 
 fully hard on you to have to make love now to a 
 girl you hate, but you needn't think it's very much 
 pleasanter for me. 
 
 ROMEO. I don't. 
 
 JULIET. And I want you to understand dis 
 tinctly that I had nothing whatever to do with 
 casting the characters of this ridiculous play. 
 
 ROMEO. It would never have occurred to me 
 to credit you with so much craft. 
 
 JULIET. Oh, you think I'm not smart enough 
 to cook up something that would make you un 
 comfortable ? 
 
 ROMEO [gesturing with his hand to his stom 
 ach]. I have already alluded to a man's sub 
 conscious sensation. I ate what you once cooked 
 up for me. 
 
 JULIET. It isn't exactly delightful to be 
 thought stupid. 
 
 ROMEO. I never thought you stupid. But 
 you have always attributed to me whatever 
 thoughts you thought I ought to think, and never 
 believed me when I swore I could think other 
 thoughts. Keep right on doing it. It doesn't 
 make matters any worse. 
 
 JULIET. I do so hate a stubborn man. 
 
 ROMEO. Don't put yourself to the embarrass 
 ment of expressing your feeling toward me. 
 [He goes over to a chair and sits down.] Since 
 
 128
 
 ENTR' ACTE 
 
 you broke our engagement {looking at his manu 
 script] I haven't deluded myself. 
 
 JULIET. Whether you believe it or not, I did 
 not have anything to do with casting this play. 
 Or rather, I tried very hard to have it cast dif 
 ferently. I wanted them to let Carmen take the 
 part of Juliet. I know how agreeable it would 
 be for you to play with her. 
 
 ROMEO [curtly]. So good of you. 
 
 JULIET. But there was the song and [with a 
 little malice] she can't sing. 
 
 ROMEO. Perhaps not, but I understand she 
 can dance. It's rather fashionable nowadays. 
 Has almost superseded singing, hasn't it? 
 
 JULIET. With you, doubtless. You always 
 were so up-to-date. 
 
 ROMEO. Always were. [Getting up.] By 
 Jove, you keep referring to the past like the haunt 
 ing ghost of a man's first wife. 
 
 JULIET. I hope Carmen's dancing will give 
 you enough joy to enable you to bear my sing 
 ing. I'm sorry you can't have her in my part. 
 
 ROMEO. Thank you, I can get along without 
 your pity. Why don't you keep a little of it for 
 yourself? It seems to me that you have to pre 
 tend to a little fondness for me, too. 
 
 JULIET. Oh, only in a song and a song is so 
 impersonal. Anyway, I'll sing it to the audience. 
 
 ROMEO. In the legitimate way with your 
 left eye on the leader of the orchestra and your 
 right eye on the gallery, with the fingers of 
 your left hand tearing up my wig and your right 
 hand gesticulating to whomsoever may be look 
 ing. 
 
 129
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 JULIET. You needn't be afraid that I'll touch 
 your wig. It's too bad this play couldn't have 
 been given a month ago when we were in love 
 with each other, isn't it? Don't you think we 
 might as well go on with our parts now? 
 
 [They both refer to their manuscripts again.] 
 
 ROMEO. It's the balcony scene I need most to 
 go over. Here, sit on this chair [he hands one 
 out to the center of the room and she sits down 
 in it] and I'll sit on the arm. [He sits down on 
 the arm of the chair and puts his arm round her. 
 She immediately starts up and away from him.] 
 
 JULIET. It's not necessary for you to do that. 
 
 ROMEO. But I have to in the play. 
 
 JULIET. You do it quite naturally enough 
 without any rehearsing. 
 
 ROMEO. Oh, if you are going to be so par 
 ticular, there's no use in rehearsing at all. 
 
 [Carmen enters unobserved from the same 
 door at the side through which Romeo and 
 Juliet came. She is rather small, is dark, 
 gay and piquant. She is dressed in brilliant 
 red and carries a tambourine.] 
 
 CARMEN [aside]. Oh, look who's here! 
 Hello, Romeo and Juliet, billing and cooing as 
 usual? [Romeo jumps to his feet and Juliet and 
 he both look embarrassed and very much an 
 noyed.] Please don't let me interrupt you. 
 
 ROMEO. We just came in here to rehearse. 
 
 CARMEN. Of course. It's quite natural, I'm 
 sure, that you should like to do it alone. That's 
 one advantage of having rehearsals in a private 
 house the lobby rooms. Because, you know, 
 many come to rehearse who remain to play. 
 
 130
 
 ENTR' ACTE 
 
 ROMEO. But why on earth should they want 
 to give a play as big as this one in a private house? 
 It ought to be in a hall. A big play for a well- 
 known charity the the {looks appealingly 
 at Juliet]. 
 
 JULIET [prompting him]. " Society for the 
 Erection of Portable Patent Swings for the Chil 
 dren of Scrub Women." 
 
 ROMEO. Yes, just what I was going to say. 
 
 CARMEN. I don't entirely wonder that you 
 hesitated to say it. Why, my dear boy, by do 
 ing this the elite of the blanc mange hope to en 
 tice the hoy-paloy to come and thereby to rake 
 in the dirty dollars of the hoy-paloy by the in 
 ducement of the opportunity of entering a house 
 they would never have the opportunity of seeing 
 otherwise. It's the diplomacy of philanthropy. 
 But, dear me, go right on with your rehearsal, 
 don't let me interrupt you. I just came in here 
 to see if I could find my slippers. 
 
 ROMEO [stepping forward, glad of an excuse]. 
 Can I be of any assistance to you? 
 
 CARMEN. Oh, will you? You are so kind. 
 You see it is very awkward. I can't remember 
 where I left my slippers, the ones I am to dance 
 in. It's awfully awkward. 
 
 JULIET. I should think you might be. 
 Everything depends on the slippers, doubtless. 
 
 CARMEN [sweetly]. Not everything, dear. 
 There are a few other things myself, for in 
 stance. 
 
 ROMEO [gallantly]. Which means your grace 
 fulness. 
 
 CARMEN. Oh, thank you. [Courtesies to
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 him.] What a courtier you are, Signor Romeo! 
 
 ROMEO. Oh, nothing to mention. 
 
 CARMEN. But if you are used to slippers, they 
 are almost necessary. 
 
 ROMEO. I should think so. 
 
 JULIET. Quite like morals. 
 
 CARMEN. Yes, slippers and morals are con 
 nected, aren't they? 
 
 JULIET. In early youth. 
 
 CARMEN [sweetly']. Yes! 
 
 JULIET. Spanking that obsolete thing 
 the application of morals by the slipper. 
 
 CARMEN. Oh, I was referring to their mutual 
 absence from the modern dancing. Do you 
 know, I hate vulgar allusions. 
 
 JULIET. So do I. Why do you make them, 
 then? 
 
 ROMEO [breaking in]. I think I might as well 
 go hunt your slippers. 
 
 CARMEN. Oh, you are so thoughtful] 
 
 ROMEO [smiling somewhat grimly]. I don't 
 know that I'd call it that. 
 
 CARMEN. Oh, yes, you are. Look for them 
 down at the front door and bring them back to 
 me here. I'll wait for you. 
 
 JULIET [haughtily'}. I'll not wait for you. 
 If you think we need to go through our parts, 
 you may look for me in the drawing-room with 
 the others. 
 
 ROMEO [to Carmen]. I'll be back in a jiffy. 
 [To Juliet.] I think we both need it awfully. 
 [Exit.] 
 
 CARMEN. Isn't he a dear ! 
 132
 
 ENTR' ACTE 
 
 JULIET. Romeos are a necessary evil. 
 
 CARMEN. How awfully cynical. 
 
 JULIET. That's what people always say when 
 you tell the truth. Romeo is like maple syrup 
 a little of him goes a long way. 
 
 CARMEN. Maple syrup is more comfortable 
 to have round than gun-powder, which doesn't go 
 a long way, but manages to send other things 
 whooping. I am referring to Don Jose. [Sits 
 down on the arm of a chair.'} Well, I suppose 
 we've all got to have lovers and you can take your 
 choice between the two varieties: the kind that 
 gets himself into trouble and the kind that gets 
 you in. I prefer the kind that gets himself in. 
 
 JULIET. My dear, how experienced you arel 
 
 CARMEN. I reckon we all are, only some of 
 us are more candid about it than others. Any 
 how, I was just referring to our stage characters 
 weren't you ? Well, the author of this play 
 quite took the worthy English drama into her 
 own hands and mixed it all up till it fairly re 
 sembles real life. It isn't my fault that she didn't 
 give me my rightful lover, the Toreador, to fall 
 in love with, but substituted Romeo in his place. 
 So, I have to flirt with Romeo. It's really an 
 awfully sensible arrangement, for in the end when 
 Don Jose kills me, Romeo has you to fall 
 back on. 
 
 JULIET [ironically']. Only, of course, it will 
 be hard on him to have to put up with me after 
 you. 
 
 CARMEN. Oh, I shall not make myself so 
 fascinating to him as I could. [Juliet turns to 
 
 133
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 go.} You don't mind my flirting with him, do 
 you, dear? 
 
 JULIET [turning around abruptly]. Why, cer 
 tainly not. What possible difference could it 
 make to me? 
 
 CARMEN. You don't know how it relieves me 
 to find you so indifferent after after what 
 seemed so obvious. 
 
 JULIET [confronting Carmen icily']. What 
 seemed so obvious? 
 
 CARMEN. Oh, nothing to speak of only 
 that you were desperately in love with Romeo. 
 [She goes to the couch and sits down.'} 
 
 JULIET. I with him 1 
 
 CARMEN. I'm glad it seems so preposterous 
 to you. Then I shall not feel so conscience- 
 stricken when he when he 
 
 JULIET. When he makes love to you? Oh, 
 dear no ! You quite misunderstand. What pos 
 sible difference could it make to me? Get all the 
 pleasure you can out of it. [Turns to go.} I 
 believe he does it very nicely. And it may not 
 last. 
 
 CARMEN. Are you talking about the real 
 thing or the stage? 
 
 JULIET [indifferently}. Either both, if you 
 like. [Looking back over her shoulder as she 
 walks out of the room}. I think I hear my 
 nurse, the Merry Widow, calling me. [She goes 
 out at one side just as Romeo enters from the 
 other side. But they have not seen each other.} 
 
 ROMEO. Ah, there you are still. I thought 
 perhaps you'd not wait. 
 
 CARMEN [throwing herself on the couch in a 
 134
 
 ENTR' ACTE 
 
 negligent, enticing attitude']. For you I'd 
 wait ever so long. 
 
 ROMEO [becoming a little more interested and 
 approaching her]. Would you? How long? 
 
 CARMEN. Oh, for you I'd wait for ages 
 for ever. 
 
 ROMEO. I shouldn't ask you. I never want 
 any one to wait for me. With me it's touch 
 and go. 
 
 CARMEN [holding out her hand]. Touch 
 and go then. Good-by. 
 
 ROMEO. Jove, you're in a hurry. You want 
 to get rid of me? This doesn't seem to be my 
 busy day. Nobody wants me round. 
 
 CARMEN. Romeo, you certainly are a de 
 spondent and hot-headed youth. Do you think 
 I want to get rid of you? 
 
 ROMEO. How on earth should I know? A 
 man never knows what a woman wants except 
 when she doesn't want it. 
 
 CARMEN. There's more truth in that than 
 grammar. It sounds learned from experience. 
 
 ROMEO. It is. 
 
 CARMEN. Do you think if you leave me and 
 go to her, you'll get such a warm reception from 
 your Juliet? 
 
 ROMEO [surprised]. What do you know 
 about it? 
 
 CARMEN. That's what I thought. Why do 
 you go, then? 
 
 ROMEO \_smilin g~\. Well, there's the re 
 hearsal. 
 
 CARMEN. Oh, nobody's paying any attention 
 to that. They're just getting what fun they can 
 
 135
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 out of it. Won't you stay here and play hunt the 
 slipper with me? 
 
 ROMEO [coming up to where she sits]. Oh, 
 I forgot to tell you that I couldn't find your slip 
 pers. 
 
 CARMEN [making room for him to sit down]. 
 Couldn't you? [He sits down.] That's not 
 surprising. What a nice little dagger. [Playing 
 with his dagger.~\ They weren't there. 
 
 ROMEO. What? I beg your pardon? 
 
 CARMEN. The slippers. I say they weren't 
 there. I knew they weren't. I hadn't lost them 
 at all. 
 
 [Romeo leans back in his corner of the couch 
 and regards her as she leans back in her 
 corner, and so they gaze at each other for a 
 few moments.] 
 
 ROMEO. Well, by Jove I 
 
 CARMEN. He's a great friend of yours 
 Jove isn't he? You refer to him so often. 
 [Calmly.~\ No, I hadn't lost my slippers at all. 
 I just wanted to see if you'd leave Juliet to do 
 something for me. 
 
 ROMEO [laughing delightedly]. You are a 
 cool little specimen! 
 
 CARMEN. I wanted to see if you like me a lit 
 tle. Do you? 
 
 ROMEO [coming closer to her]. What would 
 you do if I told you a very great deal? 
 
 CARMEN. Dance with joy. I can dance well 
 enough in these slippers, you know. 
 
 ROMEO. Won't you? Forme? 
 
 CARMEN. Why, yes, I might as well. I have 
 136
 
 ENTR' ACTE 
 
 to rehearse it anyway. [She gets up and begins 
 to make ready for the dance. Music is heard. 
 The music used for this dance is Espanita. She 
 holds up her head, listening.'] Why, there's the 
 music for my dance they're playing it. [She 
 turns to look at him. He looks gloomy.~\ Oh, 
 my Romeo, methinks thou art too heavy. 
 
 ROMEO. I'm not heavy at all. I can dance, 
 too. 
 
 CARMEN. I meant thy heart. I bid thee take 
 love lightly. [She begins dancing. ~\ 
 
 ROMEO. " As the leaves hang on the tree " ? 
 CARMEN [going on with her dancing~\. Wilt 
 thou still be " young and foolish " ? 
 
 [She continues to dance, using a scarf in twist' 
 ing folds over her head and about her body. 
 Dances for him, looking at him all the while. 
 He sits watching her, becoming more and 
 more attracted. Watches her very intently. 
 He sits over toward her on the sofa. She 
 keeps on dancing. He hesitates, moves to 
 the very edge of the couch and gives up to a 
 rapt attention of her beautiful dancing. ~\ 
 CARMEN. Or wilt thou come to me ? 
 [Low and very slowly.] 
 
 [Romeo finally gets up and glides to her, join 
 ing his hands to hers, which she has 
 stretched out to him, she leads him into the 
 dance. She has been dancing alone for some 
 minutes, they now dance together, and when 
 they stop his right arm is behind her, his 
 right hand holding hers and her head thrown 
 back against his arm, her face looking up into 
 
 137
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 his, their left hands in front of them also 
 clasped. Just at that moment they stop. 
 Juliet's voice is heard singing.] 
 
 JULIET'S SONG. 
 
 Take not, dear love, away 
 
 Thy lips so dear to me ! 
 
 Dear is the night, oh, dark and wondrous 
 
 dear with thee, 
 And far away the day! 
 
 Go not, my love, I pray! 
 
 In yon pomegranate tree 
 
 The song, you hear, sweetheart, the song 
 
 can only be 
 The nightingale's love-lay ! 
 
 No jealous, blushing day 
 Nor lark's song chiding me 
 For keeping thee, my only love, for hold 
 ing thee, 
 Commands thee come away. 
 
 Oh, love, no longer stay, 
 
 Even I must bid thee flee, 
 
 Hark, hark, it is the lark, and in the east 
 
 I see 
 The morning's roses gray ! 
 
 Oh, love, begone, begone, 
 It is the envious dawn, 
 Haste, dear, away! 
 138
 
 ENTR' ACTE 
 
 \When he first hears her singing, Romeo raises 
 his head, turns it as if drawn in the direc 
 tion of the singing, till his face is entirely 
 away from Carmen, who watches him in 
 tently. He gradually releases her and his 
 arms drop to his side. Juliet sings her song 
 through and as she does so Romeo gradually 
 turns completely from Carmen and finally 
 stands with his back to her and facing to 
 ward the singing voice. He raises his head 
 and stands with parted lips, listening. A 
 smile comes over his face and he seems to 
 have completely forgotten Carmen. The 
 music approaches. Romeo takes a step for 
 ward, Carmen nods as if in understanding, 
 smiles, throws him a kiss and runs silently 
 out of the room in the opposite direction 
 from the singing. Romeo does not notice 
 her. The song ceases and Juliet enters. 
 Romeo takes a step forward impulsively to 
 meet her, but she haughtily raises her head 
 and gives him a cold, questioning look.] 
 ROMEO. You'll not resent my admiration of 
 your song? 
 
 JULIET. And not the singing? 
 ROMEO. I meant the singing. 
 JULIET. They're all asking for you at the re 
 hearsal. The men say you're soldiering, you're 
 not helping to dress the scenes and ought to take 
 your share of the heavy work of carrying chairs 
 and things, and the women say you're off some 
 where flirting. 
 
 ROMEO [looks around and sees that Carmen 
 has gone~\. You see I am alone. [He smiles.] 
 
 139
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 JULIET. Yes, I don't see whoever has just 
 gone. 
 
 ROMEO. Perhaps you don't see why she went, 
 either. 
 
 JULIET. I am not interested in her motives. 
 
 ROMEO. I don't think it was a motive. 
 
 JULIET. I am not interested in her impulses. 
 
 ROMEO. I don't think it was an impulse. 
 My, but your answers are bromidic ! 
 
 JULIET. I am bromidic. 
 
 ROMEO. No, by Jove, you're not! You're 
 anything but that you're as rare as roses in a 
 desert. 
 
 JULIET [with a smile'}. You mean I'm impos 
 sible. 
 
 ROMEO. Not quite thank Heaven ! but 
 improbable. A near miracle. 
 
 JULIET. I am bromidic and I will be bromidic 
 if I want to. I am not interested in her motives 
 nor her impulses nor anything else about her. I 
 am not interested in her. 
 
 ROMEO. Who ? 
 
 JULIET. Carmen, of course. 
 
 ROMEO. Neither am I. 
 
 JULIET. Oh I 
 
 ROMEO. Seems like a lie to you, doesn't it? 
 
 JULIET. Very much. 
 
 ROMEO. Well, it isn't. 
 
 JULIET [advancing]. Are you ever coming 
 back to the rehearsal? 
 
 ROMEO [advancing a step toward her]. Not 
 so long as I can keep you here. Not till your 
 nurse has called you twice and thrice and four 
 times that. Not till those Montagues and Capu- 
 
 140
 
 ENTR' ACTE 
 
 lets in there [gesturing In the direction of the re 
 hearsal] have all murdered each other in their 
 wretched wrangling. 
 
 JULIET [smiling]. They bid fair to. 
 
 ROMEO. Your song was wonderful. It made 
 me forget everything that we had ever quar 
 reled that you had changed. [She gives a 
 quick start and questioning look at him.'} It took 
 me back to the time when I was happy and 
 for these few minutes afterward I am still in 
 my dream. I cannot pull myself out of it. Do 
 you remember that night in May? 
 
 JULIET [breathing tensely]. Yes. 
 
 ROMEO. In your garden where the locust 
 tree was all in bloom, and the day-time busy bees 
 had left it to the night and to you and me. And 
 the whole world was sweet with the blossoms' 
 fragrance. 
 
 JULIET [smiling]. It was the pomegranate 
 tree. 
 
 ROMEO. And in the branches late oh, very 
 late we heard a little bird wake and sing a few 
 sleepy notes? 
 
 JULIET [smiling]. It was the nightingale. 
 
 ROMEO. And not the bird of dawn, the 
 spotted-breast thrush, though love would have me 
 stay until that same brown thrush 
 
 JULIET [laughing softly]. You mean the 
 lark. 
 
 ROMEO. would joyfully announce the 
 morn, the dewy, sweet, gray morn, that comes so 
 silently and wakes slowly, deliciously, as does a 
 maid from sleep, and blushes into the warm fair 
 rose of perfect day. 
 
 141
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 JULIET. Ah, Romeo! 
 
 ROMEO. But whether it be by the white light 
 of the moon 
 
 JULIET. " Oh, swear not by the moon, the in 
 constant moon! " 
 
 ROMEO. or by the full and rosy glow of 
 day, whether it be in the warm scented night when 
 small white moths go idly flying by like little 
 quiet ghosts, and our low words are scarcely heard 
 even by each other, or in the open street and in 
 the truth of noon {he extends his hand and tak 
 ing hers, falls on his knees and bends over it~\ I 
 love you ! {His voice is low and slow and 
 ardent.] 
 
 JULIET. My Romeo! 
 
 {He rises and keeping her hand stands gazing 
 at her.~\ 
 
 ROMEO. Ah, tell me a little, give me a little 
 joy! 
 
 JULIET. I love thee, too, yet, sweet, it was 
 the lark and not the nightingale, and fear barks 
 ever at the loitering heels of love. 
 
 ROMEO. I do not fear when I can see thine 
 eyes thine eyes that are more bright than stars 
 in spring. Or feel thy hand thy hand that is 
 more soft than spring's night wind. Or hear thy 
 voice thy voice that is more mild than show 
 ers of spring. Or [leaning closer to her~\ 
 drink thy breath thy breath that is more sweet 
 than locust flowers. 
 
 [For a few moments they stand close, gazing 
 into each other's eyes, then suddenly she 
 pulls away from him as if recollecting her- 
 self.} 
 
 142
 
 ENTR' ACTE 
 
 JULIET. We we have been rehearsing! 
 
 ROMEO [in an assumed, matter-of-fact tone'}. 
 Yes, acting our parts. 
 
 JULIET. You were saying your lines. 
 
 ROMEO. They are easy lines. 
 
 JULIET. But you thought you were in hard 
 lines ! 
 
 ROMEO. They become easy when you pull the 
 strings. 
 
 JULIET. I was acting. 
 
 ROMEO. But now it's between the acts the 
 entr'acte. Besides, I wasn't acting. I haven't 
 been all through. 
 
 JULIET [slowly and in amazement]. What 
 what are you saying? 
 
 ROMEO. Saying? Saying? Why, saying I 
 love you, of course. Saying I'm crazy about you 
 
 crazy as ever. I was too proud to let you 
 know but, Jove, what's the difference ? You 
 may as well know. I'm so miserable I don't care 
 who knows. 
 
 JULIET [catching her breath]. You are 
 so odd! 
 
 ROMEO. Worse than odd. I'm a fool a 
 mere fool. 
 
 JULIET. Is it so silly to care for me ? 
 
 ROMEO. Pretty silly when you despise me. 
 
 JULIET. But isn't unrequited love noble? 
 [Romeo opens his lips but says nothing, giving 
 her a withering glance. ,] Besides, how do you 
 know I don't? You haven't asked me for ages 
 
 not since we quarreled. 
 ROMEO. Jove, but you're trying! 
 
 JULIET [overstrained and crying at last]. 
 
 143
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 Yes, trying, trying as hard as I can [in a tearful 
 voice] , but you won't catch on 1 [Smiling at him 
 wistfully through her tears.] 
 
 ROMEO. Do you mean ? 
 
 JULIET. Yes, I do. That's just it! That 
 I'm a little silly and crazy and everything about 
 you, too ! 
 
 ROMEO. You you witch! [He extends 
 his arms to her and takes a stride toward her. 
 She holds out her arms to him, too. The curtain 
 falls just as he reaches her.] 
 
 144
 
 A WOMAN'S A WOMAN FOR A' THAT. 
 
 CHARACTERS AS THEY APPEAR. 
 
 MRS. STYMIE. 
 
 MARGARET BLUFWELL, M.D. 
 
 NIBLICK STYMIE, Mrs. Stymie's only son. 
 
 Miss IRIS, a trained nurse. 
 
 A VETERINARIAN. 
 
 [SCENE: The sitting-room in Mrs. Sty 
 mie's summer cottage, the Gables, at Little 
 Neck Beach. Little Neck Beach is a little old 
 New England fishing village that has. become 
 a fashionable watering-place but still retains its 
 crusted characters and picturesqueness. The 
 sitting-room has wicker furniture, including a 
 rocking-chair and a couch, a table is strewn 
 with books and magazines summer litera 
 ture; the windows, half curtained, give a view of 
 the sea. Mrs. Stymie enters, followed by Dr. 
 Blufwell. Mrs. Stymie has much more money 
 than she was born with. She is dressed in the 
 extreme of the fashion but her diction has not 
 kept pace with her clothes. Dr. Blufwell is 
 extremely tailored and wears eye-glasses."] 
 
 MRS. STYMIE. Well, Doctor, what do you 
 think is the matter with my poor boy? [With 
 much agitation.'} You may as well tell me, for 
 
 145
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 I've got to know sooner or later and I've steeled 
 myself to bear anything. [She weeps aloud.] 
 
 DR. BLUFWELL [patting her on the back and 
 smoothing her arm]. In times like this, Mrs. 
 Stymie, we must be brave. When the situation 
 demands our womanly fortitude, we must er 
 we must ah not fail. For that is where 
 we women show our strength. Men are of 
 larger frame than we and have more extensive 
 muscular development and unquestionably they 
 are an important factor in the industrial world, 
 but when it is a matter of intrepidity, of high 
 heroism, dear Mrs. Stymie, we are undeniably 
 their superiors. Fortitude is a feminine virtue. 
 
 MRS. STYMIE. And I am doing my best to be 
 fortuitous ! 
 
 DR. BLUFWELL. Think of your dear son and 
 try to be calm. 
 
 MRS. STYMIE. Oh, I'm cam, can't you see 
 I'm cam! {Wrings her hands.] Tell me the 
 wust! 
 
 DR. BLUFWELL. Let me feel your pulse. 
 [Mrs. Stymie thrusts her arm out straight into the 
 Doctor's face, daubs her eyes with her handker 
 chief, winks hard and gives other signs of great 
 emotional excitement.] 
 
 DR. BLUFWELL [half to herself]. Are you 
 sufficiently prepared? That is the question. 
 
 MRS. STYMIE. Tell me the wust ! 
 
 DR. BLUFWELL [keeping her hand, soothing 
 and patting her]. It is my opinion after a most 
 thorough examination and careful diagnosis that 
 your son is suffering from compound oculi pu- 
 pillae inflamatis. 
 
 146
 
 A WOMAN'S A WOMAN 
 
 MRS. STYMIE. Oh, oh I Isn't that dreadful! 
 It couldn't have been wus ! 
 
 DR. BLUFWELL [profoundly"]. Yes, indeed, 
 yes. It might have been ascirides of the ligamen- 
 tum pectimentum, or opaque anterior otapahlo- 
 mia, or irido-cyclochroiditis, or 
 
 MRS. STYMIE. Oh, Doctor, don't go on like 
 that! 
 
 DR. BLUFWELL. Or even this disease might 
 be varied by distressing complications. But we 
 hope to be able to control it soon and hold it 
 in check. It may take some time, as the affec 
 tion seems to be of some standing and has prob 
 ably taken a firm grip of the patient and may 
 prove stubborn, but we shall conquer it. We 
 must be strong and patient and bear with the 
 poor, dear young man. 
 
 MRS. STYMIE. Oh, he's stubborn enough, I 
 submit, though I don't know as you are the one 
 to say it. A mother may say things about her 
 own boy and the same things don't sound so very 
 well coming from a young lady like you. 
 
 DR. BLUFWELL. You misunderstand me. I 
 said the disease was stubborn, not your son. 
 
 MRS. STYMIE. Well, I don't see how that can' 
 be, I'm sure. In my experience it has always 
 been the people as has been stubborn. 
 
 DR. BLUFWELL. Suppose we don't discuss it. 
 
 MRS. STYMIE. I was just going to ask you, 
 do you feel as component as a man doctor? You 
 see I never had a lady doctor before, but they 
 said you and a horse doctor were the only ones 
 here, and so I had to have you or him. Now, 
 Doctor, don't be offended, I was just going to 
 
 147
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 say that when I heard you was a home a 
 home 
 
 DR. BLUFWELL. I am of the Homoeopathic 
 school. 
 
 MRS. STYMIE. Yes, when I heard that you 
 was a home pathetic I knew you was all right. I 
 believe in home doctors every time. Do you think 
 Niblick's disease is contiguous? 
 
 DR. BLUFWELL [holds her hand]. One mo 
 ment, please. We shall have to have a trained 
 nurse and several other commodities and I will 
 telephone for them right away to lose no time. I 
 can explain to you afterwards. 
 
 MRS. STYMIE. Don't lose a precious moment. 
 The telephone is in that room, make yourself 
 perfectly at home. [The doctor goes out and 
 is heard distinctly telephoning in the next room. 
 Mrs. Stymie sits down and rocks wildly to and 
 fro.] 
 
 DR. BLUFWELL. Hello, give me West 19. 
 Hello. Is that Miss Iris? Yes. Can you 
 come right over to Mrs. Stymie's, the Gables, you 
 know, to take charge of a case? Yes. It is a 
 very particular case. It is compound oculi pu- 
 pillae inflamatis. [Mrs. Stymie groans and 
 shakes her head as she rocks violently. ] And, by 
 the way, to save time, will you stop at the bar 
 ber's and order some leeches sent over? 
 
 MRS. STYMIE. Leeches! Oh, my goodness 
 gracious ! 
 
 DR. BLUFWELL. We shall have to put them 
 on the patient's eyes, you know. Yes. Of a 
 most virulent character. I shall expect you im 
 mediately, then. Good-by. [The doctor comes 
 
 148
 
 A WOMAN'S A WOMAN 
 
 is a very nice calling for a lady. Not only their 
 loving and sympathutic natures, but the doctor 
 says they are so much braver than men. And I 
 myself know that they are much more used to 
 houses and take to sickness more naturally, sick 
 ness being their natural spere, as you might say. 
 [The nurse puts down the pail on the table and 
 sits down by it, while Mrs. Stymie goes on rock 
 ing in great undulations to and fro.] 
 
 NIBLICK. But I thought you called in this 
 doctor because she was the only one in the place. 
 
 MRS. STYMIE. Maybe I did, but that was be 
 fore I looked into the matter of lady doctors. 
 
 NIBLICK. You prefer them to horse doctors. 
 I believe you said there were only the two styles 
 in the place, the lady and the horse, and it came 
 to be a choice between them, the lady or the 
 horse, a sort of lady or the tiger affair. She 
 must be very popular to have to stay so long. 
 Well, popularity pays its price, which aphorism, 
 by the way, is double-jointed, I mean it works 
 both ways. Popularity costs a huge sum in the 
 beginning, but after a while it begins to pay for 
 itself. It is what you might call a lucrative in 
 vestment, if you don't mind the trouble. Mother, 
 why don't you save time by going out to watch 
 for the doctor? 
 
 MRS. STYMIE. Why, perhaps I'd better. 
 [She goes out and Niblick immediately gets up 
 and goes over to the nurse] 
 
 NIBLICK. Won't you drop those blood-suck 
 ers now and kill them? That would be a case of 
 the biter bit. 
 
 165
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 NURSE. I'm afraid it would be a bitter bite 
 for me when the doctor comes. 
 
 NIBLICK. Oh, by the way, I wonder if she 
 plays golf? So many doctors do. They have 
 taken up the game recently, you know. And a 
 very curious fact has been observed in regard to 
 them. The surgeons invariably slice their balls, 
 while the osteopathists always pull theirs. 
 
 NURSE. Are you very fond of golf? 
 
 NIBLICK. Well, rather. Our course at home 
 is very hilly and some men object to it on that 
 account, but I say everything has its ups and 
 downs and the course of true golf never did run 
 smooth. [The bell rings, ,] 
 
 NURSE. That must be the doctor now. 
 
 NIBLICK. Enter the doctor, commander of 
 leeches! Now will she [with elaborate gestures] 
 marshal her forces and bravely lead the on 
 slaught. Look out for the fun ! For the Lord's 
 sake, now, don't you give me away ! Remember 
 the coming sails out on the deep blue sea my lit 
 tle boat is a stunner, certain sure. [He lies back 
 on the couch and covers himself up with a rug as 
 the doctor and Mrs. Stymie enter. ] 
 
 DR. BLUFWELL [smiling benignly']. Well, 
 how are the eyes? 
 
 NIBLICK. Very painful, Doctor, very pain 
 ful. When do you expect to have them cured? 
 Don't you think it's 'igh time? 
 
 DR. BLUFWELL [patting him on the shoulder]. 
 I am greatly pleased that you are able to joke, 
 Mr. Stymie. It augurs well for the future and 
 proves that Miss Iris here has been doing her 
 duty and preparing you for the coming ordeal. 
 
 166
 
 A WOMAN'S A WOMAN 
 
 NIBICK. She has spent her time most profita 
 bly in proving to her own satisfaction that a 
 watched leech never crawls. I suppose, Doctor, 
 you are not afraid of a leech? 
 
 DR. BLUFWELL. I ? Certainly not. 
 
 NIBLICK. Because my mother here is. Most 
 women are, I believe, afraid of well, some 
 thing or other. By the way, why is a woman like 
 a woodpecker? Give it up? Because she can 
 run up a long bill. Why is she different? Be 
 cause a woman will turn from a worm while a 
 bird bolts it. By the way, have you ever no 
 ticed that it is never the worm who turns but al 
 ways the woman. That's rather bad isn't it? 
 But what better can you expect from a poor fel 
 low in agony like me. The victim of leeches 
 will make foolish speeches. 
 
 DR. BLUFWELL [she has been taking of her 
 gloves and otherwise preparing for the fray~\. 
 Nurse, is everything ready? 
 
 NURSE. Everything, I think. The leeches 
 are here in this pan and seem to be pretty 
 lively. 
 
 DR. BLUFWELL [investigating them']. Quite 
 so. I think they will take hold nicely. 
 
 NURSE. And the cream is in this little tumb 
 ler. 
 
 DR. BLUFWELL. I see. Do you think you 
 have prepared the patient sufficiently. [Laying 
 her hand on Niblick's shoulder.'] Do you feel 
 quite calm and happy? 
 
 NIBLICK. Well, I'm not sure I ever sized up 
 such a situation. [Stares and blinks hardJ] I 
 don't think I feel overly happy, though I felt 
 
 167
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 much worse when I was beaten ten down and lost 
 the match for the club. 
 
 DR. BLUFWELL. Let me feel your pulse. 
 [She feels his pulse.~\ Hum! Well, I think we 
 may go ahead, nurse. His pulse is about normal 
 and I think you said his temperature had not risen 
 perceptibly. I will put on the cream. [She dips 
 her finger In the cream and dabs it around 
 Niblick's eye steps back and regards the effect 
 with her head on one side.] Now, you may ap 
 ply the leeches. . 
 
 NURSE. I ? 
 
 DR. BLUFWELL. Certainly. Who else? 
 
 NURSE. You! 
 
 DR. BLUFWELL. Oh, no, indeed. It is the 
 nurse's place to apply the leeches. 
 
 NURSE. But I I I can't touch them. 
 
 MRS. STYMIE. No more could I. 
 
 DR. BLUFWELL. But who else will? 
 
 NURSE. Why, you, of course. 
 
 DR. BLUFWELL. But I have to direct the op 
 eration. [Niblick gives a suppressed snort.~\ 
 
 NURSE. I am very sorry, but I never saw 
 any one do it in my life and I don't know how. 
 
 DR. BLUFWELL. But I can easily tell you 
 how. Just take hold of the tail. 
 
 NURSE [giving a little scream]. Oh, I 
 couldn't, really ! Don't you understand ? I I 
 I am afraid of them. 
 
 DR. BLUFWELL [looking frightened]. Non 
 sense ! 
 
 NURSE. I can't, I tell you. 
 
 DR. BLUFWELL. But you must. 
 
 NURSE. I should let it drop. 
 168
 
 A WOMAN'S A WOMAN 
 
 NIBLICK [giving an unearthly chuckle and is 
 seen to shake], I I believe I've got a chill. 
 
 NURSE. Doctor, you'll have to. 
 
 DR. BLUFWELL. No, it wouldn't do at all 
 for me to do it. Isn't there some one else we 
 can get? 
 
 NIBLICK [coughing violently]. There's the 
 horse-doctor. 
 
 MRS. STYMIE. Oh, shall I send for him? 
 Just as you say, Doctor. I can have Thompson 
 go and fetch him at once, though I suppose his 
 boots will be very muddy. 
 
 DR. BLUFWELL. Well, you see it's rather 
 awkward, because I I don't consult with him. 
 He's well, he's of a different school, you know. 
 [She walks up and down.] Miss Iris, won't you 
 won't you try to to take hold of one of 
 them with a -handkerchief, you know. 
 
 NURSE. Oh, please, Doctor, don't make me I 
 They are such horrid things. They squirm and 
 twist and act just like snakes and they grow in 
 such dirty, oozy, slimy, boggy places. And then, 
 besides that they do bite so. If I took one of 
 them by the tail he would be sure to fling his 
 head around and hit me and begin to bite. And 
 when they take hold, you never, never can make 
 them let go till they drop off, when they are quite 
 full and can't hold another drop. They begin by 
 being quite thin and they end by looking like 
 toy balloons. Oh, I couldn't stand it, really, 
 Doctor. 
 
 DR. BLUFWELL [coaxinaly]. But just try it, 
 won't you, please? [Nervously.] 
 
 169
 
 NURSE. It makes the cold chills run up and 
 down my back just to think of it. 
 
 DR. BLUFWELL. Here is my handkerchief. 
 Just try. That one now. 
 
 NURSE [trembling as she takes the handker 
 chief]. I know I can't. It makes the cold chills 
 run up and down my back. If it bites me I 
 know I shall die. [Some time is taken up while 
 she hesitates and selects her leech. She finally 
 takes hold of it by the tail. It wriggles, she 
 screams and lets it fall back into the pan.] It 
 may cost me my reputation but it is utterly impos 
 sible for me to do it. 
 
 DR. BLUFWELL [looking much worried. She 
 walks up and down. Mrs. Stymie wrings her 
 hands']. It is a most embarrassing situation. Of 
 course I can't consult with a veterinary, that is 
 out of the question. And yet, who else is there? 
 It is very unfortunate, Miss Iris, that you are so 
 so timid. Won't you try just once more? 
 
 NURSE. Oh, Doctor, I should just drop it 
 again. 
 
 DR. BLUFWELL. I suppose I shall have to do 
 it, though it it it's most unprofessional. 
 [Plenty of time is taken and the scene is very tense 
 while the doctor seizes her handkerchief and 
 after many false starts grabs a leech, holds it 
 aloft, leaning away from it, and moves cautiously 
 towards the couch. The leech wriggles, swings 
 back, and the doctor trembles, jumps, and lets it 
 fall to the floor, shrieking much louder than the 
 nurse. All the women scream, Mrs. Stymie 
 mounts a chair and Niblick shouts, then chokes 
 
 170
 
 A WOMAN'S A WOMAN 
 
 and rolls over with his face to the wall to hide his 
 laughter.] 
 
 NURSE. Oh, what shall we do? Do you 
 think it will stay where it is? 
 
 MRS. STYMIE. Who will pick it up? I shan't 
 stir till some one does. Oh, do you suppose it 
 can climb a chair? [She looks out of the win 
 dow.'] Oh, the ways of Providence! There is 
 that Horse-Doctor now! 
 
 NURSE. Oh, call him in! Call him in quick! 
 
 DR. BLUFWELL. Per per perhaps you'd 
 better. 
 
 MRS. STYMIE [gesticulating wildly from the 
 window]. Horse-Doctor! Horse-Doctor! Come 
 up here quick. Hurry, Hurry, HURRY! He's 
 coming! He's coming! He's running! 
 
 DR. BLUFWELL. I I I am so nervous 
 to-day that my hand shook so I couldn't hold it. 
 
 MRS. STYMIE. I should think it did and a 
 pretty state we're in now. That leech looks to 
 me like it was moving. I do believe it is! If it 
 starts to climb this chair I don't know what I shall 
 do ! Oh, if that horse-doctor doesn't come I 
 shall have nervous persuasion. 
 
 [The Horse-Doctor enters at this climax. He 
 is a very dreadful person with full red whis 
 kers and a red face. He wears an old 
 rumpled silk hat, a violent red necktie, a 
 mussed and muddy linen duster nearly to his 
 heels, and he carries a carriage whip.] 
 
 HORSE-DOCTOR. Well, is the house on fire or 
 what on earth is the matter? I thought maybe 
 somebody had been murdered or a suicide or bur 
 glars or 
 
 171
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 MRS. STYMIE. Oh, you've saved my life! If 
 you hadn't come 
 
 NURSE [stepping forward] . You see we 
 
 DR. BLUFWELL. You see, we we 
 
 HORSE-DOCTOR. Yes, I see you. 
 
 MRS. STYMIE. The leeches, you know. We're 
 all afraid of them. Look out, look out there, 
 you'll step on it ! We want to put them on 
 
 NIBLICK. My eye ! 
 
 HORSE-DOCTOR. Why, certainly. Anything to 
 please the ladies. [He picks up a leech from the 
 floor in his fingers and advances with it toward 
 Niblick.'] 
 
 NIBLICK [jumping up with great alacrity]. 
 But not this afternoon. It's too late for a gar 
 den party now. That leech will have to do with 
 just a cracker at home. 
 
 [CURTAIN.] 
 
 172
 
 A FAN AND TWO CANDLESTICKS. 
 
 (AN OLD-FASHIONED PARTY ON ST. VALENTINE'S 
 NIGHT.) 
 
 [SCENE : A room at the end of a great hall 
 way in a fine old Georgian mansion. The en 
 trance is heavily curtained off and there are 
 heavy hangings at the window. There is an 
 open fireplace with great logs burning and two 
 silver candlesticks, lighted, stand on the mantel 
 piece. The furniture is Georgian mahogany 
 with a rococo touch in some bits. It includes 
 a spinet, a little gilt chair, a spindle-legged 
 table, a large mirror in a gilt frame, and a set 
 tee. The entrance is at the center of the back 
 of the stage, the window at the left, the fire 
 place at the right, settee in front of the fire 
 place, spinet in the left corner, gilt chair near 
 it in front of the window. Everything is very 
 established, formal, decorative, as in the 
 eighteenth century. Music is heard of flutes, 
 violins, bass-viols, and other instruments that 
 made up the orchestra of that day. A very 
 pretty girl enters in ball-gown of the eighteenth 
 century, and with her a young man. The girl 
 is fair and flushed, with blue eyes, and has 
 charm and latent vivacity. She is dressed in 
 corn-color and white satin with trimmings of 
 lace and pearls, has powdered hair, high-heeled
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 white satin slippers with buckles, and a pink 
 rose in her hair. The young man is good-look 
 ing, blond with dark eyes and a certain smooth 
 ness that indicates he will be fatter when the 
 years are added. He wears a powdered wig, 
 a light green satin coat, white satin waistcoat, 
 old-rose knee breeches of a pale shade, silk 
 stockings and buckled shoes. ~\ 
 
 RALPH. You're very good to come with me, 
 I was afraid you'd not agree. 
 To leave the dancing in the hall. 
 
 NANCY. When one's invited to a ball, 
 One is expected, sure, to dance, 
 Unless one meets with the mischance 
 To sprain one's ankle or to fall 
 Into a dreadful fainting fit ! 
 I hope I'll not 
 
 RALPH. Oh, don't do it! 
 
 NANCY. At least I'll try not at this ball. 
 
 [They both laugh. The music is heard.] 
 
 RALPH. But where they're dancing 'tis so gay 
 I was afraid you'd wish to stay, 
 
 NANCY [archly]. Perhaps I did. 
 
 RALPH. But yet you came. 
 
 NANCY. Why, one must always play the game. 
 If you had asked instead, perchance, 
 To have the pleasure of a dance, 
 I would have stayed and danced with you. 
 Don't you expect a maid to do 
 Exactly as you ask her to ? 
 
 RALPH. Why, yes, I do, and yet suppose 
 A maid has several different beaux, 
 She can't in truth content them all.
 
 A FAN AND TWO CANDLESTICKS 
 
 NANCY. She can, in turn, at one short ball. 
 RALPH. Yes, but I'm talking now of life, 
 I'm asking you to be my wife. 
 NANCY [starting]. Good gracious, Ralph, 
 
 you don't prepare 
 A maid for such a sudden scare ! 
 
 [She moves over to the spinet and sits down on 
 
 the stool. He follows her.'} 
 RALPH. Scare? Why, I thought you always 
 
 knew 
 It was the end I had in view. 
 
 NANCY. I didn't. And yet if I did, 
 You had your end so safely hid 
 I wouldn't ever dare to guess 
 The secret you would fain repress. 
 
 RALPH. It was no secret and I vow 
 NANCY. You never mentioned love till now. 
 [Slowly and after a slight pause. ~\ 
 If I bethink me it doth prove 
 You still have never mentioned love. 
 
 RALPH. I thought you knew. I had my 
 
 work, 
 
 I'm not a flirt and not a shirk, 
 One doesn't hurry into fate. 
 
 [He draws up the little gilt chair and sits down 
 
 in front of her.~\ 
 
 NANCY. Did you not fear you might be late ? 
 That some one might have got before 
 [Footsteps are heard appro aching. ~\ 
 And entered ere you tried the door? 
 
 [Hugh comes in through the curtains, looks 
 angry and disconcerted, then cools down and 
 bows most ceremoniously and low to them. 
 He has a rather brown skin with color in his 
 
 175
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 cheeks, and has fascinating grey-blue eyes. 
 He is dressed in rather grey-blue velvet coat, 
 very pale yellow satin waistcoat, lavender 
 satin knee-breeches, silk stockings and 
 buckled shoes.'] 
 
 HUGH. I'm sorry, sir, your joy to spill 
 But Nancy promised this quadrille 
 To me. 
 
 NANCY. Of course, I'd quite forgot. 
 
 [She rises and curtsies low to him.] 
 And that reminds me, have you not 
 My fan? 
 
 HUGH. Your fan? 
 
 NANCY. Yes, I have lost 
 
 My fan, and am quite tempest-tossed 
 Concerning it, for, don't you see? 
 My dearest Grandma gave it me, 
 And it is quite the handsomest, 
 Oh, yes, and best and loveliest 
 
 HUGH. Both fan and Grandmama I know, 
 And we had all much better go, 
 If it's not found, and quickly hide 
 Our heads beneath the river's tide. 
 
 RALPH. Oh, may I be of any use? 
 'My ignorance is my excuse 
 You didn't tell me of your 
 
 NANCY [reproachfully]. Well, 
 You didn't give me time to tell. 
 You see now that I'm sore distraught 
 
 [In the most appealing and adorable voice.] 
 And if you had a little thought 
 For me, you'd both go hunt my fan ! 
 
 HUGH. What man can do, then, shall do man ! 
 
 [He seems about to go, then turns back and 
 176
 
 A FAN AND TWO CANDLESTICKS 
 
 confronts her. She is standing between the 
 two men, Hugh on her right, Ralph on her 
 left.} 
 
 HUGH. But, prithee, how will you reward 
 The one who finds? 
 
 NANCY. With my regard, 
 
 With gratitude and fair good will ! 
 
 HUGH. With something else? The last 
 
 quadrille? 
 
 [There is a moment's silence, all three half 
 smiling, the two men on either side of the 
 girl regarding her with keenest interest.~\ 
 NANCY. Why, yes, I promise last to dance 
 To-night with him who has the chance 
 To find my fan. Now, au revoir, 
 Be guided by some lucky star ! 
 
 [She sits down again on the stool before the 
 
 spine t.~\ 
 
 RALPH [turning hastily to go and bowing low 
 to Nancy as he is about to pass through the 
 curtains}. 
 Don't fret, for we will find the fan. 
 
 HUGH [amused and mocking}. 
 I almost think you are the man ! 
 Then go and hunt I'll take the bird 
 That's in the bush. For hope deferred 
 Did ever make me sick. So here 
 I'll stay with Nan. It would be queer 
 For us to leave her quite alone 
 This is my time, the only one 
 Perhaps I'll have. Give you good luck! 
 I like you, Ralph, I like your pluck. 
 
 [Hugh sits down on the little gilt chair and 
 there is nothing left for Ralph to do but go. 
 177
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 He smiles hopefully and reassuringly at 
 Nancy.'} 
 
 RALPH. Honor's the same in love and war, 
 I'll bring the fan, then au revoir! 
 
 [Ralph bows himself out through the curtains. 
 Nancy rises and goes over to the other side 
 of the room. She seems disturbed and to 
 try to evade Hugh, who follows watching 
 her. He goes to the settee and stands be 
 hind it, making a gesture of offering her a 
 seat. She stands looking into the fire.] 
 HUGH. Won't you be seated, fair Nanette? 
 NANCY. My name is Nancy. 
 HUGH. But Nanette 
 
 Is used for rhyming with coquette. 
 
 NANCY. Perhaps you are. the one to know, 
 They say you're such a heartless beau. 
 
 HUGH. I have been ever since I met 
 The pretty maid I call Nanette. 
 She'll neither give me back my heart, 
 Nor give me hers such is her art 
 Of coquetry. Won't you sit down? 
 
 [Nancy sits down on one end of the settee 
 farthest from where he stands with his hand 
 resting on the back of it.] 
 HUGH. You have on such a lovely gown, 
 It doth become you e'en as gold [gallantly] 
 Sets off the pearl it doth enfold. 
 
 NANCY. It seems you haven't lost your wit 
 
 [smiling] , 
 Nor tongue to help make use of it. 
 
 HUGH. You think my wit's a thing apart 
 From my poor, luckless, lackless heart? 
 
 178
 
 A FAN AND TWO CANDLESTICKS 
 
 [He comes round to the front of the settee and 
 sits down on it as far as possible from her. 
 Then he leans over and plays with the lace 
 trimming on her sleeve.~\ 
 
 HUGH. You think a man won't lose his mind 
 Because he loves a maid unkind? 
 
 NANCY. I didn't quite say that and yet 
 [As if meditating something to prove her point 
 
 and try him.~\ 
 Why don't you make a chansonnette? 
 
 HUGH. For dear Nanette? The fair co 
 quette ? 
 
 I'll take your dare some kind of rhyme 
 I'll formulate, while you mark time. 
 
 [They are both silent a few moments, she 
 watching him with a quizzical smile, he with 
 brows knitted, looking hard at the floor.'} 
 
 HUGH. She lost her fan, did sweet Nanette, 
 It wasn't quite within her plan, 
 For while she played at the coquette, 
 She lost her fan. 
 
 Mayhap 'twas left in her sedan, 
 
 Or maybe in the minuet 
 
 'Twas stolen by some naughty man. 
 
 Just where it is I may not bet, 
 But nothing's plainer to me than 
 While trying some one's heart to net 
 She lost her fan. 
 
 NANCY. It seems you haven't lost your head! 
 HUGH. I'd rather have a heart instead. 
 179
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 NANCY. You wouldn't be so nice, so gay. 
 
 HUGH. I'd go contented on my way 
 Nor hang about and linger so 
 To hear a maiden's " Yes " or " No." 
 You know it is the day divine 
 That's sacred to St. Valentine, 
 The day a lover must confess, 
 The day a maiden should say " Yes," 
 The day the little birds all mate 
 And bow to Love and nod to Fate. 
 
 NANCY [hastily interrupting hini\. 
 And yet the day of all the year 
 Is likeliest to be most drear. 
 I'm sure the robins have chilblains 
 Upon their little toes. The lanes 
 Are bleak and covered o'er with snow, 
 And listen how the east winds blow ! 
 Perchance there'll be a dreadful storm. 
 
 HUGH [leaning to her~\ 
 
 So much the more should hearts keep warm. 
 Ah, dearest, let me hear you say 
 The word I long for day by day, 
 The little word for which I wait! 
 
 NANCY [nervously]. It must be getting very 
 
 late! 
 You haven't tried to find my fan. 
 
 HUGH. Why should I, since Ralph is the 
 man? 
 
 NANCY. He isn't. And the last quadrille 
 Is yours, if you the terms fulfil. 
 
 HUGH. If I produce the fan, you'll give 
 The dance to me now, as I live, 
 If with the dance your heart's thrown in, 
 I'll find the fan I'll die or win! 
 
 180
 
 A WOMAN'S A WOMAN 
 
 is a very nice calling for a lady. Not only their 
 loving and sympathutic natures, but the doctor 
 says they are so much braver than men. And I 
 myself know that they are much more used to 
 houses and take to sickness more naturally, sick 
 ness being their natural spere, as you might say. 
 [The nurse puts down the pail on the table and 
 sits down by it, while Mrs. Stymie goes on rock 
 ing in great undulations to and /TO.] 
 
 NIBLICK. But I thought you called in this 
 doctor because she was the only one in the place. 
 
 MRS. STYMIE. Maybe I did, but that was be 
 fore I looked into the matter of lady doctors. 
 
 NIBLICK. You prefer them to horse doctors. 
 I believe you said there were only the two styles 
 in the place, the lady and the horse, and it came 
 to be a choice between them, the lady or the 
 horse, a sort of lady or the tiger affair. She 
 must be very popular to have to stay so long. 
 Well, popularity pays its price, which aphorism, 
 by the way, is double-jointed, I mean it works 
 both ways. Popularity costs a huge sum in the 
 beginning, but after a while it begins to pay for 
 itself. It is what you might call a lucrative in 
 vestment, if you don't mind the trouble. Mother, 
 why don't you save time by going out to watch 
 for the doctor? 
 
 MRS. STYMIE. Why, perhaps I'd better. 
 [She goes out and Niblick immediately gets up 
 and goes over to the nurse."} 
 
 NIBLICK. Won't you drop those blood-suck 
 ers now and kill them? That would be a case of 
 the biter bit. 
 
 165
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 NURSE. I'm afraid it would be a bitter bite 
 for me when the doctor comes. 
 
 NIBLICK. Oh, by the way, I wonder if she 
 plays golf? So many doctors do. They have 
 taken up the game recently, you know. And a 
 very curious fact has been observed in regard to 
 them. The surgeons invariably slice their balls, 
 while the osteopathists always pull theirs. 
 
 NURSE. Are you very fond of golf? 
 
 NIBLICK. Well, rather. Our course at home 
 is very hilly and some men object to it on that 
 account, but I say everything has its ups and 
 downs and the course of true golf never did run 
 smooth. [ The bell rings.'} 
 
 NURSE. That must be the doctor now. 
 
 NIBLICK. Enter the doctor, commander of 
 leeches ! Now will she [with elaborate gestures] 
 marshal her forces and bravely lead the on 
 slaught. Look out for the fun I For the Lord's 
 sake, now, don't you give me away ! Remember 
 the coming sails out on the deep blue sea my lit 
 tle boat is a stunner, certain sure. [He lies back 
 on the couch and covers himself up with a rug as 
 the doctor and Mrs. Stymie enter.'] 
 
 DR. BLUFWELL [smiling benignly]. Well, 
 how are the eyes? 
 
 NIBLICK. Very painful, Doctor, very pain 
 ful. When do you expect to have them cured? 
 Don't you think it's 'igh time? 
 
 DR. BLUFWELL [patting him on the shoulder]. 
 I am greatly pleased that you are able to joke, 
 Mr. Stymie. It augurs well for the future and 
 proves that Miss Iris here has been doing her 
 duty and preparing you for the coming ordeal. 
 
 166
 
 A WOMAN'S A WOMAN 
 
 NIBICK. She has spent her time most profita 
 bly in proving to her own satisfaction that a 
 watched leech never crawls. I suppose, Doctor, 
 you are not afraid of a leech? 
 
 DR. BLUFWELL. I ? Certainly not. 
 
 NIBLICK. Because my mother here is. Most 
 women are, I believe, afraid of well, some 
 thing or other. By the way, why is a woman like 
 a woodpecker? Give it up? Because she can 
 run up a long bill. Why is she different? Be 
 cause a woman will turn from a worm while a 
 bird bolts it. By the way, have you ever no 
 ticed that it is never the worm who turns but al 
 ways the woman. That's rather bad isn't it? 
 But what better can you expect from a poor fel 
 low in agony like me. The victim of leeches 
 will make foolish speeches. 
 
 DR. BLUFWELL [she has been taking off her 
 gloves and otherwise preparing for the fray]. 
 Nurse, is everything ready? 
 
 NURSE. Everything, I think. The leeches 
 are here in this pan and seem to be pretty 
 lively. 
 
 DR. BLUFWELL [investigating them]. Quite 
 so. I think they will take hold nicely. 
 
 NURSE. And the cream is in this little tumb 
 ler. 
 
 DR. BLUFWELL. I see. Do you think you 
 have prepared the patient sufficiently. [Laying 
 her hand on Niblick's shoulder.] Do you feel 
 quite calm and happy? 
 
 NIBLICK. Well, I'm not sure I ever sized up 
 such a situation. [Stares and blinks hard.] I 
 don't think I feel overly happy, though I felt 
 
 167
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 much worse when I was beaten ten down and lost 
 the match for the club. 
 
 DR. BLUFWELL. Let me feel your pulse. 
 [She feels his pulse.'] Hum! Well, I think we 
 may go ahead, nurse. His pulse is about normal 
 and I think you said his temperature had not risen 
 perceptibly. I will put on the cream. [She dips 
 her finger in the cream and dabs it around 
 Niblick's eye steps back and regards the effect 
 with her head on one side.~\ Now, you may ap 
 ply the leeches. 
 
 NURSE. I ? 
 
 DR. BLUFWELL. Certainly. Who else? 
 
 NURSE. You! 
 
 DR. BLUFWELL. Oh, no, indeed. It is the 
 nurse's place to apply the leeches. 
 
 NURSE. But I I I can't touch them. 
 
 MRS. STYMIE. No more could I. 
 
 DR. BLUFWELL. But who else will? 
 
 NURSE. Why, you, of course. 
 
 DR. BLUFWELL. But I have to direct the op 
 eration. [Niblick gives a suppressed snort.~\ 
 
 NURSE. I am very sorry, but I never saw 
 any one do it in my life and I don't know how. 
 
 DR. BLUFWELL. But I can easily tell you 
 how. Just take hold of the tail. 
 
 NURSE [giving a little scream]. Oh, I 
 couldn't, really! Don't you understand? I I 
 I am afraid of them. 
 
 DR. BLUFWELL [looking frightened'}. Non 
 sense 1 
 
 NURSE. I can't, I tell you. 
 
 DR. BLUFWELL. But you must. 
 
 NURSE. I should let it drop. 
 168
 
 A WOMAN'S A WOMAN 
 
 NIBLICK [giving an unearthly chuckle and is 
 seen to shake] . I I believe I've got a chill. 
 
 NURSE. Doctor, you'll have to. 
 
 DR. BLUFWELL. No, it wouldn't do at all 
 for me to do it. Isn't there some one else we 
 can get? 
 
 NIBLICK [coughing violently']. There's the 
 horse-doctor. 
 
 MRS. STYMIE. Oh, shall I send for him? 
 Just as you say, Doctor. I can have Thompson 
 go and fetch him at once, though I suppose his 
 boots will be very muddy. 
 
 DR. BLUFWELL. Well, you see it's rather 
 awkward, because I I don't consult with him. 
 He's well, he's of a different school, you know. 
 [She walks up and down.~\ Miss Iris, won't you 
 won't you try to to take hold of one of 
 them with a handkerchief, you know. 
 
 NURSE. Oh, please, Doctor, don't make me! 
 They are such horrid things. They squirm and 
 twist and act just like snakes and they grow in 
 such dirty, oozy, slimy, boggy places. And then, 
 besides that they do bite so. If I took one of 
 them by the tail he would be sure to fling his 
 head around and hit me and begin to bite. And 
 when they take hold, you never, never can make 
 them let go till they drop off, when they are quite 
 full and can't hold another drop. They begin by 
 being quite thin and they end by looking like 
 toy balloons. Oh, I couldn't stand it, really, 
 Doctor. 
 
 DR. BLUFWELL [coaxingly]. But just try it, 
 won't you, please? [Nervously.'] 
 
 169
 
 NURSE. It makes the cold chills run up and 
 down my back just to think of it. 
 
 DR. BLUFWELL. Here is my handkerchief. 
 Just try. That one now. 
 
 NURSE [trembling as she takes the handker 
 chief]. I know I can't. It makes the cold chills 
 run up and down my back. If it bites me I 
 know I shall die. [Some time is taken up while 
 she hesitates and selects her leech. She finally 
 takes hold of it by the tail. It wriggles, she 
 screams and lets it fall back into the pan] It 
 may cost me my reputation but it is utterly impos 
 sible for me to do it. 
 
 DR. BLUFWELL [looking much worried. She 
 walks up and down. Mrs. Stymie wrings her 
 hands]. It is a most embarrassing situation. Of 
 course I can't consult with a veterinary, that is 
 out of the question. And yet, who else is there ? 
 It is very unfortunate, Miss Iris, that you are so 
 so timid. Won't you try just once more? 
 
 NURSE. Oh, Doctor, I should just drop it 
 again. 
 
 DR. BLUFWELL. I suppose I shall have to do 
 it, though it it it's most unprofessional. 
 [Plenty of time is taken and the scene is very tense 
 while the doctor seizes her handkerchief and 
 after many false starts grabs a leech, holds it 
 aloft, leaning away from it, and moves cautiously 
 towards the couch. The leech wriggles, swings 
 back, and the doctor trembles, jumps, and lets it 
 fall to the floor, shrieking much louder than the 
 nurse. All the women scream, Mrs. Stymie 
 mounts a chair and Niblick shouts, then chokes 
 
 170
 
 A WOMAN'S A WOMAN 
 
 and rolls over with his face to the wall to hide his 
 laughter.] 
 
 NURSE. Oh, what shall we do? Do you 
 think it will stay where it is? 
 
 MRS. STYMIE. Who will pick it up? I shan't 
 stir till some one does. Oh, do you suppose it 
 can climb a chair? [She looks out of the win 
 dow.'] Oh, the ways of Providence I There is 
 that Horse-Doctor now! 
 
 NURSE. Oh, call him in! Call him in quick! 
 
 DR. BLUFWELL. Per per perhaps you'd 
 better. 
 
 MRS. STYMIE '[gesticulating wildly from the 
 window]. Horse-Doctor! Horse-Doctor! Come 
 up here quick. Hurry, Hurry, HURRY! He's 
 coming! He's coming! He's running! 
 
 DR. BLUFWELL. I I I am so nervous 
 to-day that my hand shook so I couldn't hold it. 
 
 MRS. STYMIE. I should think it did and a 
 pretty state we're in now. That leech looks to 
 me like it was moving. I do believe it is! If it 
 starts to climb this chair I don't know what I shall 
 do! Oh, if that horse-doctor doesn't come I 
 shall have nervous persuasion. 
 
 [The Horse-Doctor enters at this climax. He 
 is a very dreadful person with full red whis 
 kers and a red face. He wears an old 
 rumpled silk hat, a violent red necktie, a 
 mussed and muddy linen duster nearly to his 
 heels, and he carries a carriage whip.] 
 
 HORSE-DOCTOR. Well, is the house on fire or 
 what on earth is the matter? I thought maybe 
 somebody had been murdered or a suicide or bur 
 glars or 
 
 171
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 MRS. STYMIE. Oh, you've saved my life! If 
 you hadn't come 
 
 NURSE [stepping forward} . You see we 
 
 DR. BLUFWELL. You see, we we 
 
 HORSE-DOCTOR. Yes, I see you. 
 
 MRS. STYMIE. The leeches, you know. We're 
 all afraid of them. Look out, look out there, 
 you'll step on it ! We want to put them on 
 
 NIBLICK. My eye ! 
 
 HORSE-DOCTOR. Why, certainly. Anything to 
 please the ladies. [He picks up a leech from the 
 floor in his fingers and advances with it toward 
 Niblick.} 
 
 NIBLICK [jumping up with great alacrity}. 
 But not this afternoon. It's too late for a gar 
 den party now. That leech will have to do with 
 just a cracker at home. 
 
 [CURTAIN.] 
 
 172
 
 A FAN AND TWO CANDLESTICKS. 
 
 (AN OLD-FASHIONED PARTY ON ST. VALENTINE'S 
 NIGHT.) 
 
 [SCENE : A room at the end of a great hall 
 way in a fine old Georgian mansion. The en 
 trance is heavily curtained off and there are 
 heavy hangings at the window. There is an 
 open fireplace with great logs burning and two 
 silver candlesticks, lighted, stand on the mantel 
 piece. The furniture is Georgian mahogany 
 with a rococo touch in some bits. It includes 
 a spinet, a little gilt chair, a spindle-legged 
 table, a large mirror in a gilt frame, and a set 
 tee. The entrance is at the center of the back 
 of the stage, the window at the left, the fire 
 place at the right, settee in front of the fire 
 place, spinet in the left corner, gilt chair near 
 it in front of the window. Everything is very 
 established, formal, decorative, as in the 
 eighteenth century. Music is heard of flutes, 
 violins, bass-viols, and other instruments that 
 made up the orchestra of that day. A very 
 pretty girl enters in ball-gown of the eighteenth 
 century, and with her a young man. The girl 
 is fair and flushed, with blue eyes, and has 
 charm and latent vivacity. She is dressed in 
 corn-color and white satin with trimmings of 
 lace and pearls, has powdered hair, high-heeled 
 173
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 white satin slippers with buckles, and a pink 
 rose in her hair. The young man is good-look 
 ing, blond with dark eyes and a certain smooth 
 ness that indicates he will be fatter when the 
 years are added. He wears a powdered wig, 
 a light green satin coat, white satin waistcoat, 
 old-rose knee breeches of a pale shade, silk 
 stockings and buckled shoes.] 
 
 RALPH. You're very good to come with me, 
 I was afraid you'd not agree. 
 To leave the dancing in the hall. 
 
 NANCY. When one's invited to a ball, 
 One is expected, sure, to dance, 
 Unless one meets with the mischance 
 To sprain one's ankle or to fall 
 Into a dreadful fainting fit ! 
 I hope I'll not 
 
 RALPH. Oh, don't do it! 
 
 NANCY. At least I'll try not at this ball. 
 
 [They both laugh. The music is heard.] 
 
 RALPH. But where they're dancing 'tis so gay 
 I was afraid you'd wish to stay, 
 
 NANCY [archly]. Perhaps I did. 
 
 RALPH. But yet you came. 
 
 NANCY. Why, one must always play the game. 
 If you had asked instead, perchance, 
 To have the pleasure of a dance, 
 I would have stayed and danced with you. 
 Don't you expect a maid to do 
 Exactly as you ask her to ? 
 
 RALPH. Why, yes, I do, and yet suppose 
 A maid has several different beaux, 
 She can't in truth content them all. 
 
 174
 
 A FAN AND TWO CANDLESTICKS 
 
 NANCY. She can, in turn, at one short ball. 
 RALPH. Yes, but I'm talking now of life, 
 I'm asking you to be my wife. 
 NANCY [starting]. Good gracious, Ralph, 
 
 you don't prepare 
 A maid for such a sudden scare ! 
 
 [She moves over to the spinet and sits down on 
 
 the stool. He follows her.] 
 RALPH. Scare? Why, I thought you always 
 
 knew 
 It was the end I had in view. 
 
 NANCY. I didn't. And yet if I did, 
 You had your end so safely hid 
 I wouldn't ever dare to guess 
 The secret you would fain repress. 
 
 RALPH. It was no secret and I vow 
 NANCY. You never mentioned love till now. 
 [Slowly and after a slight pause.] 
 If I bethink me it doth prove 
 You still have never mentioned love. 
 
 RALPH. I thought you knew. I had my 
 
 work, 
 
 I'm not a flirt and not a shirk, 
 One doesn't hurry into fate. 
 
 [He draws up the little gilt chair and sits down 
 
 in front of her] 
 
 NANCY. Did you not fear you might be late? 
 That some one might have got before 
 [Footsteps are heard approaching.] 
 And entered ere you tried the door? 
 
 [Hugh comes in through the curtains, looks 
 angry and disconcerted, then cools down and 
 bows most ceremoniously and low to them. 
 He has a rather brown skin with color in his 
 
 175
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 cheeks, and has fascinating grey-blue eyes. 
 He is dressed in rather grey-blue velvet coat, 
 very pale yellow satin waistcoat, lavender 
 satin knee-breecfaes, silk stockings and 
 buckled shoes.~\ 
 
 HUGH. I'm sorry, sir, your joy to spill 
 But Nancy promised this quadrille 
 To me. 
 
 NANCY. Of course, I'd quite forgot. 
 
 [She rises and curtsies low to him.'} 
 And that reminds me, have you not 
 My fan? 
 
 HUGH. Your fan? 
 
 NANCY. Yes, I have lost 
 
 My fan, and am quite tempest-tossed 
 Concerning it, for, don't you see? 
 My dearest Grandma gave it me, 
 And it is quite the handsomest, 
 Oh, yes, and best and loveliest 
 
 HUGH. Both fan and Grandmama I know, 
 And we had all much better go, 
 If it's not found, and quickly hide 
 Our heads beneath the river's tide. 
 
 RALPH. Oh, may I be of any use? 
 My ignorance is my excuse 
 You didn't tell me of your 
 
 NANCY [reproachfully]. Well, 
 You didn't give me time to tell. 
 You see now that I'm sore distraught 
 
 [In the most appealing and adorable voice.] 
 And if you had a little thought 
 For me, you'd both go hunt my fan ! 
 
 HUGH. What man can do, then, shall do man ! 
 
 [He seems about to go, then turns back and 
 176
 
 A FAN AND TWO CANDLESTICKS 
 
 confronts her. She is standing between the 
 two men, Hugh on her right, Ralph on her 
 left.-] 
 
 HUGH. But, prithee, how will you reward 
 The one who finds? 
 
 NANCY. With my regard, 
 
 With gratitude and fair good will ! 
 
 HUGH. With something else? The last 
 
 quadrille ? 
 
 [There is a moment's silence, all three half 
 smiling, the two men on either side of the 
 girl regarding her with keenest interest.'} 
 NANCY. Why, yes, I promise last to dance 
 To-night with him who has the chance 
 To find my fan. Now, au revoir, 
 Be guided by some lucky star! 
 
 [She sits down again on the stool before the 
 
 spine t.~\ 
 
 RALPH [turning hastily to go and bowing low 
 to Nancy as he is about to pass through the 
 curtains~\. 
 Don't fret, for we will find the fan. 
 
 HUGH [amused and mocking']. 
 I almost think you are the man 1 
 Then go and hunt I'll take the bird 
 That's in the bush. For hope deferred 
 Did ever make me sick. So here 
 I'll stay with Nan. It would be queer 
 For us to leave her quite alone 
 This is my time, the only one 
 Perhaps I'll have. Give you good luck! 
 I like you, Ralph, I like your pluck. 
 
 [Hugh sits down on the little gilt chair and 
 there is nothing left for Ralph to do but go. 
 177
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 He smiles hopefully and reassuringly at 
 Nancy. ~] 
 
 RALPH. Honor's the same in love and war, 
 I'll bring the fan, then au revoir! 
 
 [Ralph bows himself out through the curtains. 
 Nancy rises and goes over to the other side 
 of the room. She seems disturbed and to 
 try to evade Hugh, who follows watching 
 her. He goes to the settee and stands be 
 hind it, making a gesture of offering her a 
 seat. She stands looking into the fire.] 
 HUGH. Won't you be seated, fair Nanette ? 
 NANCY. My name is Nancy. 
 HUGH. But Nanette 
 
 Is used for rhyming with coquette. 
 
 NANCY. Perhaps you are. the one to know, 
 They say you're such a heartless beau. 
 
 HUGH. I have been ever since I met 
 The pretty maid I call Nanette. 
 She'll neither give me back my heart, 
 Nor give me hers such is her art 
 Of coquetry. Won't you sit down? 
 
 [Nancy sits down on one end of the settee 
 farthest from where he stands with his hand 
 resting on the back of itJ] 
 HUGH. You have on such a lovely gown, 
 It doth become you e'en as gold [gallantly] 
 Sets off the pearl it doth enfold. 
 
 NANCY. It seems you haven't lost your wit 
 
 [smiling'} , 
 Nor tongue to help make use of it. 
 
 HUGH. You think my wit's a thing apart 
 From my poor, luckless, lackless heart? 
 
 178
 
 A FAN AND TWO CANDLESTICKS 
 
 \He comes round to the front of the settee and 
 sits down on it as far as possible from her. 
 Then he leans over and plays with the lace 
 trimming on her sleeve.] 
 
 HUGH. You think a man won't lose his mind 
 Because he loves a maid unkind? 
 
 NANCY. I didn't quite say that and yet 
 [As if meditating something to prove her point 
 
 and try him.~\ 
 Why don't you make a chansonnette? 
 
 HUGH. For dear Nanette? The fair co 
 quette ? 
 
 I'll take your dare some kind of rhyme 
 I'll formulate, while you mark time. 
 
 [They are both silent a few moments, she 
 watching him with a quizzical smile, he with 
 brows knitted, looking hard at the floor.'} 
 
 HUGH. She lost her fan, did sweet Nanette, 
 It wasn't quite within her plan, 
 For while she played at the coquette, 
 She lost her fan. 
 
 Mayhap 'twas left in her sedan, 
 
 Or maybe in the minuet 
 
 'Twas stolen by some naughty man. 
 
 Just where it is I may not bet, 
 But nothing's plainer to me than 
 While trying some one's heart to net 
 She lost her fan. 
 
 NANCY. It seems you haven't lost your head! 
 HUGH. I'd rather have a heart instead. 
 179
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 NANCY. You wouldn't be so nice, so gay. 
 
 HUGH. I'd go contented on my way 
 Nor hang about and linger so 
 To hear a maiden's " Yes ]' or " No." 
 You know it is the day divine 
 That's sacred to St. Valentine, 
 The day a lover must confess, 
 The day a maiden should say " Yes," 
 The day the little birds all mate 
 And bow to Love and nod to Fate. 
 
 NANCY [hastily Interrupting him}. 
 And yet the day of all the year 
 Is likeliest to be most drear. 
 I'm sure the robins have chilblains 
 Upon their little toes. The lanes 
 Are bleak and covered o'er with snow, 
 And listen how the east winds blow ! 
 Perchance there'll be a dreadful storm. 
 
 HUGH [leaning to her~\ 
 
 So much the more should hearts keep warm. 
 Ah, dearest, let me hear you say 
 The word I long for day by day, 
 The little word for which I wait! 
 
 NANCY [nervously"]. It must be getting very 
 
 late! 
 You haven't tried to find my fan. 
 
 HUGH. Why should I, since Ralph is the 
 man? 
 
 NANCY. He isn't. And the last quadrille 
 Is yours, if you the terms fulfil. 
 
 HUGH. If I produce the fan, you'll give 
 The dance to me now, as I live, 
 If with the dance your heart's thrown in, 
 I'll find the fan I'll die or win! 
 
 180
 
 A FAN AND TWO CANDLESTICKS 
 
 NANCY. You're willing thus to trust to fate? 
 [Footsteps are heard coming down the hall.~\ 
 HUGH [entreatingly~\. Say "Yes" before it 
 
 is too late ! 
 You'll give your heart with the last dance? 
 
 [Nancy is very nervous and excited. She 
 looks at Hugh with great earnestness and 
 speaks almost in a whisper. ~\ 
 NANCY. Yes! Fate for fend me from mis 
 chance ! 
 
 [Enter Ralph through the curtains.'} 
 HUGH. Ah, Ralph, you wear a cheerful smile, 
 You've found it? 
 
 RALPH. No, I'll not beguile 
 
 You [speaking to Nancy~\ into hopes, for every 
 where 
 I've searched with diligence and care. 
 
 [Nancy sighs and smiles relief'. The situation 
 is beginning to assume a serious aspect to 
 her.'] 
 
 NANCY. It surely isn't right at all 
 To spoil the pleasure of this ball 
 For you, and we'll abandon now 
 Search for the fan. 
 
 HUGH. Oh, no, I vow ! 
 
 I'm to myself in honor bound! 
 That fan this evening shall be found. 
 
 NANCY. Oh, pray, what difference does it 
 
 make, 
 Just for to-night? 
 
 HUGH. There is at stake 
 
 Something I care for. 
 
 RALPH. On the stair 
 
 I hunted underneath each chair. 
 
 181
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 I'm very sorry, but I fear 
 
 'Tis lost and yet perhaps 'tis here ! 
 
 [He says this as if with sudden thought and as 
 if with inspiration goes to the mantel-piece, 
 takes one of the tall candlesticks from it, and 
 proceeds to walk about the room looking 
 carefully on the floor for the fan.~\ 
 NANCY [rather nervously to Hugh]. 
 Why don't you take the other one? 
 
 [Hugh goes to the mantelpiece and takes there 
 from the other tall lighted candlestick and 
 goes about the room as Ralph does, hunting 
 on the floor and under the curtains and furni 
 ture for the fan.~\ 
 
 NANCY [her nervousness increasing, as she 
 watches first one and then the other and 
 finally gets up and follows first one and then 
 the other]. 
 
 Oh, please don't bother any more, 
 I'm sure it isn't on the floor. 
 Give up the search, I beg of you! 
 
 HUGH. " Give up " was never yet my cue. 
 RALPH. To give up now I could not bear. 
 HUGH. But this I'll do : it is not fair 
 For me to stay, I'll take my turn. 
 And if your candle brightly burn [to Ralph'] 
 While I'm away, e'en though I bring 
 The fan to win the promising [to Nancy] 
 If Nancy wishes to unsay 
 Her promise, she shall have her way. 
 
 [The two men stand on either side of the girl 
 and hold up their candles to light her and 
 as if to pledge her. Hugh bows, then walks 
 
 182
 
 A FAN AND TWO CANDLESTICKS 
 
 across in front of her and on out through 
 the curtains.] 
 
 RALPH. He goeth forth upon his quest 
 And whether in earnest or in jest 
 No man can say. 
 
 [He turns from looking after Hugh to Nancy, 
 and gestures to her to be seated upon the 
 settee.] 
 
 RALPH. Will you not sit? 
 
 [She sits down on the settee.] 
 The last quadrille he may have it. 
 I care not much. 
 
 NANCY. Oh, but you should! 
 
 I mean I almost think you would 
 If you but knew. 'Tis very meet 
 For you to know. Quite indiscreet 
 For me to tell. Oh, can't you guess? 
 RALPH. I only want you to say " Yes." 
 [He goes to the mantelpiece and places the 
 
 candlestick upon it.] 
 'Tis foolish, sure, to break a lance 
 Just for the trifle of a dance. 
 
 [He comes back and takes the little gilt chair, 
 
 placing it in front of her and sits down] 
 Now, Nancy, give me your consent, 
 You must have known 'twas my intent 
 To ask you for my wife some day. 
 I never dreamed you'd say me nay, 
 Or even that you'd hesitate. 
 
 NANCY. You left a great deal, sir, to fate. 
 Don't lovers think they have to woo? 
 
 RALPH. They're fools, I'd too much else to 
 
 do. 
 But now the time is ripe, dear Nan. 
 
 183
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 NANCY. You'd better, then, go hunt my fan. 
 RALPH. That's unimportant 
 NANCY. Nay, not so! [anxiously] 
 
 Indeed, you really ought to go. 
 
 RALPH. Upon that article of dress, 
 Your fan, you lay too much of stress. 
 
 NANCY. Since you'll not guess, I'm forced to 
 
 tell 
 
 I've promised him my heart as well 
 Who brings my fan. 
 
 RALPH. By Jove, I see ! 
 
 But, Nancy, this is trickery. 
 
 [He gets up hastily at the last speech and now 
 moves toward the door. He has taken up 
 the candlestick.'] 
 
 'Tis foolishness ! 
 
 NANCY. We'll play the game 
 
 And have no one but fate to blame. 
 
 RALPH [stopping at the door and looking 
 
 greatly disturbed]. 
 
 Where do you think you could have left 
 The fan? Where shall I hunt? A theft 
 You guess it was? 
 
 NANCY. I can not say 
 
 And should not if I could good day! 
 
 [Ralph rushes toward the door and runs 
 straight into Hugh, who is coming through 
 the curtains.] 
 RALPH. You've got the fan? [Hurriedly 
 
 and anxiously.] 
 
 HUGH. One doesn't get 
 
 What he already has. Nanette, 
 I left you in fantastic mood 
 
 184
 
 A FAN AND TWO CANDLESTICKS 
 
 I've come back and would fain be good. 
 
 Ralph seemed just now so keen to go 
 
 About his business leave you so [noncha 
 lantly] 
 
 I wouldn't have him stay for me. 
 
 [Hugh puts his candle on the mantelpiece. 
 Ralph does not budge, but looks angrily at 
 Hugh.~\ 
 HUGH. Oh, very well, I quite agree 
 
 To have him witness what I tell. 
 
 [He addresses himself always to Nancy, ig 
 noring Ralph.] 
 
 'Twas when you left the chair it fell [producing 
 the fan] 
 
 So noiselessly you did not hear. 
 
 I picked it up because 'twas dear 
 
 To me, and I meant not to give 
 
 It back, but keep it while I live. 
 
 Then came the chance to tease you, for [ges 
 turing toward Ralph] 
 
 'Tis said, all's fair in love and war. 
 
 All is not fair and honor's due, 
 
 So I give back the fan to you. 
 
 It is to you that I confess 
 
 I couldn't risk your happiness. 
 
 RALPH. To choose is now within your will, 
 
 May I not have the last quadrille? 
 
 NANCY. You may, dear Ralph, I'll speak you 
 fair, 
 
 If Hugh will kindly seek my chair 
 
 And walk beside it home with me 
 
 To see my Grandma, probably 
 
 She'd like to-night to wish us joy. 
 
 185
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 [She prettily extends her hand to Hugh, smil 
 ing. Ralph takes in the situation a little 
 slowly and sullenly.~\ 
 
 RALPH. I beg your pardon I'll annoy 
 You no further. 
 
 [He looks a little helplessly at the candle as 
 he turns to go. Hugh steps forward and 
 takes it from him. Ralph departs through 
 the curtains. Hugh blows out the candle 
 and places it on the mantelpiece his own 
 is still burning then comes to Nancy. ,] 
 HUGH. Are you quite 
 
 Content, sweetheart, that this is right? 
 NANCY. I was so very much afraid 
 It wouldn't end this way! A maid 
 Can't see a man's heart until he 
 Makes clear his love with honesty. 
 
 HUGH. You didn't think that I was true? 
 NANCY. You hadn't proved it yet, had you? 
 Until you did, I had to play 
 The game I wanted you alway. 
 
 HUGH. But, dearest, truly will you now 
 Believe I'll keep my lover's vow? 
 
 NANCY. Ah, can't you see I give, dear Hugh, 
 My fan [extending it to him] 
 
 And hand [letting her hand rest in his] 
 
 And heart [laying her head upon 
 
 his breast] 
 To you? 
 
 [The music of the old-fashioned orchestra is 
 heard from the hall. Curtain.'] 
 
 186
 
 A MODERN MASQUE. 
 
 CHARACTERS AS THEY APPEAR. 
 
 GEORGE BERNARD SHAW. 
 
 JOSEPH ADDISON. 
 
 THE SPIRIT OF POETRY. 
 
 THE SPIRIT OF DRAMA. 
 
 SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 THE SPIRIT OF SPRING OR OF YOUTH. 
 
 THE SPIRIT OF WOMAN. 
 
 [SCENE : An open green of thick young 
 grass, surrounded to make an irregular circle 
 by bushes, some of them in flower, sweet syr- 
 inga, fringe, and others. A hill rises in the 
 background covered with thick young grass 
 which waves in the wind. On the hill are also 
 bushes, hawthorns in white flower, some bloom 
 ing fruit trees, and a great honey-locust still 
 in blossom, its petals falling and making snow 
 upon the green grass beneath. In the dis 
 tance is a woodland. Joseph Addis on and G. 
 B. Shaw appear on either side of the green, 
 stop and gaze upon each other with rather hos 
 tile and contemptuous curiosity. Addis on is 
 dressed in a very gay eighteenth century cos 
 tume of green velvet with brocaded waistcoat, 
 prodigious, powdered wig, silk stockings, and 
 buckled shoes. Shaw wears a gray flannel 
 shirt, soft flowing Windsor tie, Norfolk jacket, 
 187
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 knickerbockers, soft slouch hat, and heavy 
 tramping Oxfords. He carries a walking stick 
 and is rather intrusive with his usual plentiful 
 supply of red whiskers. ~\ 
 
 ADDISON [aside"]. 
 
 Whom have we here in such uncouth attire ? 
 A bearded lackey in his master's hire? 
 What breach of taste no wig upon his 
 
 head 
 But fluent hair about his mouth instead ! 
 
 SHAW. Good heavens, man, don't you know 
 better than to use an aside? They are alto 
 gether out of date. The ancient fools and fac- 
 totems of the stage like Shakespeare and Addison 
 used asides but I have changed all that. I am 
 preacher, reformer, prophet. I have taught the 
 public to expect life in the drama and not senti 
 mentality and artificiality. 
 
 ADDISON [aside~\. 
 
 Astounding circumstance ! Who can the 
 
 fellow be 
 To speak of drama, yet not recognize me ! 
 
 SHAW. There you go again with another 
 aside when I have just said they are not per 
 missible. You are as bull-headed as one of the 
 Georges or an Englishman. 
 
 ADDISON [advancing with courtly manners, but 
 glaring] . 
 
 Good fellow, though your manners be 
 uncouth, 
 
 188
 
 A MODERN MASQUE 
 
 You speak of drama, know you then the 
 
 truth: 
 
 I, John Addison, before you stand, 
 Your purpose and your name I would 
 
 demand. 
 
 SHAW. How deliciously humorous ! But now 
 you see how I do it. I say right out to 
 your face what I think that is the way I al 
 ways treat the public, especially if I think they are 
 too stupid to understand. 
 ADDISON. 
 
 The advantage of me still, my man, you 
 
 claim, 
 I, Joseph Addison, know not your name. 
 
 SHAW. Well, it would be almost egotistical 
 in me to expect you to. To expect a man who 
 died a century before I was born to know me, 
 although my whiskers are pretty familiar in most 
 parts of London. I am George Bernard Shaw, 
 critic, essayist, satirist, socialist, dramatist, genius. 
 It is my business to shatter ideals and wittily 
 block out to the world formulae for unpleasant 
 truths. My foster child, Arnold Bennett, has 
 been rather usurping my place lately and I am 
 thinking of killing him with one of my stinging 
 satirical remarks. But I haven't altogether de 
 cided yet, for he doesn't bother me much in my 
 particular sphere. I am still the foremost critic 
 and dramatist of the world. 
 
 ADDISON [politely unctuous~\. 
 
 A critic and a dramatist combined I see ! 
 Indeed 'tis fairly like the eighteenth cen 
 tury. 
 
 189
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 SHAW [smiling], A little with a vast im 
 provement. You fellows of the eighteenth cen 
 tury had some ideas of art I give you full 
 credit for that. Any one of you had more knowl 
 edge of art than that idiot in craftsmanship, that 
 gigantic blunderer, that colossal superstition, 
 Shakespeare. Don't misunderstand me I use 
 the term superstition in connection with Shake 
 speare to mean not at all that he did not exist or 
 that he did not write his own plays. 
 
 ADDISON [smiling superciliously], 
 
 Truly of that there could not be a doubt 1 
 A stable boy, manners and wit without ! 
 Also, a man hath said what he hath said, 
 Produced his products from his own poor 
 head. 
 
 SHAW. You are altogether lucid, Joseph. 
 I quite agree with you. [Poetry and Drama go 
 up the hill together and wander about slowly 
 among the trees and bushes. They are both 
 dressed in flowing garments of Greek style, 
 Poetry in soft blue, Drama in old rose. Drama 
 carries a flowering branch of hawthorn.'] Shake 
 speare's greatness is the superstition I refer to. 
 Every one knows that I think my plays are in 
 finitely better than Shakespeare's and what I 
 think every one will have to think sooner or 
 later. Oh, Shakespeare wrote his own plays. 
 Bacon was too scientific and mental to produce 
 such atrocious rot and gush. Some time ago I 
 remarked that I wanted to dig up Shakespeare's 
 bones and string them up to shoot at for his bad 
 art. But now I realize that isn't enough. I 
 
 190
 
 A MODERN MASQUE 
 
 want to exterminate him completely. But he is 
 elusive. His influence turns up in the most un 
 expected places. But I was told on very good 
 authority, that of J. M. Barrie, that I would be 
 most apt to find him in fairyland especially 
 at this time of the year. So I have come to fairy 
 land here to hunt him down. 
 
 [Poetry and Drama slowly wander down the 
 hill on one side. Shakespeare and Spring 
 emerge from behind the bushes on the other 
 side of the green and go up the hill a little 
 way. They are not together. Shakespeare 
 is in the conventional Shakespearean cos 
 tume of black velvet. Spring is in light 
 green hose, and a little short coat, no shoes t 
 honeysuckle in his hair and a long chain of 
 wild sweet clover hanging from one shoul 
 der down to the other side.] 
 ADDISON. 
 
 We scorn allusions to the land of fairy, 
 we, 
 
 The social satirists of the eighteenth cen 
 tury, 
 
 Yet I to fairyland have come, like you, 
 
 To find out Shakespeare and to thrust him 
 through. 
 
 SHAW [advancing, and the two shake hands 
 like two conspirators]. Good for you, Joseph! 
 I didn't know you had so much blood in you. 
 [Shakespeare has appeared quietly on one side 
 
 of the green] 
 
 SHAKESPEARE [aside]. "So much blood as 
 would clog the foot of a flea." 
 
 191
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 SHAW. I don't take any more stock in fairy 
 land than you do. It is a crude and at the same 
 time an artificial society, a nationality devoid of 
 science or ethics or social uplift and fit only for 
 those sucking-doves of idiots, such as Willie 
 Yeats and the other new-thought Irishmen, who 
 are not Irishmen at all, by the way I am the 
 only Irishman but just ordinary freaks that 
 might occur in Russia or Borneo and as a matter 
 of fact [the spirits of Poetry and Drama, 
 who have been wandering about among the 
 trees, now come quietly down to the green on 
 the other side from Shakespeare while Shaw 
 makes this speech.] 
 
 POETRY. There is Bernard Shaw talking as 
 usual. \_To Drama.] 
 
 SHAW [continuing], and as a matter of 
 fact have occurred in France and Germany and 
 England at intervals throughout the history of 
 the world, as in the case of Shakespeare and 
 Shelley 
 
 POETRY [coming forward]. Shelley? What 
 have you to say of Shelley? 
 
 SHAW. Only that he was insane and an an 
 archist. His was a mind gone wrong. I some 
 times think if he had lived in my day I might 
 have converted him and made something out of 
 him, that is to say, made a socialist out of him. 
 But it would be almost egotistical in me to ex 
 pect to have an influence over a man who died 
 before I was born approximately. But, my 
 dear madam, who are you ? I think I never met 
 you. 
 
 POETRY. You are quite right. You do not 
 192
 
 A MODERN MASQUE 
 
 know me and I think you will never know me. I 
 am the spirit of Poetry. 
 
 SHAW. Quite so. I permit myself to be 
 blind to the unessentials. You are a creature of 
 no particular value in the ethical or scientific or 
 social economy. 
 
 ADDISON. 
 
 Indeed, my friend, you do egregious wrong, 
 Oh, do not scorn, but praise immortal song! 
 I bow before the bright celestial Muse, 
 May she with light my poor attempts in 
 fuse! 
 
 May she with inspiration touch my rhyme, 
 And all my lines march to her feet sublime 1 
 
 [Spring has been wandering about on the hill 
 side, playing with flowers and weaving 
 chains of them, and now conies down to the 
 green.~\ 
 
 POETRY. It all depends upon thy sincerity, 
 dear worshiper. One doubts a little of thee. 
 My poets no longer harass their souls for the 
 sake of that corset called rhyme. There was 
 Walt Whitman, for instance, who did not know 
 rhyme from a turkey buzzard yet [rever 
 ently] yet one touches the memory of his soul 
 as one would touch a wind-flower. 
 
 SPRING. A wind-flower? One of my flow 
 ers? You were talking of one of my flowers, 
 Poetry? 
 
 POETRY. Yes, Spring, one of your flowers 
 and one of your people. [To Shaw and Addi- 
 5o.] This little person is the spirit of Spring 
 or of Youth, one of my dear friends. 
 
 193
 
 SHAW. It would be almost egotistical in me 
 to expect to remember Youth since I am so es 
 sentially middle-aged, yet I can readily see that 
 youth may exist in fairyland. But who is this 
 other gentleman? He looks rather attractive in 
 spite of his silly clothing. Is he to put it in the 
 English sense one of your followers? [To 
 Poetry. ] 
 
 POETRY. I have told you that I am Poetry. 
 This is another friend of mine. He sometimes 
 goes about by himself but he is always more 
 splendid when I am with him. We are always 
 together in the house of Shakespeare or of 
 Maeterlinck or of Rostand. He is the spirit of 
 Drama. 
 
 SHAW [with effusion, making for Drama, who 
 stands back from him coldly.~\ Ah, my dear fel 
 low, I am your friend and patron, the best ex 
 ponent of you on the stage to-day. 
 
 DRAMA [with dignity]. I do not know you. 
 
 SHAW. Why, my dear boy, I am G. B. Shaw, 
 I am your patron saint! 
 
 DRAMA. You might be the devil by the look 
 of you. Your make-up would do for Mephis- 
 topheles in " Faust," yet oh, pshaw, I [smiling'] 
 do not know you. I have not the pleasure of 
 your acquaintance. 
 
 SHAW. But, my dear fellow, don't you re 
 member? I criticized plays for years and now 
 I write them. 
 
 DRAMA. That proves you are no dramatist. 
 A budding genius writes plays first and criticizes 
 them afterwards. 
 
 SHAW. Geniuses don't bud nowadays. They 
 
 194
 
 A MODERN MASQUE 
 
 are scientifically developed by vegetarian nourish 
 ment starting with the kindergarten, or, I may 
 say, with pre-natal influence. 
 
 DRAMA [puzzled]. He doesn't sound like 
 Sophocles or Moliere or even Hauptmann or 
 D'Annunzio or Maeterlinck. 
 
 POETRY. Mr. Shaw is British, you know. 
 
 DRAMA. But there was my Shakespeare he 
 was British. 
 
 POETRY. The superman of British art. 
 
 SHAW [staggering back}. Superman! Good 
 heavens, merciful powers ! They apply my own 
 dear designation to that driveling idiot! 
 
 [Drama and Poetry support him.] 
 
 SHAKESPEARE. " That was the most unkind- 
 est cut of all." 
 
 SHAW. Thanks, I'm all right. Any one who 
 in knee breeches and gray flannel shirt has 
 trundled his art through the streets of London 
 as I have done has learned to stand on his own 
 two legs. But, what puzzles me, Drama, is what 
 you are doing in fairyland? 
 
 SPRING [dancing down from behind and 
 around among them on the green]. 
 
 All roads go to fairyland, 
 Every wise man's son doth know, 
 Joy and Beauty hand-in-hand 
 Lead the way to fairyland, 
 Dancing, singing as they go. 
 
 [He dances down the center among them, then 
 
 vanishes into the background.] 
 DRAMA. I fear, Mr. Shaw, you are merely a 
 phase of the moment. You do not realize that
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 I am cosmopolitan, that I am of time and of 
 eternity. I have abodes everywhere even a 
 castle in Spain like many another poor soul. 
 One of my chiefest estates is in fairyland, and I 
 am never quite happy unless I carry a spray from 
 fairyland with me. We call that spray Fantasy. 
 
 POETRY. The question is, what are you do 
 ing in fairyland, Mr. Shaw? It is a very strange 
 place for you to be in and very strange that here 
 in fairyland you should come for the first time 
 face to face with the spirit of Drama. Though 
 you are not the first one who has had to come to 
 dreamland to meet him. 
 
 SHAW. Why, I will be perfectly frank with 
 you. I was never one to hide my talents or my 
 opinions under a bushel. I am after Shake 
 speare. 
 
 DRAMA. You are after Shakespeare a long 
 way after. 
 
 SHAW. He was so bungling a fool in his art, 
 his craftsmanship was so imperfect, he didn't 
 know what construction meant in the drama, and 
 I am sick of his false pretensions and position and 
 all the adulation paid him, so I am going to ex 
 terminate him. I and my old friend here, 
 Joseph. Joseph, where are you? 
 
 \_Addison has gone to sleep on a log, and the 
 spirit of Woman has entered unobserved 
 during Shaw's speech.~\ 
 
 WOMAN. You mean Joseph Kipling, I sup 
 pose. That unfortunate fellow who was once 
 Rudyard Kipling, the gifted boy, the very darling 
 of the gods. But his taste for cynicism and sen 
 sationalism have ruined him. He has degen- 
 
 196
 
 A MODERN MASQUE 
 
 erated into a common and unpleasant man-scold 
 in the ugliest of ill-fitting clothing and the most 
 unsanitary of wire-haired mustaches. So we call 
 him no longer Rudyard but Joseph it seems to 
 suit him better. 
 
 SHAW. No, I don't mean Kipling. He has 
 all he can do fixing women in their right place 
 and earning enough money for keeping a wife 
 to bear him children. He is busy with the female 
 of the species. I mean Addison. Where are 
 you, Joseph? You were here a moment ago. 
 
 ADDISON [who has been sitting asleep on the 
 log, now jumps to his feet, winking fast to get 
 awake.] 
 
 A bloody business now we have on hand, 
 Drenching with gore the sod of fairyland! 
 Ladies, I pray you, flee from hence afar, 
 Where anguished groans may not your 
 spirits jar! 
 
 WOMAN [running forward]. Oh, do not shed 
 blood, I beseech you! 
 
 POETRY. Oh, do no harm to Shakespeare, I 
 entreat you ! 
 
 SHAW [patronizingly]. Now, my dears, don't 
 make an unpleasant scene. We are quite deter 
 mined to kill him. [To Woman.'] You are the 
 spirit of Woman, I perceive, even though you 
 are in different clothing from that I usually dress 
 you in, I know you too well to be fooled by mere 
 outward trappings. Now, run away, dears, like 
 good women, and weep privately in some out-of- 
 the-way place where your sobs will not be heard. 
 We dislike feminine wailing. And we have 
 
 197
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 man's business to attend to. Joseph, where are 
 you? Where do you suppose Shakespeare is? 
 
 WOMAN. Oh, where is he that we warn him? 
 
 POETRY. Oh, where is he that we may protect 
 him? 
 
 SHAKESPEARE [advancing with a courtly bow 
 to Poetry], I am here, dear madonna [bowing 
 in the same courtly way to Shaw]. I am here, 
 good hangman. I am among you as the artist 
 is always among you. I am at the mercy of the 
 dilettante [bowing to Addison\ and of the medi 
 ocre [bowing to Shaw] as the genius is always at 
 their mercy. And I am defenseless as the artist 
 is always defenseless. 
 
 [Poetry and Woman quickly hurry to Shake 
 speare and stand in front of him, protect- 
 in gly.~\ 
 
 POETRY [to Shakespeare]. They dare not 
 touch you, my lord. 
 
 SHAKESPEARE. They dare touch anything, 
 dear madonna. " Fools rush in where angels 
 fear to tread." Nothing in this world is safe 
 from the dilettante and the mediocre and, thou 
 wilt add, from the vulgar and the over-zealous 
 neophyte. With greasy thumb they rub the 
 bloom from the blue grape, and with sickening 
 breath they wither the blue violet. They go 
 about the earth like deadly flies destroying love 
 liness. There is nothing left to the lover of 
 beauty but his own soul and the blue of heaven. 
 
 SHAW. Talking sentimental gush, as usual. 
 Come, Joseph, we must do for him. Ladies, 
 please stand aside. 
 
 198
 
 A MODERN MASQUE 
 
 [Addison unsheathes his sword and Shaw 
 brandishes his walking stick. Woman and 
 Poetry gather closer round Shakespeare and 
 shield him.'] 
 
 POETRY. Oh, my lord, will you not flee? 
 WOMAN [to Addison and Shaw]. You dare 
 not touch him till you have first made way with 
 me. 
 
 SHAW. Well, you may have observed that we 
 are rather doing that. 
 ADDISON [grandiosely]. 
 
 Give over dreams and feminine inanity, 
 Make way for men and true poetic sanity ! 
 
 DRAMA. I am cosmopolitan, impartial, un 
 prejudiced, but when a conflict comes I must stand 
 upon the right side. I beg you not to be too 
 foolishly militant, rude, ungenerous, and most 
 of all short-sighted, gentlemen, against a 
 genius so beautiful, so wonderful. You will see 
 the day when you will rue it. 
 
 SHAW. Pooh, pooh, the fight is on. [Hold 
 ing up his walking stick.] This is my strong 
 weapon, satire. It is stronger than Excalibur or 
 the sword of Siegfried strong, hard, and ma 
 terial. With it I fight and slay all silly prettiness, 
 untruths, and dreams. 
 
 WOMAN. Ah, who are you, to know what 
 now is truth? 
 
 [Shaw makes a lunge, followed by Addison. 
 Poetry and Woman with Drama between 
 them and a little in front of them, gather to 
 gether, stand silently before Shakespeare and 
 199
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 begin to wave filmy veils toward Shaw and 
 Addison. The latter halt, step back, and 
 stand as if transfixed.] 
 
 SHAW [low and mumbling]. What are they 
 doing, Joseph? Are they doing the same thing 
 to you? I feel sleepy. They are doing some 
 thing. 
 
 ADDISON. They do what they have done these 
 
 hundred years, 
 An incantation worthy your worst fears. 
 
 SHAW. Incantation? Nonsense. I don't be 
 lieve in incantations. But they are doing some 
 thing. Have they done this to you for a hun 
 dred years? I feel it would be almost ego 
 tistical in me to remember a hundred years. 
 ADDISON. 
 
 Time and oblivion are the subtle wrong 
 These beings use upon my plays and song. 
 The venom worketh with the slow sad hour, 
 Against their poisonous charms we have 
 no power. 
 
 SHAW. Have they done it to you for a hun 
 dred years, Joseph? No no wonder your 
 brain is such a dusty old miller. But I think 
 they will not do it to me for so long. I I 
 am too sane too brilliant too I shall have 
 to use my stick to support myself with. I am so 
 ridiculously sleepy. 
 
 [Shakespeare stands quietly behind them, 
 watching. Spring, who has been in the back 
 ground all the while, is now waving a wreath 
 of flowers.] 
 
 200
 
 A MODERN MASQUE 
 
 POETRY. 
 
 We wave you the spell of the years, 
 
 Forgetfulness cruel and sure, 
 
 We wave it in sorrow and tears 
 
 To souls unfit to endure. 
 
 Forgetfulness subtle and sure 
 
 Is our weapon that blights you and sears, 
 
 The little and mean and impure 
 
 Are lost in the spell of the years. 
 
 [Addison and Shaw drop their weapons and 
 are as if hypnotized.] 
 
 SHAW. Jo, Josie, this is no place for us. 
 We'd better go back to London and the camp of 
 the socialists. I'd like a plate of nice boiled rice 
 or vegetable marrow or some other good vege 
 tarian dish to give me strength. These people 
 have an atmosphere that doesn't agree with my 
 health. 
 
 ADDISON. 
 
 They have a power known not to you 
 
 nor me, 
 'Tis called the gift of immortality. 
 
 [They turn and slowly depart as if nearly 
 asleep, Shaw's arm around Addison's shoul 
 der, Addison supporting Shaw.] 
 DRAMA. Farewell to you who are ephemeral. 
 WOMAN. Though you two gentlemen may 
 reside in London for a season, you must know 
 that you are not bound eternally for the shores 
 of Thames, but very eternally for the shores of 
 Lethe. 
 
 201
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 POETRY. 
 
 The earth-soul of the good and the gay 
 Recks naught of the new nor the old, 
 But proffers his garlands of bay 
 To the heart and the genius of gold. 
 
 [Addison and Shaw are gone and the others 
 turn now to Shakespeare.] 
 
 WOMAN. You are saved, my beloved lover. 
 
 DRAMA. You are saved once again, my be 
 loved dramatist. 
 
 POETRY. You are saved, my lord and beloved 
 poet. 
 
 SPRING. You are saved, my beloved big 
 friend. But weren't you awfully worried and 
 frightened? I was. I didn't know what they 
 might do to you. Didn't you want to fight them, 
 too? I hoped you would fight them. 
 
 SHAKESPEARE [smiling']. The lusty blood in 
 springtime hopes ever for a pretty fight. But 
 thou shouldst read thy Bible, sweet youth. It 
 giveth much direction and much consolation. It 
 saith, " Vengeance is mine, I will repay, saith the 
 Lord." And moreover, it counsels me and thee 
 to " Fret not thyself because of evil-doers." 
 
 SPRING. Oh, but I did want you to fight 
 even if it was two to one and they had such fear 
 some weapons, and you none at all. 
 
 SHAKESPEARE. The world hath fearsome 
 weapons ever and it is ever two against one when 
 a genius hath the temerity to pit himself against 
 the world. The genius must die, yet will he live. 
 And he who is scorned by the many to-day will 
 be worshiped by the many to-morrow. 
 
 202
 
 A MODERN MASQUE 
 
 WOMAN. I must leave you now. I must go 
 back to the world. I am needed. 
 
 SPRING. Don't you ever stop to play and 
 have some fun? Don't you ever have any fun, 
 Woman ? 
 
 WOMAN. Oh, yes, I stop to play and have 
 fun, though I didn't while I was Victorian. And, 
 what is pleasantest, I am learning to get fun out 
 of all sorts of work. I must go back to the world 
 now. I am very much needed there. I have to 
 work for suffrage in New York. 
 
 DRAMA. I, too, must go. They are in need 
 of me on Broadway as a naked man is in need 
 of a shirt. I may be able soon to inspire some 
 noble-hearted youth to fight for me against their 
 astute and self-satisfied grossness. 
 
 POETRY. I, too, must go. I am needed more 
 than any of you. I am needed to make your 
 work sweeter and more effective. People think 
 I belong exclusively to fairyland, but I am in 
 everything and I am needed everywhere, though 
 they do not know it, poor souls, and few of them 
 ever see me. 
 
 [They start away slowly, Woman first, then 
 Drama, and last Poetry.] 
 
 POETRY [turning back~\. When our beloved 
 has need of us, we come. For, though opinion 
 is fleeting, art is long long and beautiful, 
 tenacious and dominant, as hope is and as beauty 
 itself is. 
 
 SHAKESPEARE. Auf wiedersehen. 
 
 POETRY. To the world, where we are needed. 
 
 [They go, leaving Shakespeare and Spring 
 waving them good-by.~\ 
 203
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 SPRING. Do you talk German, Shakespeare? 
 
 SHAKESPEARE. I speak in many languages, 
 to many tongues haye been translated. Thou 
 knowest the German folk have pictured me most 
 graciously. They understand me as well, nay 
 sometimes better, than have mine own people. 
 Yet I do use auf wiedersehen now only because 
 there is in English no expression for so brief a 
 parting. 
 
 SPRING. 
 
 You meet your people here and there, 
 
 Oh, here and there, 
 Poetry, Drama, Woman fair, 
 
 Yes, Woman fair, 
 
 Philosophy and Truth a*id Art, 
 
 Oh, Truth and Art, 
 Auf wiedersehen, you only part 
 
 To meet again. 
 
 SHAKESPEARE. But thou, my little Youth and 
 
 spirit of Spring, 
 
 Art with me ever as the blue of heaven, 
 For artists keep their hearts forever young, 
 And poets keep their love of little things, 
 Of lambs and brooks and robins in the grass, 
 Of tiny new-born leaves all fair and frail, 
 Of little hands and chuckling baby laughs, 
 Of little lost white clouds athwart the blue, 
 Of smallest song of very smallest bird, 
 And softest wind among the little leaves, 
 Of wind-flowers frail and wee blue violets, 
 In little dells of proper fairy size, 
 Of all the dearest things in this dear world. 
 
 204
 
 A MODERN MASQUE 
 
 SPRING. 
 
 But so many poor people forget 
 The spirit of joy and of spring, 
 And still are despondent and fret 
 When redbirds and brown thrashers sing. 
 
 SHAKESPEARE. When weakness which is oft 
 
 a heavier weight 
 
 Than conscious sin upon the soul of man, 
 When selfishness and lethargy and lack 
 Of generous attitude towards others' weal, 
 When hardened middle-age and pedant self 
 And all the concrete stubborn cruelties 
 That come not from hot blood but cold experi 
 ence, 
 
 Turning life's currents into frozen streams, 
 When most these hard unprofitable things 
 Do weigh upon my spirit and do sear 
 The joy of life within, then most I think 
 Of thee and all thy fair young loveliness. 
 " When daisies pied and violets blue 
 And lady-smocks all silver white, 
 And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue 
 Do paint the meadows with delight," 
 I lift mine eyes unto the blue of heaven 
 In silent gratitude for spring, for youth. 
 When coldness in the winter of the year 
 Or hardness in the winter of the soul 
 Do vex me most, then is it time for thee. 
 
 SPRING. 
 
 Sing a song of bluebirds, 
 Spring is coming by, 
 Sing a song of robins, 
 Blue is in the sky, 
 205
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 Sing a song of blossoms, 
 Fragrance in the air, 
 Sing a song of fairyland, 
 Joyance everywhere. 
 
 SHAKESPEARE. Therefore, since thou art still 
 
 my little friend, 
 
 Little brother and page, it seemeth me, 
 Attendant still upon us poets ever, 
 Belonging to us down through all the years, 
 I give thee now, our very dearest treasure, 
 Spirit of Spring, oh, joyous spirit of Youth, 
 I give thee to the world, and so, farewell. 
 
 [Shakespeare presents Youth to the world or 
 the audience and then silently withdraws 
 into the background of shrubbery at the 
 other side of the green from where the 
 other spirits have gone on the same side 
 from which he came. Youth extends his 
 arms to the world and sings :] 
 YOUTH OR SPRING. 
 
 Violets growing few, 
 Cometh the rose, 
 Daylight is going by, 
 Soon will the twilight sky 
 Half-moon disclose 
 Still in the fairest blue 
 Over the dreaming dew. 
 Beauty forever nigh, 
 I come to you ! 
 
 [He comes out among them.~\ 
 206
 
 THE FUTURISTS. 
 (AN EARLY WOMAN'S CLUB MEETING.) 
 
 MRS. JAMES WHITE, hostess, nouveau riche, 
 but somewhat timid. 
 
 MRS. J. M. SMITH, if Catholic would have been 
 a Mother Superior, as Presbyterian is presi 
 dent of the Ladies' Aid Society. 
 
 Miss HOPE WRIGHT, the ultra modern scientist 
 of the '8o's. 
 
 MRS. WESTON-JONES, grass widow, who paints 
 on china and recites. 
 
 Miss FLORA MAY ROGERS, the leader who illum 
 inates conventional progress. 
 
 MRS. SCRUBBS, D. A. R. decayed aristocracy 
 rising. 
 
 Miss BEATON, who sings. 
 
 MRS. CLARENCE MELLIMORE, asthete. 
 
 With humble apologies to everybody. The D. 
 A. R. lady did not exist in the early eighties, but 
 she is too delightful to be omitted from such a 
 gathering as this. Please let her charm, then, ex 
 cuse her inadvertence. 
 
 [Curtains open upon Mrs. White's 1882 par 
 lor. The room has a low mantelpiece with a 
 large mirror over it at the center of the back. 
 In this mirror Mrs. Preston-Jones is reflected 
 to the real audience when she recites. The 
 207
 
 furniture is the inartistic stuff of that inartis 
 tic Victorian period. There is a bass-rocker t 
 if possible, several screens covered with Japa 
 nese fans, Japanese paper umbrellas above the 
 pictures, " throws " everywhere, ribbons tied in 
 great bows to chairs and vases, a gilded 
 rolling pin hanging from the wall, a large 
 shovel gilded and with a snow scene covered 
 with diamond dust painted on it, ugly bric-a- 
 brac, furniture upholstered in rep and hair 
 cloth. The room is cluttered and disconcert 
 ing. When the ladies are seated, they should 
 form a semi-circle, facing the audience, with 
 Miss Rogers in the center. They should be 
 placed: Miss Wright, Miss Beaton, Mrs. 
 Scrubbs, Miss Rogers, Mrs. Smith, Mrs. 
 Mellimore, Mrs. White, Mrs. Weston-Jones. 
 Miss Rogers should be provided after they 
 are seated, with a glass of water on a little 
 stand. Mrs. White enters with a broad piece 
 of ribbon which she ties in a big bow to the han 
 dle of a gilded shovel standing in the corner. 
 She then goes to the table and regards the 
 books, novels by Black, Miss Braddon, and 
 the Duchess. She goes out and brings in 
 " Lucile " and " Aurora Leigh," which she 
 places in conspicuous positions on the table. 
 As she does so the bell rings and Mrs. Smith 
 and Miss Wright enter. Greetings.'} 
 
 WRIGHT. Look here, Mrs. White, I don't 
 want you to insult Mrs. Smith by thinking we 
 came together. We didn't. We just happened 
 to meet at your door. She wouldn't be seen 
 
 208
 
 THE FUTURISTS 
 
 on the street with me. Of course she couldn't 
 tell you, so I thought I ought to. You see, I'm 
 an agnostic. 
 
 [The other two ladies look shocked and depre 
 cating.] 
 
 WHITE. Oh, Miss Wright, you oughtn't to 
 tell such things on yourself. Nobody would 
 know if you didn't tell. 
 
 WRIGHT. But I want 'em to know. I read 
 Darwin and Herbert Spencer and Huxley. I've 
 read the " Origin of Species " and I'm in " Syn 
 thetic Philosophy " now. I believe in evolution. 
 Yes, I do, I believe in evolution. 
 
 SMITH. Our minister says that the theory of 
 evolution and the doctrine of divine inspiration 
 are not wholly incompatible when you under 
 stand them clearly as he does and approach 
 them in a spirit of reverence and devout seek 
 ing after truth. He preaches beautiful sermons 
 on science and religion. He gives enlightening 
 five-minute talks at the opening exercises of our 
 Ladies' Aid Society every Thursday afternoon. 
 
 WRIGHT. I s'pose he can give Herbert Spen 
 cer's " Synthetic Philosophy " in a nut-shell in 
 five minutes. 
 
 SMITH [glaring and firm]. Yes, he can. Our 
 Ladies' Aid Society is so active and accomplishes 
 so much work. I don't see why Miss Flora May 
 Rogers didn't invite all the members this after 
 noon to join the new organization. 
 
 WHITE. Well, it's Presbyterian. 
 
 SMITH. I can't see that that is any objection. 
 [Severely.] 
 
 WHITE. Oh, no, of course, no objection, 
 209
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 only all the Methodist ladies and all the Baptist 
 ladies and all the Episcopal ladies and all the 
 U. P. ladies and all the Quaker ladies and even 
 some of the Catholic ladies so many, you see. 
 
 SMITH [stiffly], I shouldn't expect her to 
 ask in all the riff-raff, but almost all the important 
 ladies in town are Presbyterian. 
 
 [Door bell has rung during her speech. En 
 ter Mrs. Preston-Jones.] 
 
 W.-J. So glad to be able to come, Mrs. White. 
 
 WHITE. Oh, it isn't my my 
 
 W.-J. That doesn't make the slightest differ 
 ence to me. I hope I should recognize my so 
 cial duty and discharge it in paying my compli 
 ments to the hostess of the house if I were in 
 vited by some totally ulterior person to a hotel or 
 palace or a nunnery. 
 
 WRIGHT. I guess you'd stop for formalities 
 with the queen bee if you got caught in a bee's 
 nest. 
 
 W.-J. Oh, you naughty Hope Wright, what 
 brings you here? 
 
 WRIGHT. I'm sure I don't know, but prob 
 ably about the same thing that brings the rest. 
 
 W.-J. Pardon me but I thought there was a 
 particular reason for inviting each one of the 
 ladies. I imagined that each one had some 
 especial gift that she could offer as her share of 
 the common fund of pleasure. 
 
 WRIGHT. You mean I haven't any parlor 
 tricks. 
 
 W.-J. I would never put it so baldly, dear. 
 Far be it from me ever to draw invidious com 
 parisons. I am so awfully modest about my own 
 
 210
 
 THE FUTURISTS 
 
 little talents, yet I feel that it would be wrong 
 to deny my friends any little pleasure I can af 
 ford them. So when I am very much urged I do 
 consent to recite occasionally. 
 
 \White and Smith have wandered off to the 
 end of the stage.] 
 
 WRIGHT. Well, you've made your raison 
 d'etre clear. Why do you suppose Flora May 
 asked Mrs. J. W. Smith to come? 
 
 W.-J. Tut, tut, how disrespectful! To 
 speak of our distinguished guide in the fields of 
 artistic progress and human thought without the 
 prefix of Miss! She would have to have Mrs. 
 S. because Mrs. S. is a leading light in religious 
 culture. Miss Rogers desires to bring together 
 leading ladies in various branches. 
 
 [Mrs. Smith is heard to say.~\ 
 
 SMITH. I like a good red in a carpet. A red 
 and green carpet brightens a room. 
 
 WHITE. I love wood shades. And it's so 
 nice to feel as if you was treading on autumn 
 leaves. 
 
 SMITH. Well, brown wears well. 
 
 WRIGHT. When she's got 'em, she'll have a 
 nice collection of missing links. Now why on 
 earth did she invite Jim Smith's wife? 
 
 W.-J. Shush! The house, my dear. It can 
 be used so beautifully for entertainments. We 
 can't have the house without having her. 
 
 WRIGHT. Can't have the nut without the 
 worm. 
 
 W.-J. [raising her voice and advancing to 
 wards Mrs. Whlte~\. I was just saying, dear 
 Mrs. White, what a perfectly beautiful house you 
 
 21 I
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 have. It is so artistic. I have never seen so 
 much taste displayed. So decorative. Do you 
 do it all yourself? Wonderfully aesthetic. I 
 try to do a little myself. I am so fond of Japa 
 nese effects. I have a perfectly lovely bird 
 you would adore it about three feet high, with 
 beautiful thin legs, yellow legs a stork or 
 heron or something with long neck and long 
 bill, yellow legs, you know, and white body. It's 
 made of cotton batting and the legs are tissue 
 paper. You've no idea how charming it looks 
 standing by a bamboo picture frame easel in a 
 corner of the parlor with two Japanese fans, 
 crossed, tacked to the wall above. [Door-bell 
 rings. Enter Miss Rogers, Mrs. Scrubbs, Miss 
 Beaton. Salutations.'} 
 
 ROGERS. Isn't it delightful that we are all so 
 prompt? 
 
 WRIGHT. It's just because it's new. When 
 the novelty wears off the same inevitable ladies 
 will be late to club meetings as they have been to 
 parties and missionary meetings. 
 
 ROGERS [smiling]. I grant the habit is strong. 
 
 WRIGHT. It isn't habit it's pose. 
 
 ROGERS. Still I venture to believe that this is 
 a band of thinking, intelligent, responsible women 
 who desire 
 
 WRIGHT. You seem to have extracted all the 
 salt from the sea. 
 
 ROGERS. a band of thinking, intelligent, 
 responsible women [always pronounces it wimin] 
 who desire to develop themselves, to cultivate 
 and foster and promote all their talents and the 
 striving after the ideals they feel to be in their 
 
 212
 
 THE FUTURISTS 
 
 own natures, all the best and noblest and highest 
 that in them lies, both for the ulterior benefit of 
 themselves as individuals, and each and every one 
 of them as co-workers, and even more deeply and 
 earnestly for the benefit of those with whom they 
 in any way come into contact, for the benefit of 
 the neighborhood in which they live, the com 
 munity they would serve, their church, city, state, 
 country, nation. 
 
 [The ladies all gaze at her In rapt admira 
 tion.] 
 
 WRIGHT. Oh, if you think it's going to do all 
 that. I believe in evolution, myself. It seems 
 to me things go rather slow. 
 
 ROGERS. Slow, yes! We can not expect a 
 change in the twinkling of an eye, but slowly, 
 gradually, beautifully. And from small begin 
 nings oh, as it were from insignificant begin 
 nings. We are but a grain of mustard seed. 
 [She says this with unction, giving the impression 
 that she, large and portly, is the mustard seed] 
 
 WHITE [to Mrs. Smith]. She makes you feel 
 your responsibility so. 
 
 SMITH [with her pietistic profundity']. The 
 responsibility laid upon us is great we should 
 always feel it as such. 
 
 ROGERS [brightening]. It seemed fitting that 
 we should begin our afternoon with a little diver 
 sion diversion of a beautiful and uplifting char 
 acter and therefore some of our friends have 
 been kind enough to consent to add to the pleas 
 ure of the occasion. Miss Beaton has succumbed 
 to our urging and will sing. 
 
 [Miss Beaton looks scared and flustered.] 
 213
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 SCRUBBS. Is everybody here? Don't you 
 think we ought to wait till everybody's here? 
 
 ROGERS. I think everybody is here except 
 Mrs. Mellimore and perhaps it would be an ex 
 cellent precedent both for ourselves and for all 
 future ladies' clubs to open our exercises promptly. 
 [Very ponderously and then smiling.] Miss 
 Beaton, will you? 
 
 [Miss Beaton goes to the piano. They all 
 seat themselves in politely attentive atti 
 tudes. She sings in a high, thin, quavering 
 voice " Sweet Fiolets." While she is singing 
 the doorbell rings loudly. Mrs. Mellimore 
 wafts herself in. General disturbance. 
 The hostess rises to get Mrs. Mellimore 
 a chair. Glances among the ladies. Miss 
 Beaton finishes "Sweet Violets." Ap 
 plause.] 
 
 W.-J. Oh, Miss Beaton, that was so charm 
 ing! What a divine gift is the lyric expression 
 of song. How poor and weak and ineffectual 
 does elocution seem beside it. I often say when 
 people are kind enough to compliment me upon 
 my own little talent, oh, if I could only choose! 
 [She shakes her head as words fail to express the 
 fulness of her meaning and emotion.~\ 
 
 SCRUBBS [in a low tone, pugnaciously consol 
 atory]. We enjoyed it so much, Miss Beaton. 
 Your singing was beautiful. Too bad to have it 
 ruined by people coming in late. I was afraid it 
 would be that way. I told Miss Rogers so. 
 Such a racket! 
 
 WRIGHT. You're a daisy, Miss Beaton. The 
 song was a daisy. 
 
 214
 
 THE FUTURISTS 
 
 MELLIMORE [floating up offering her hand 
 languidly]. Daisy? Wasn't it about violets? 
 [To Miss Beaton.] So good of you to sing. 
 Violets are sweet but oh, lilies or sunflowers! 
 They are too utterly too utterly Couldn't 
 you, dear, find a song about a lily or a sunflower? 
 And then design a gown like the flower orange 
 silk, for instance, like the sunflower with per 
 haps green sleeves to represent the leaves, and 
 then you would carry one oh, just one very 
 large sunflower to have it all completely con 
 sistent and aesthetic. Ah, it would be too ut 
 terly adorable ! 
 
 ROGERS. Now that we are all here and have 
 listened with so much appreciation to Miss Bea 
 ton's music, shall we proceed to business and 
 leave the rest of the entertainment till the end of 
 the meeting, or shall we have it now ? 
 
 W.-J. [sweetly apologetic and retiring]. Oh, 
 I shall be so glad to omit it altogether if the 
 ladies think they haven't time. 
 
 WRIGHT. Let's put the entertainment off for 
 the dessert and get to the business now. 
 
 SCRUBBS. My experience in the D. A. R. is 
 that if you get to business you never get back. 
 So have the entertainment now and make sure 
 of it. 
 
 WHITE. Ain't there time for both? I'm sure 
 you don't have to hurry off. 
 
 ROGERS. Very well, then, we will proceed 
 with the entertainment. Mrs. Weston- Jones, will 
 you? 
 
 W.-J. Oh, I feel absolutely wicked to take 
 your valuable time. And I feel so small and fu- 
 
 215
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 tile and inadequate after the beautiful singing. 
 [Then in her most professional voice.] I have 
 selected for my recitation this afternoon a little 
 thing with which you are all familiar, a simple 
 little story told in verse simple yet touching 
 and with the human appeal that must speak with 
 no uncertain accent to the hearts of all. And 
 though a simple story, familiar to many of us, 
 yet never can it lose its charm. Ladies, I will 
 recite the little poem, " Curfew Must Not Ring 
 To-night." 
 
 [She recites it preferably with her back to the 
 audience and her own audience in a semi 
 circle in front of her and facing the real 
 audience. Mrs. White sniffles audibly and 
 at the end of the recitation Mrs. White and 
 Mrs. Scrubbs are dissolved in tears. Much 
 applause so much that Miss Rogers is 
 afraid there is going to be an encore. She 
 rises and stems the current.] 
 ROGERS [impressively always impressively]. 
 While we all understand that Mrs. Weston-Jones 
 has wonderful elocutionary talent, I am sure that 
 we must feel that the exhibit she has just made 
 of it is of a particularly high order. For my 
 self, I can not help realizing deeply that this is 
 due to the importance, the solemnity, the spir 
 itual significance of the occasion. [More lightly.] 
 And now that we have enjoyed the beautiful en 
 tertainment these two ladies have provided so 
 generously 
 
 WRIGHT. Got over the frills. 
 MELLIMORE. Oh, Mrs. Weston-Jones, truly 
 you are you are so intense ! 
 
 216
 
 THE FUTURISTS 
 
 ROGERS. We will now proceed to the busi 
 ness of the afternoon which as you know is the 
 organization of ourselves into the nucleus of a 
 society. It may be well before proceeding 
 further, ladies, to review the situation, to explain 
 some truths, tendencies, and indications that have 
 been so deeply impressing themselves upon some 
 of us. We are now at the parting of the ways, 
 we are in the cumulative initiation of a move 
 ment, we are pioneers in new fields of labor, the 
 richness of which are as yet unexplored and un 
 dreamed of. A great spiritual breath has been 
 passing over the country, through the civilized 
 world, one might almost say, and awakening the 
 women yes, ladies, I repeat, the women [pro 
 nounces it always very carefully wimin"] of the 
 land. They are no longer content to be house 
 hold drudges or the futile, vain, foolish play 
 things of the lords in houses that are mere habita 
 tions no, they are seeking after the arts, they 
 are desirous of cultivating themselves, they would 
 themselves be and they would fill their houses 
 with manifestations of beauty and goodness. 
 Beauty, ladies, the decorative female decora 
 tive actively and passively, subjectly and objec 
 tively decorative as to herself and as to her 
 home and everything she touches the decora 
 tive female is no longer a dream of Tennyson and 
 Ruskin, but she is an accomplished fact. 
 
 WRIGHT [in a loud whisper to Mrs. Scrubbs~\. 
 Well, I've heard of accomplished musicians but 
 I never heard but, yes, she's right the deco 
 rative female is an accomplished fact. 
 
 ROGERS. We ladies of the Victorian era can 
 217
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 not tell what we owe to Tennyson and Ruskin. 
 They are the Castor and Pollux of Victorian 
 Rome, as it were, they are the Moses and Aaron 
 of Victorian womanhood 
 
 WRIGHT [interrupting]. Do you know, Miss 
 Rogers, I don't think so much of those two. I'd 
 call them well, the ladies-maid and housemaid 
 of the Victorian menage. 
 
 ROGERS. My dear, it will be long before 
 Ruskin's influence wanes, if ever. His doctrines 
 of femininity and of the home will be inculcated in 
 young women of the future generation and of 
 future generations. 
 
 WRIGHT. I bet they'll kick over the traces, 
 too. Just wait till there is a reaction against 
 Papa Ruskin and his cap and apron strings. He's 
 the Anglican progenitor of feminine indirect in 
 fluence. 
 
 ROGERS. My dear, I understand he's used 
 now as a text-book in the colleges for young 
 ladies. 
 
 WRIGHT. Oh, what retribution ! 
 
 SMITH. Colleges for young women humph ! 
 
 WRIGHT. Don't you believe in them, Mrs. 
 Smith ? It's what we are all coming to. 
 
 SMITH. Believe in them? Believe in having 
 my little Janie's mind contaminated by philosophy 
 and higher mathematics? Some day I hope she 
 may become a mother ! 
 
 WRIGHT. I can't see any objection. 
 
 MELLIMORE. If they would only teach culture 
 in women's colleges. But I understand they teach 
 a dreadful thing called political economy. 
 
 218
 
 THE FUTURISTS 
 
 WRIGHT. It isn't so dreadful. It's just a sort 
 of log-house in the clearing, Mrs. Mellimore. 
 
 SCRUBBS. I would rather see my daughter in 
 a nunnery than let her go to college. I shall 
 send her to Europe to study music and German. 
 
 SMITH. Women are aping men when they 
 want to go to college. Anything but the strong- 
 minded, masculine woman. [She being extremely 
 masculine and strong-minded.] 
 
 WRIGHT [suggestively]. Well, like the poor, 
 she has always been with us. Oh, I grant you 
 there will be a period when colleges will turn 
 women into mental processes, but that will pass in 
 the course of a few hundred years perhaps and 
 women will learn to take education with a grain 
 of salt, that is humor humor is the mental 
 salt of life and with imagination, which is the 
 wine of life. 
 
 ROGERS. Higher education for women is too 
 radical a step, a foolish and mistaken step to 
 wards anarchy anarchy of the home I may 
 be old-fashioned 
 
 [Cries of " Oh, no, indeed, you are not," etc., 
 from all the ladies] 
 
 ROGERS. too old-fashioned but I can not 
 help regarding it so. 
 
 W.-J. Oh, you are too broad-minded and 
 moderate, Miss Rogers ! 
 
 ROGERS. As I was about to say, this wonder 
 ful movement, this awakening, this spiritual 
 breath that is sweeping over the land, this psychic 
 atmosphere that we are conscious or unconscious 
 of, has come to its fruition, of expansion, of ac- 
 
 219
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 tive development, and ladies everywhere are form 
 ing themselves into societies. Already these re 
 ceptive followers of Ruskin are absorbed in house 
 hold decoration. They take the simplest things 
 and transform them into objects of adorn 
 ment. 
 
 WRIGHT. Yes, it's the day when you can't 
 call a spade a spade but a parlor ornament 
 
 ROGERS. Miss Wright, if you will kindly de 
 sist from interruption there will be abundant 
 time for discussion later. This room is an ex 
 ample of what we all see in each other's homes, 
 of the possibilities in the simplest articles when 
 applied to decoration. But we have been grop 
 ing along as individuals, now we come to the time 
 for banding ourselves together, to work in ac 
 cord, in unison, for the best good of each other 
 and of the many, to develop our tastes, to foster 
 the highest ideals, to nurture taste and culture 
 and mental activity that is becoming in a woman 
 for that purpose, we, a little group of earnest 
 women, are gathered together. 
 
 {The ladies are much impressed, almost carried 
 away. They nod and whisper to each other 
 their deep approval.] 
 
 MELLIMORE. You have so eloquently ex 
 pressed what we all feel. Only I wish you might 
 have added to the prophets of culture and poetry 
 the name of Mr. Oscar Wilde. I feel that the 
 mosaic mantle of Ruskin has fallen upon his 
 shoulders and with a single sunflower in his hand, 
 he will lead us on to victory. 
 
 W.-J. You have indeed expressed our 
 thoughts more nobly than we could have expressed 
 
 220
 
 THE FUTURISTS 
 
 them. It is difficult after such a flight of such 
 a flight of real oratory to proceed to such a hum 
 drum thing as business. 
 
 WRIGHT. If I may be allowed to open my 
 head again, may I ask what all are we up to? 
 Just what is the object? I like to have things 
 definite. You know I'm scientific. 
 
 ROGERS. We are going to organize. 
 
 WRIGHT. Organize what? 
 
 ROGERS. Ourselves. 
 
 WRIGHT. What for? 
 
 SCRUBBS. To study history. 
 
 W.-J. For private theatricals Howells' 
 farces, perhaps. 
 
 BEATON. A ladies' musical club. 
 
 SMITH. To spread an interest in missions. 
 
 WHITE. China painting and wood carving. 
 
 MELLIMORE. Culture the analysis of the 
 intense. 
 
 WRIGHT. Seems a little vague yet. Maybe 
 I'll make out later. 
 
 SMITH. We shall have a president, vice-presi 
 dent, secretary, treasurer, and chairmen of vari 
 ous committees. 
 
 WRIGHT. Isn't that nice then we can all be 
 officers before the members are asked to join. 
 That's the way to get up a club, fix it up to suit 
 yourselves and then invite in the herd to do the 
 work and pay expenses. 
 
 MELLIMORE. Ah, Miss Wright, how delight 
 ful ironical you are ! 
 
 SMITH. We ought to have organization. I 
 believe in thorough organization. Complete, 
 strong organization is like the foundation of a 
 
 221
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 building. We must not build on sand. And we 
 must be splendidly officered. 
 
 WRIGHT. With ourselves to choose from we 
 couldn't help that. 
 
 MELLIMORE. Ah, Miss Wright, how excru 
 ciatingly ironical you are ! 
 
 SMITH. We must first choose officers. 
 
 SCRUBBS. Oh, I think we ought to have a con 
 stitution first. That is the first thing men al 
 ways do. 
 
 SMITH. We can't have a constitution until we 
 have officers. 
 
 SCRUBBS. How in the world can you have of 
 ficers till you have a constitution that tells you 
 what officers to have? I am sure the constitu 
 tion of the United States was the first thing the 
 Pilgrim Fathers I mean the founders did. 
 General Washington and Andrew Jackson and the 
 rest why of course they sat right down and 
 framed the constitution. Any lady in the D. A. 
 R. will tell you that. 
 
 SMITH. Perhaps the ladies of the D. A. R. 
 have had more experience than the ladies of the 
 Ladies' Aid Society or the ladies of the Ladies' 
 Home Missionary Society or the Ladies' Foreign 
 Missionary Society or the Ladies' Auxiliary for 
 Church Extension or the Ladies' Freedman's Aid 
 or the Bible Society or the Ladies' Branch for 
 the Amelioration of the Orphans and Half 
 Orphans of Deceased Missionaries or the Ladies' 
 Extension of the Society for the Support of Su 
 perannuated Ministers. [Draws a long breath.~\ 
 I have held office in all of these worthy organi 
 zations. I may say I have a little experience. I 
 
 222
 
 THE FUTURISTS 
 
 am willing to leave it to the ladies present 
 whether my opinion and advice are valuable or 
 not. 
 
 W.-J. If you will permit a very humble lay 
 man to express a very humble opinion may I say 
 that it seems hardly proper, hardly delicate and 
 feminine for ladies to be too deeply interested in 
 such masculine affairs as a constitution and offi 
 cers. It seems to me that Lord Tennyson and 
 Mr. Ruskin would hardly counsel and direct the 
 feminine mind to such extremes. 
 
 MELLIMORE. I feel quite subtly and respon- 
 sively sure that the aesthetic school would not 
 consider a constitution beautiful. What, oh, 
 what is there in a constitution that is graceful, 
 poetic, or intense? 
 
 WRIGHT. A constitution is not at all evolu 
 tionary. 
 
 ROGERS. But, ladies, we must have a consti 
 tution. All the newest organizations of ladies' 
 societies have them. 
 
 SMITH. A constitution is like a brake on the 
 slippery wheels of radicalism. 
 
 WRIGHT. And the brake gets rusty. 
 
 W.-J. Oh, dear, you make it sound like 
 woman's rights. 
 
 WRIGHT. Well, I don't see why it shouldn't. 
 I believe in woman's rights. 
 
 W.-J. Oh, Hope! 
 
 [The ladies are all scandalized. Chorus of 
 " Oh, Miss Wright."} 
 
 WRIGHT. Yes, I do. I believe in woman's 
 rights, and what is more, I'd just like to vote 
 myself. [Chorus of " ohs."] I'd like to do 
 
 223
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 things like a human being and not like an unde 
 veloped, embryonic thing. And I'd like to work 
 and earn my own living and not be doled out a five- 
 dollar bill at a time from some harem-keeping 
 father or husband or brother. I'd like to earn 
 wages like a man and get the same pay for the 
 same work. 
 
 W.-J. Oh, my dear Hope, for a young lady 
 to work for her living, how unlady-like! 
 
 MELLIMORE. One can speak of the sordid 
 thing called money only with the utmost disincli 
 nation and aversion, but it seems especially shock 
 ing to refer to it in connection with the delicate 
 poetry of femininity. 
 
 ROGERS. For a young lady of respectable 
 parentage to labor outside her own home is per 
 nicious to all the standards of civilization. 
 
 SMITH. It is a denial of holy law. 
 
 WRIGHT. All the same it's coming. 
 
 MELLIMORE. Ah, how infinitely more sublime 
 it would be if we would endeavor to reach a 
 higher plane of artistic appreciation. If we 
 would exist instead of working. If we would 
 but breathe instead of eating. To achieve per 
 fection of line of just one straight line to 
 produce poetry in the hang of a skirt, to occa 
 sion music in the bend of an elbow, to realize art 
 in the contour of a nose, to blend one's soul with 
 the soul of a sunflower ! 
 
 SCRUBBS. I don't know that I catch your 
 meaning but I think if a girl works she'll lose her 
 femininity. 
 
 WRIGHT. Maybe she'd just as well lose a lit 
 tle of it and her bustle, too. 
 
 224
 
 THE FUTURISTS 
 
 ROGERS. Ladies, I hope you will not repeat 
 this conversation. While we must grant to each 
 and every one the privilege of individual opin 
 ion, it would be disastrous to have the extremely 
 peculiar views of one member become known and 
 perhaps attached by an inconsiderate public to all 
 of us. As the leaders of the thought of the day 
 we can not afford to be considered peculiar, 
 strong-minded, or possessing strangely unfeminine 
 ideas. 
 
 WRIGHT. Well, you know ideas change. 
 What's one man's bucking steer to-day is another 
 man's meat to-morrow. 
 
 ROGERS \jscverelj]. There are some ideas 
 that will remain forever distasteful to truly deli 
 cate and refined women. I believe I voice the 
 sentiments of all the ladies present except Miss 
 Wright, when I say female suffrage is one of 
 these distasteful and pernicious ideas. 
 
 \They all nod and murmur approval.] 
 
 SCRUBBS. Wouldn't it be a good thing if we 
 passed resolutions disapproving of certain things? 
 The D. A. R. frequently pass resolutions. 
 
 SMITH. We ought, as a moral influence in 
 the community, to which all eyes are turned, to 
 place ourselves on record as upholding all ethi 
 cal principles and disapproving certain deleterious 
 practises. Smoking, for instance. I think we 
 ought to protest against smoking. Such a meas 
 ure on our part would have great weight with 
 gentlemen. Those who are given to die filthy 
 habit would be discouraged, those who abstain 
 would be strengthened by our moral support. 
 
 225
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 WHITE. But don't you think gentlemen enjoy 
 smoking ? 
 
 SMITH [severely]. The reason men persist in 
 this bad habit is that they are pampered by fool 
 ish women in it. My husband never smoked. 
 
 MELLIMORE. Ah, one can not think of the 
 smoking of cigars or pipes as lovely or uplift 
 ing or beautiful. The practise seems so par 
 don the word so low. Suppose we add the 
 suggestion to gentlemen that instead of smoking 
 they should they should burn incense. 
 
 WRIGHT. Well, I like the smell of a good 
 cigar. And men look so cozy and comfortable 
 smoking after dinner. Women never look cosy 
 and comfortable. How can they? How can 
 you be cozy and comfortable in a corset and bus 
 tle? You can't exactly relax when you're on top 
 of things that feel as if you were sitting on a 
 mastodon's skeleton. I shouldn't be a bit sur 
 prised if women didn't wear corsets some day or 
 bustles either. And I shouldn't be surprised if 
 they smoked. I'd like to smoke, myself. Yes, I 
 would, I know I would. Some day, I bet, after 
 dinner, cigarettes will be passed to women just 
 the same as to the men. 
 
 W.-J. What would Lord Tennyson say? 
 
 WRIGHT. He smoked the vilest black cigars 
 himself, all the time, so I s'pose he'd disapprove. 
 His kind of man would. He belonged to the 
 band of the monopolizing male. 
 
 WHITE. Are you going to pass a resolution 
 against smoking? Because I don't believe my 
 husband would let me join a society that was down 
 on smoking. 
 
 226
 
 THE FUTURISTS 
 
 SMITH. We cannot countenance smoking be 
 cause of the deplorable weakness of one man. 
 
 ROGERS. We are a little group of earnest 
 women. All eyes will be fastened on us for 
 guidance. 
 
 MELLIMORE. Couldn't you couldn't you 
 suggest incense to him? 
 
 WHITE. If you all feel that way about it, I 
 think I'd better not join. 
 
 SMITH. You ought not to give in to your hus 
 band's infirmity. 
 
 WHITE. But it don't seem such an awful in 
 firmity to me. 
 
 SMITH. // is. 
 
 W.-J. We ought to set our faces like flint 
 against evil. 
 
 MELLIMORE. Couldn't you divert his atten 
 tion to aesthetic culture? 
 
 ROGERS. We must uphold the morality of the 
 community. 
 
 SCRUBBS. We've got to disapprove of things. 
 
 WHITE [almost crying]. Well, if James and 
 me are so bad, I won't lower you all by being in 
 your society, then. And I guess you needn't 
 count on my house for your old entertainments, 
 neither. 
 
 ROGERS. Oh, there, Mrs. White, you mustn't 
 feel that way. 
 
 WHITE. Well, I do. [They all rise and try 
 to pacify her.~\ 
 
 W.-J. Oh, dear Mrs. White, we couldn't pos 
 sibly get along without you. It isn't your house 
 it's you your decorative nature that's so 
 valuable. 
 
 227
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 SCRUBBS. Let's leave out the resolution about 
 smoking and put one in about divorce. 
 
 SMITH. As church members, all in good and 
 regular standing, we must all disapprove of di 
 vorce. 
 
 WRIGHT. I don't but then I'm an agnostic 
 and scientific. 
 
 MELLIMORE. Ah, the wedding ceremony 
 could be made so adorably beautiful with cherubic 
 choir boys, seraphic lilies, heavenly candles, with 
 all the solemn pomp and pageantry if people 
 would only remember the beauty of the scenery 
 of this ceremony they would be too happy ever 
 to want to be divorced unless it was to marry 
 some one else and have it all repeated. 
 
 WRIGHT. It ought to be performed by a mag 
 istrate. 
 
 MELLIMORE. Oh, the gods of beauty forbid! 
 
 WRIGHT. It ought to be managed by the 
 state and lots of 'em oughtn't to be allowed. 
 
 SMITH. Allowed? The holy sacrament of 
 marriage allowed? 
 
 WRIGHT. Holy, your grandmother. It's bi 
 ological. 
 
 [ The ladies all protest. Exclamations of " Oh, 
 how dreadful."] 
 
 WRIGHT [grinning'}. Yes, biological, and so 
 is divorce usually. 
 
 W.-J. I am only a poor literary person with 
 out any knowledge of science but I have feeling! 
 If the ladies are so insensitive to the misfortunes 
 under which I am laboring, if the ladies wish 
 to pass a resolution disapproving of divorce, if 
 one of them compares it and marriage to biology, 
 
 228
 
 THE FUTURISTS 
 
 which I understand is the study of bugs and 
 beetles, then I feel, ladies, I feel that I must with 
 draw. [She rises. General consternation.] 
 
 WRIGHT. I guess it isn't worth while for me 
 to try to explain my point, but marriage, you 
 know, is er is, well, just to have babies. 
 
 MELLIMORE. Ah, my dear young person, 
 what a indeed, what a gross way to speak of 
 the the beautiful psychic blending of two 
 souls. And, if you must speak of the the ma 
 terial result, why not use a more refined ex 
 pression? Please call them infants, at least. 
 
 W.-J. Pray, ladies, pray, pardon me and I 
 will withdraw. 
 
 ROGERS. Oh, no, Mrs. Weston-Jones, there 
 has been a most unfortunate misunderstanding. 
 Of course, you must not go. 
 
 MELLIMORE. Ah, Mrs. Weston-Jones, remain 
 with us. You love beautiful things and you are so 
 intense. 
 
 SCRUBBS. You mustn't go. 
 
 \_All of them, " Oh, no, indeed not." She is 
 mollified and reseats herself.'] 
 
 W.-J. If you insist that I am of a little value 
 to you, and the work. 
 
 WRIGHT. I guess I'll have to ask you to ex 
 cuse me. I've got some gardening I want to do 
 before sunset. I don't exactly see what you are 
 driving at. Maybe later when you get started I 
 can come in with the herd and do some work. 
 Au revoir. You'll find me when you want me. 
 Of course I'll be glad to work. 
 
 [She goes out and all of them really gladly say 
 good-by.~\ 
 
 229
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 ROGERS. She thinks this is not work. 
 
 WRIGHT [calling back]. Work is to him who 
 thinks it is. A uf wiedersehen. 
 
 MELLIMORE. Do you know that young per 
 son is in her most singular and impossible way 
 really very intense? 
 
 WHITE. Ain't it a nice thing to do, don't you 
 think, to take up wood-carving? Under a regu 
 lar teacher, I mean. 
 
 W.-J. Oh, don't you think that china-painting 
 would be much more practical? Now, really, 
 Miss Flora May, don't you think so ? 
 
 MELLIMORE. Ah, but lectures on art! Oh, 
 think of the wonderful opportunities to hear the 
 artistic message from the lips of gentlemen who 
 are intense ! Mr. Herbert Ingraham Welholland 
 Ives, Mr. Edwin Rudolford Blessington Fenwick 
 of England, they could be induced for a diminu 
 tive consideration to come over and talk to us. 
 
 SCRUBBS. I think first of all we ought to 
 choose colors. I would suggest old gold and pea 
 cock blue. 
 
 W.-J. I think we ought to decide at once upon 
 a motto. A motto means so much to outsiders. 
 
 MELLIMORE. We must certainly adopt a 
 motto in French. French is the tongue of cul 
 ture and mottoes. 
 
 SMITH. We need organization. Thorough 
 organization. 
 
 WHITE. We'd ought to have a nice name. I 
 heard of a club in Indianapolis called the Young 
 Ladies' Society for Culture and Art. It's just 
 called the Y. L. S. C. A. And there's another 
 in Terryhut named the Ladies' Culture in Art, 
 
 230
 
 THE FUTURISTS 
 
 Drama, and Literature Society, the L. C. A. D. 
 L. S. 
 
 W.-J. It would be so bright if we could get a 
 name that would make initials spelling something. 
 Like Ladies' Art and Culture Association that 
 would spell L. A. C. A. and we could be called the 
 Laca. 
 
 MELLIMORE. Laca. It has a mellifluous mel 
 ody. And that means so much. Oh, the beauty 
 of sound speaks volumes. . 
 
 WHITE. I wish we could study travel. I 
 just adore travel books. 
 
 SCRUBBS. It seems to me we ought to take up 
 history. The ladies of the D. A. R. know so 
 much history. 
 
 ROGERS. Ladies, it seems to me we might 
 have papers on all these subjects. We might give 
 at least one meeting, for instance, to American 
 history. And perhaps another to a consideration 
 of China. 
 
 W.-J. China-painting delightful! 
 
 ROGERS. Well, no, I was referring to the em 
 pire. We might give a whole meeting to be 
 nighted China. 
 
 SMITH. We could have a missionary to ad 
 dress us. 
 
 \_Maid appears at the door with a tray.~\ 
 
 WHITE. Oh, there are the refreshments. 
 Should I tell her to wait? 
 
 W.-J. Couldn't we adjourn? 
 
 ROGERS. Ladies, shall we have our organiza 
 tion at another meeting, then? All those in favor 
 of adjournment, please say I. 
 [CURTAIN.] 
 231
 
 THE GATE OF WISHES. 
 
 PERSONS. The Man, the Girl, and the Little 
 Folk. 
 
 TIME. The afternoon of Hallowe'en. 
 
 PLACE. The top of a hill where there is a 
 scattered clump of tall old pine trees and in 
 the background a thicker growth of sturdy 
 beeches. The hill, sloping down in front, has 
 been partly cleared away generations ago 
 and now gives a view across and up and down 
 a broad cultivated valley; on the opposite hill 
 are the great houses of rich estates; far to the 
 south the valley shades into a big smoky city. 
 A girl and man appear walking slowly and talk' 
 ing. 
 
 HE. This day is truly like " apples of gold 
 in pitchers of silver " 1 Well, a man has a right 
 to his portion of joy and I regard loafing in the 
 afternoon as perfectly legitimate. Oh, I have 
 Biblical sanction for it "and the evening and 
 the morning were the first day." There is no 
 mention made of the afternoon and without doubt 
 work is suspended then. 
 
 SHE. Of course you know who is said to be 
 able to cite Scripture for his own evil purposes I 
 Which remark doesn't sound very polite from a 
 
 233
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 person who ought to be grateful. I wanted to 
 come awfully. [She sits down on a log.'} 
 
 HE. And I believe I knew you did all the 
 while. Yet I spent the morning trying to resist 
 the temptation of telephoning you, and when I 
 finally rang you up, I was crazy for fear I would 
 be too late and you'd have something else on 
 hand. 
 
 SHE. Why do you say temptation? Are you 
 running off from something? 
 
 HE [sitting down on the further end of the 
 log}. No, I am running off to something. 
 [He smiles at her.} 
 
 SHE [looking back among the beeches}. Are 
 the trees so dangerous? 
 
 HE. Not for me I was thinking of you. 
 
 SHE. They have never hurt me. 
 
 HE. Bless their hearts, of course not. But 
 I was only thinking that it was a little imperti 
 nent to ask you to come out here. If it had been 
 the matinee but I was too selfish to sacrifice 
 myself to four-walled propriety on a golden after 
 noon like this. A walk in the woods is not con 
 sidered a great treat by most people and is a lit 
 tle unconventional, isn't it? You see I don't 
 know you very well. 
 
 SHE. Don't you? 
 
 HE. Do I? 
 
 SHE. Don't you? 
 
 HE. Do I? That is the question that has 
 been puzzling me ever since I met you. There 
 are people you see always and never know, and 
 there are people you see once and have known 
 always. It is a feeling on the border of mys- 
 
 234
 
 THE GATE OF WISHES 
 
 tery. Have I known you in a previous exist 
 ence or am I really jumping to an end I have 
 the right to gain only through the sedate and po 
 lite process of acquaintance? Or do I know you 
 through that blessed something call it intuitive 
 sympathy? Or is it all a mistake? Maybe I 
 am just the victim of my own stupid conceit and 
 don't understand you any better than the dozens 
 of other girls I meet. 
 
 SHE. Don't you understand them? 
 
 HE. I'm afraid I don't bother to. But about 
 you. Am I right in feeling I know you? One 
 can be foolish enough to make humiliating mis 
 takes, you know. 
 
 SHE. But you are not that. And I had 
 the same curious impression in regard to you. 
 
 HE. And of course you are not that sort. 
 [They both laugh. His 'voice becomes exultlngly 
 firm as he says], I am going to trust to the feel 
 ing about it then. Let's make a fire. [He rises 
 and begins to look about for sticks. ~\ Can't we 
 put convention aside make the old gossip stand 
 on her head in a corner, so? [He illustrates 
 with a stick.] And begin as if we were old 
 friends? 
 
 SHE. I thought we had begun that way. 
 Didn't I stand on the back platform with you 
 coming out? 
 
 HE. But that might have been because you 
 liked my company better than that of the fat 
 women with their baskets inside the car. I was 
 flattered by your preference. 
 
 SHE. Being unconventional with a person is 
 a preference. I have a much older acquaint- 
 
 235.
 
 ance with those market women than I have with 
 you. [She gets up and helps him gather sticks.] 
 Did you ever notice their faces particularly? 
 Time seems to have baked them to a brown sto 
 lidity and the least effort toward expression would 
 crack them. You wonder if the baked clay ex 
 terior hides any emotion. 
 
 HE. Oh, a brown Chinese sort, perhaps. 
 Yet I wonder if it is not an older and milder 
 and more civilized sensation than we ever have. 
 But who are we to judge? You and I? Why 
 we are half savages, vagabonds, gypsies at 
 least I am and I hoped you were. You see I am 
 becoming more boldly aggressive, pretending to a 
 knowledge of you I have no right to possess, 
 much less to own. [She smiles at the pun.] But 
 you are a gypsy, aren't you? Please say you are! 
 
 SHE [sits down on a log. He goes on gath 
 ering sticks, breaking them up, heaping them and 
 building the fire while she talks']. I suppose I 
 shouldn't care for these woods if I weren't, 
 and I do care for them awfully. I know all the 
 valleys and hills round here as one knows the 
 corners of a house one has lived in always. I 
 don't mind confessing to you because you are go 
 ing to be as foolish about them as I am. 
 
 HE [smiling]. I shouldn't wonder. 
 
 SHE. This never moving flock of pine trees 
 here on this hill crest is my lode-star. I can see 
 it from any point for miles over the other hills 
 across the valley. This hill is high, you know, 
 and the pines, taller and darker and in winter 
 fatter than the other trees, are an easily detected 
 landmark. Do you like my view? 
 
 236
 
 THE GATE OF WISHES 
 
 HE. I had an intuition of it when we came 
 through the gate into the woods from the trav 
 eled road. [Regarding it critically .~\ Yes, 
 [slowly] it's adequate. It seems to contain 
 everything a compact, well-regulated little view 
 with small corpulent market-gardens in the fore 
 ground and in the background stately hills with 
 several castles atop, and down the valley at one 
 end of the old gray city, and up the valley at the 
 other end the dear farm country all not too far 
 to suggest stray fancies. 
 
 SHE. I knew you would notice the castles. 
 
 HE. Of course, for in one of them, in the 
 top of that tallest tower there is a princess and 
 she is looking over in this direction. 
 
 SHE. An ogre has her imprisoned? 
 
 HE. Just, and our fire will be a beacon light 
 to her. Then she will know she still has friends 
 in the world and the crickets will sing her a cheer- 
 fuller song when the dusk comes up through the 
 grass and gathers in the trees and bushes. 
 
 SHE. We might send her a message by a 
 robin. 
 
 HE [starling with a quick look at her]. 
 Never! Never 1 He must be reserved as a lit 
 tle messenger only between you and me. He is 
 too nice to be carelessly employed. 
 
 SHE. He is nice I might have known he 
 would be a little friend of yours. All of life 
 seems nice to-day. 
 
 HE [sitting down by her]. Oh, unusually. 
 [After a pause. ~\ On this sort of yellow day, 
 life runs around crying " come and eat me," like 
 your little roast pigs in the story you told me. 
 
 237
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 SHE. Yellow is so soft and gracious, yet the 
 dictionary merely says that it is one of the primi 
 tive and prismatic colors, and that united with 
 blue it yields green and with red it produces 
 orange. 
 
 HE. I should say that yellow maple leaves 
 united with blue sky yield joy, and with red oak 
 leaves produce delight. A full-leaved glorious 
 maple tree above me on a warm October day 
 seems a still, exquisite, suspended altar from 
 which is lowered an incense of joyous peace as 
 I walk beneath looking up into its heavenly suf 
 ficiency. 
 
 SHE. Have you noticed how towards dusk 
 when everything else is darkening, these fair ma 
 ples seem to catch the light and hold it? Spirits 
 of little children must poise among the branches 
 they are out earlier at night than the older 
 ghosts, you know, because they have to go to bed 
 earlier, being so young. 
 
 HE. Did you ever see a ghost? 
 
 SHE. No, but I haven't given up hope. 
 
 HE. Then you probably will. But you I 
 dare not use the words I'd like, I wonder if I'll 
 ever dare? You ought to see all sorts of beau 
 tiful and curious folk. 
 
 SHE. These woods are full of them, you 
 know the little folk. [Smiling, she takes a 
 stick and draws a fairy circle. ,] But to see them 
 you have to be very happy and to come at the 
 time they like best which nobody knows. It 
 isn't that they are shy, but they are very discrim 
 inating and haughty. Still, I'm trusting to see 
 
 238
 
 THE GATE OF WISHES 
 
 them, for I'm very respectful toward them and I 
 want to so much. 
 
 HE. And people usually get what they want 
 very much. 
 
 SHE. Do you believe that? 
 
 HE. Very surely, but they don't always know 
 what they desire and they aren't always con 
 scious of the thing that comes. The gate of 
 wishes has an intricate fastening whose secret 
 many people can not win through, and those who 
 at last find themselves on the other side, some 
 times look with strange eyes upon an unexpected 
 country; some of them see it with the eyes of the 
 body and some with the eyes of the mind and 
 some only with the eyes of the soul. [After a 
 pause. ~\ There is something I want awfully, but 
 in myself I lose faith. Do you suppose I ever 
 shall have it? 
 
 SHE. Do you like it well enough? 
 
 HE. Yes, I like her well enough. 
 
 SHE [starting and staring at some trees at the 
 side']. Oh, did you see anything then? 
 
 HE. I thought I did but in these autumn 
 
 woods 
 
 When big oak leaves come softly sailing down 
 And birds still loiter for the warm gold days 
 And rabbits wildly skurry out of sight 
 And hallowe'en is drawing on apace 
 And a dear witch sits by you on a log, 
 All sorts of things may happen to your eyes. 
 
 SHE. Oh, hear the rustle of those poplar 
 leaves! It is the first of all the dull brown 
 sounds; for the sounds in spring are gentle and 
 
 239
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 when the breezes stir the leaves they yield a 
 music like the color blue, but in the fall the sound 
 grows stiff and like the color brown. Their 
 leaves will cling to those wee oak trees till the 
 spring is here and then forlorn, in a new world, 
 their own life overpast, they'll flutter in a passion 
 of despair and wailing, seem like the unhappy 
 spirits of unburied men. [After a pause.] 
 Surely something stirred around and in that 
 ghostly blossom of the golden rod. 
 
 HE. A little hungry bluebird hunting seeds 
 Maybe it was. I like the golden rod 
 Fantastic, pale and mystical as now 
 Better than when it flaunts its hardier hue. 
 
 SHE. These slender stalks will last the win 
 ter out, 
 
 And on this hillside cold and lone and drear 
 The winds will bend and beat them all night 
 through. 
 
 HE [looking wistfully at her~\. 
 But now the air is warm and they content 
 As I am in the radiance I love. 
 
 SHE. The romance of the year seems gath 
 ered up 
 
 And strewn before our feet these autumn days. 
 No one can miss it. 
 
 HE. Even the dullest soul 
 
 Must stumble on it. It is everywhere : ' 
 It's in the air in color, scent, and sound. 
 I smell it in the wood-smoke even now 
 That tenuous spirit of the old strong hills 
 And hear it from those birds all winging south 
 From lands of dark green pine and dark blue lake. 
 
 SHE. I heard a sound. 
 240
 
 THE GATE OF WISHES 
 
 HE. From that low hawthorn bush. 
 
 VOICE 
 
 When the night wind carries the tang of 
 
 the woods 
 
 Out on the hillside longing to be 
 Where the elves do peer from their 
 
 flower-leaf hoods 
 
 Who will go hunting, go hunting with 
 me? 
 
 [They stare at each other, then he starts to 
 his feet and takes a step in the direction of 
 the 'voice.'] 
 
 SHE. Oh, please don't move you'll frighten 
 them away. 
 
 ANOTHER VOICE [singing]. 
 
 When the wild winds blow on dark 
 
 some nights 
 Up in the boughs of the gnarled apple 
 
 tree 
 Where the gnomes are smoking their 
 
 little clay pipes 
 
 Who will go climbing, go climbing 
 with me? 
 
 [He sits down again beside her.] 
 SHE. Isn't it kind of them to come so near? 
 The rare good little folk we've longed to see. 
 HE. But we don't see them yet what did 
 
 you say? 
 
 That we must bear the blessing of pure joy 
 And be in the right place at the right time 
 The place and time the little folk love best. 
 
 241
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 The stipulation's difficult and yet 
 
 'Tis so with everything of dearest worth. 
 
 SHE [absently]. 
 One sees the things his own heart holds most 
 
 dear. 
 HE. That wraithlike labyrinth of ancient 
 
 weeds 
 
 Is nice enough to hold a dozen elves. 
 And in among those thistles tall and fierce 
 Lithe little brownies slip with purpose dire 
 For they, the scamps, use thistles craftily 
 To comb the black cat's back and make sparks fly. 
 SHE. Up in the top of that dead oak whose 
 
 limbs 
 
 Are like the knuckles of a lame old man, 
 There lives a serious owl and naughty sprites 
 Tease him all day what time he tries to sleep. 
 
 ANOTHER VOICE [singing], 
 When the moon rides high mid warlike clouds 
 Up in the air so far and free 
 Where the witches are weaving filmy shrouds 
 Who will go sailing, go sailing with me? 
 
 HE. They're coming nearer, do you see, them 
 
 yet? 
 
 SHE. No, but I feel their presence very close. 
 Perhaps it is not yet the witching time. 
 
 HE. We're happy, aren't we ? At least I am. 
 To be with you is happiness enough 
 To fill these woods with spirits of delight. 
 [He looks about into the woods and towards 
 
 the west.] 
 
 This is the blessed twilight of the year 
 And now the silent twilight of the day, 
 The drop distilled from all time's loveliness, 
 
 242
 
 \ 
 
 THE GATE OF WISHES 
 
 When in the west the sky grows broad and fair 
 With flaming topaz light that gently melts 
 Into a liquid turquoise up above. 
 The robin sings his wistful twilight song, 
 Then wee small gossip crickets will fill in 
 The time till comes the wee small haunting owl. 
 SHE. You love these little things ? The 
 
 flight of crows, 
 The crickets 
 
 HE. They are very dear to me 
 
 In the big woodland world I love so well 
 Only less dear than are the spots of light 
 Within the woodland shadows of your eyes. 
 
 [He leans toward her and looks deep into her 
 
 eyes.~\ 
 
 SHE. Please tell me what you see? 
 HE. A mystery. 
 
 I look through beauty never see the end 
 And with my heavenly longing am content. 
 \He draws closer, taking her into his arms. 
 She seems to see something in one of the 
 hawthorn bushes and whispers to him. 
 They smile and nod to each other and watch 
 eagerly. ] 
 SHE [softly]. 
 
 We're very happy at their holy time, 
 ANOTHER VOICE {singing']. 
 
 When the wind's wild spirit lures to 
 
 roam 
 
 Out on the country roads are we 
 Where all vagabonds are at home 
 Who will go roving, go roving with 
 
 me? 
 [Foice dies away in the distance.] 
 
 243
 
 SHORT PLAYS 
 
 HE. We'll come, sweet vagabonds, 
 SHE. We'll come, we'll come. 
 
 The moon is climbing o'er the castle's tower. 
 HE. She's hastening to catch the message 
 
 dear, 
 
 The rosy kiss the sun has left for her. 
 And, see, she is attended by a page, 
 A little star who keeps close after her. 
 ANOTHER VOICE [in the distance}. 
 In the chalice of a flower 
 Do I sleep the long day through, 
 In the amber twilight hour 
 Do I come to you, my dear, 
 Do I come to you. 
 HE. 
 
 In twilight glow we linger till 
 Our fire falls in, still burning slow 
 Upon the wooded ridge of hill 
 In twilight glow. 
 
 Deep down a stream seems scarce to flow, 
 Our far-flown fancies have their will, 
 The brown glen swims with mist below. 
 
 The tawny, saffron beech leaves fill 
 A background 'gainst which softly blow 
 Your tawny locks the ruddier still 
 In twilight glow. 
 
 \_As lie speaks he rises, taking her by the 
 hand; she rises, too, and they wander off in 
 the direction of the little folk. A 'voice is 
 heard farther away, singing. ~\ 
 
 VOICE. 
 
 Who will go roving, go roving with me ? 
 244
 
 THE GATE OF WISHES 
 
 [Another voice in another direction, singing 
 
 softly.] 
 VOICE. 
 
 Do I come to you, my dear, 
 Do I come to you. 
 
 245
 
 A SELECTED LIST 
 
 OF 
 
 DRAMATIC 
 LITERATURE 
 
 PUBLISHED BY 
 
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 CINCINNATI
 
 DRAMATIC LITERATURE 
 
 European Theories of the Drama 
 
 An Anthology of Dramatic Theory and Criticism from 
 
 Aristotle to the Present Day, in a Series of Selected 
 
 Texts, <with Commentaries, Biographies and 
 
 Bibliographies 
 
 By BARRETT H. CLARK 
 
 Author of " Contemporary French Dramatists," " The 
 
 Continental Drama of Today," " British and 
 
 American Drama of Today," etc., etc. 
 
 A book of paramount importance. This monumental 
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 affected our civilization from the beginnings in Greece 
 down to the present day. Beginning with Aristotle, each 
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 its importance, and its effect on subsequent dramatic 
 writing. The texts alone would be of great interest and 
 value, but the author, Barrett H. Clark, has so connected 
 each period by means of inter-chapters that his comments 
 taken as a whole constitute a veritable history of dramatic 
 criticism, in which each text bears out his statements. 
 
 Nowhere else is so important a body of doctrine on the 
 subject of the drama to be obtained. It cannot fail to 
 appeal to any one who is interested in the theater, and 
 will be indispensable to students. 
 
 The introduction to each section of the book is followed 
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 is represented is made the subject of a brief biography, 
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 index, which is worked out in great detail. 
 
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 In these five hundred pages he has extracted the essence 
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 Large 8<vo, 500 pages Net, $4.50
 
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 PREFACE BY BARRETT H. CLARK 
 A new volume of criticisms of plays and papers on act 
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 Translated 'with an introduction on Antoine and Theatre 
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 DRAMATIC LITERATURE 
 
 Contemporary French Dramatists 
 
 By BARRETT H. CLARK 
 
 In "Contemporary Trench Dramatists" Mr. Barrett H. 
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 "The British and American Drama of Today," translator 
 of "Four Plays of the Free Theater," and of various plays 
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 DRAMATIC LITERATURE 
 
 The Antigone of Sophocles 
 
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 European Dramatists ' 
 
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 A FEW CRITICAL REVIEWS OF 
 
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 His LIFE AND WORKS 
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 DRAMATIC LITERATURE 
 
 The Changing Drama 
 
 By ARCHIBALD HENDERSON, M.A. Ph.D. 
 
 Author of " European Dramatists," " George Bernard 
 Shaw His Life and Work." Etc. 
 
 A vital book, popular in style, cosmopolitan in tone,, 
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 to formulate the tendencies which the drama is now taking 
 in its evolutionary course." 
 
 Argonaut: "Marked by insight, discernment and en 
 thusiasm." 
 
 Large I2mo. Dignified binding Net, $2.00
 
 STEWART & KIDD COMPANY 
 
 The Gift 
 
 A POETIC DRAMA 
 By MARGARET DOUGLAS ROGERS 
 
 A dramatic -poem in two acts, treating in altogether 
 new fashion the world old story of Pandora, the first 
 woman. 
 New Haven Times Leader: 
 
 "Well written and attractive." 
 E v angelical M essenger : 
 
 "A very beautifully written portrayal of the old 
 story of Pandora." 
 Rochester Post Dispatch: 
 
 "There is much poetic feeling in the treatment of 
 the subject." 
 Grand Rapids Herald: 
 
 "THE GIFT, dealing with this ever interesting 
 mythological story, is a valuable addition to the dramas 
 of the day." 
 St. Xavier Calendar: 
 
 "The story of Pandora is so set down as to bring 
 out its stage possibilities. Told by Mrs. Rogers in 
 exquisite language." 
 Salt Lake Tribune: 
 
 "The tale is charmingly wrought and has possibil 
 ities as a simple dramatic production, as well as being 
 a delightful morsel of light reading." 
 Cincinnati Enquirer: 
 
 "The love story is delightfully told and the dra 
 matic action of the play is swift and strong." 
 Buffalo Express: 
 
 "It is a delightful bit of fancy with a dramatic and 
 poetic setting." 
 Boston Woman's Journal: 
 
 "Epimetheus and Pandora and her box are charm 
 ingly presented." 
 Worcester Gazette: 
 
 "It is absolutely refreshing to find a writer willing 
 to risk a venture harking back to the times of the 
 Mutes and the other worthies of mythological fame. 
 * * * The story of Pandora's box told in verse by a 
 woman. It may be said it could not have been better 
 written had a representative of the one who only as- 
 isted at the opening been responsible for the play." 
 Handsomely b9und silk cloth Net, $1.00
 
 DRAMATIC LITERATURE 
 
 Comedies of Words 
 and Other Plays 
 
 BY ARTHUR SCHNITZLER 
 TRANSLATED BY PIERRE LOVING 
 
 ' The Hour of Recognition " 
 
 ' Great Scenes " 
 
 1 The Festival of Bacchus " 
 
 ' His Helpmate " 
 
 1 Literature." 
 
 In his " Comedies of Words," Arthur Schnitzler, the 
 great Austrian Dramatist, has penetrated to newer and 
 profounder regions of human psychology. According to 
 Schnitzler, the keenly compelling problems of earth are: 
 tb*" adjustment of a man to one woman, a woman to one 
 man, the children to their parents, the artist to life, the 
 individual to his most cherished beliefs, and how can we 
 accomplish this adjustment when, try as we please, there 
 is a destiny which sweeps our little plans away like help 
 less chessmen from the board? Since the creation of An- 
 atol, that delightful toy philosopher, so popular in almost 
 every theater of the world, the great Physician-Dramatist 
 has pushed on both as World-Dramatist and reconnoiterer 
 beyond the misty frontiers of man's conscious existence. 
 He has attempted in an artistic way to get beneath what 
 Freud calls the " Psychic Censor " which edits all our 
 suppressed desires. Reading Schnitzler is like going to 
 school to Life itself ! 
 
 Bound uniform with the S & K Dramatic Series, Net $2.00
 
 DRAMATIC LITERATURE 
 
 Lucky Pehr 
 
 By AUGUST STRINDBERG 
 
 Authorized Translation by I'elma Sioanston Howard., 
 
 An allegorical drama in five acts. Compared favorably 
 
 to Barrie's "Peter Pan" and Maeterlinck's "The Blue 
 
 Bird," 
 
 Rochester Post Express: 
 
 Strindberg has written many plays which might be 
 described as realistic nightmares. But this remark does 
 not apply to "Lucky Pehr." * * * This drama is one 
 of the most favorable specimens of Strindberg's 
 genius. 
 
 .Yew York World: 
 
 "Pehr" is lucky because, having tested all things, 
 he finds that only love and duty are true. 
 
 New York Times: 
 
 "Lucky Pehr" clothes cynicism in real entertain 
 ment instead of in gloom. And it has its surprises. 
 Can this be August Strindberg, who ends his drama 
 so sweetly on the note of the woman-soul, leading up 
 ward and on? 
 
 Worcester Gazette: 
 
 From a city of Ohio comes this product of Swedish 
 fancy in most attractive attire, attesting that the pos 
 sibilities of dramatic art have not entirely ceased in 
 this age of vaudeville and moving pictures. A great 
 sermon in altruism is preached in these pages, which 
 we would that millions might see and hear. To those 
 who think or would like to think, "Lucky Pehr" will 
 prove a most readable book. * * * An allegory, it is 
 true, but so are -flssop's Fables, the Parables of the 
 Scriptures and many others of the most effective les 
 sons ever given. 
 
 Boston Globe: 
 
 A popular drama. * * * There is no doubt about 
 the book being a delightful companion in the library. 
 In charm of fancy and grace of imagery the story may 
 not be unfairly classed with "The Blue Bird" and 
 "Peter Pan." 
 Photogravure frontispiece of Strindberg etched by 
 
 Zorn. Also, a reproduction of Velma Swanston Howard's 
 
 authorization. 
 
 Handsomely bound. Gilt top Net, $2.00
 
 STEWART & KIDD COMPANY 
 
 Raster 
 
 (A PLAY IN THREE ACTS) 
 AND STORIES BY AUGUST STRINDBERG 
 
 Authorized translation by Velma Svaanston Howard. 
 In this work the author reveals a broad tolerance, a rare 
 poetic tenderness augmented by an almost divine under 
 standing of human frailties as marking certain natural 
 stages in evolution of the soul. 
 LoutsvUle Courier- Journal: 
 
 Here is a major key of cheerfulness and idealism 
 a relief to a reader who has passed through some 
 of the author's morbid pages. * * * Some critics find 
 in this play (Easter) less of the thrust of a distinctive 
 art than is found in the author's more lugubrious 
 dramas. There is indeed less sting in it. Neverthe 
 less it has a nobler tone. It more ably fulfills the 
 purpose of good drama the chastening of the spec 
 tators' hearts through their participation in the suf 
 fering of the dramatic personages. There is in the 
 play a mystical exaltation, a belief and trust in good 
 and its power to embrace all in its beneficence, to bring 
 all confusion to harmony. 
 The Nation: 
 
 Those who like the variety of symbolism which 
 Maeterlinck has often employed most notably in the 
 "i>iuebird" will turn with pleasure to the short stories 
 of Strindberg which Mrs. Howard has included in her 
 volume. * * * They are one and all diverting on ac 
 count of the author's facility in dealing with fanciful 
 details. 
 Bookseller: 
 
 "Easter" is a play of six characters illustrative of 
 human frailties and the effect of the divine power 
 of tolerance and charity. * * * There is a symbolism, 
 a poetic quality, a spiritual insight in the author's 
 work that make a direct appeal to the cultured. * * 
 The Dial: 
 
 One play from his (Strindberg's) third, or sym 
 bolistic period stands almost alone. This is "Easter." 
 There is a sweet, sane, life-giving spirit about it. 
 Photogravure frontispiece of Strindberg etched by 
 Zorn. Also, a reproduction of Velma Svaanston Howard's 
 authorization. 
 Handsomely bound. Gilt top Net, $2M>
 
 STEWART & KIDD COMPANY 
 
 The Hamlet Problem and Its Solution 
 
 By EMERSON VENABLE 
 
 The tragedy of Hamlet has never been adequately in 
 terpreted. Two hundred years of critical discussion has 
 not sufficed to reconcile conflicting impressions regarding 
 the scope of Shakespeare's design in this, the first of his 
 great philosophic tragedies. We believe that all those 
 students who are interested in the study of Shakespeare 
 will find this volume of great value. 
 The Louisville Courier* Journal: 
 
 "Mr. Venable's Hamlet is a 'protagonist of a drama 
 of triumphant moral achievement.' He rises through 
 the play from an elected agent of vengeance to a 
 man gravely impressed with 'an imperative sense of 
 moral obligation, tragic in its depth, felt toward the 
 world.' " 
 E. H. Sothern: 
 
 "Your ideas of Hamlet so entirely agree with my 
 own that the book has been a real delight to me. I 
 have always had exactly this feeling about the char 
 acter of Hamlet. I think you have wiped away a 
 great many cobwebs, and I believe your book will 
 prove to be most convincing to many people who may 
 yet be a trifle in the dark." 
 The Book News Monthly: 
 
 "Mr. Venable is the latest critic to apply himself 
 to the 'Hamlet' problem, and he offers a solution in 
 an admirably written little book which is sure to at 
 tract readers. Undeterred by the formidable names 
 of Goethe and Coleridge, Mr. Venable pronounces un 
 tenable the theories which those great authors pro 
 pounded to account for the extraordinary figure of 
 the Prince of Denmark. * * * Mr. Venable looks in 
 another direction for the solution of the problem. 
 * * * The solution offered by the author is just the 
 reverse of that proposed by Goethe. * * * From Mr. 
 Venable's viewpoint the key to 'Hamlet' is found in 
 the famous soliloquies, and his book is based upon 
 a close study of those utterances which bring us with 
 in the portals of the soul of the real Hamlet. The 
 reader with an open mind will find in Mr. Venable a 
 writer whose breadth of view and searching thought 
 gives weight to this competent study of the most inter 
 esting of Shakespearean problems." 
 i6mo. SUk cloth Net, $1.50
 
 STEWART & KIDD COMPANY 
 
 Portmanteau Plays 
 
 BY STUART WALKER 
 
 Edited and with an Introduction by 
 
 EDWARD HALE BIERSTADT 
 
 This volume contains four One Act Plays by the in 
 ventor and director of the Portmanteau Theater. They 
 are all included in the regular repertory of the Theater 
 and the four contained in this volume comprise in them 
 selves an evening's bill. 
 
 There is also an Introduction by Edward Hale Bier- 
 stadt on the Portmanteau Theater in theory and practice. 
 
 The book is illustrated by pictures taken from actual 
 presentations of the plays. 
 
 The first play, the " Trimplet" deals with the search 
 for a certain magic thing called a trimplet which can cure 
 all the ills of whoever finds it. The search and the find 
 ing constitute the action of the piece. 
 
 Second play, "Six who Pass While the Lentils 
 Boil," is perhaps the most popular in Mr. Walker's 
 repertory. The story is of a Queen who, having stepped 
 on the ring-toe of the King's great-aunt, is condemned 
 to die before the clock strikes twelve. The Six who pass 
 the pot in which boil the lentils are on their way to the 
 execution. 
 
 Next comes " Nevertheless," which tells of a burglar 
 who oddly enough reaches regeneration through two chil 
 dren and a dictionary. 
 
 A_ 1 last of all is the " Medicines-Show," which is a 
 character study situated on the banks of the Mississippi. 
 One does not see either the Show or the Mississippi, but 
 the characters are so all sufficient that one does not miss 
 the others. 
 
 All of these plays are fanciful symbolic if you like 
 but all of them have a very distinct raison d'etre in 
 themselves, quite apart from any ulterior meaning. 
 
 With Mr. Walker it is always " the story first," and 
 herein he is at one with Lord Dunsany and others of his 
 ilk. The plays have body, force, and beauty always; and 
 if the reader desires to read in anything else surely that 
 is his privilege. 
 
 Each play, and even the Theater itself has a prologue, 
 and with the help of these one is enabled to pass from one 
 charming tale to the next without a break in the continuity. 
 With five full-page illustrations on cameo paper. 
 
 I2mo. Silk cloth $2.00
 
 DRAMATIC LITERATURE 
 
 More Portmanteau Plays 
 
 BY STUART WALKER 
 
 Edited and with an Introduction by 
 EDWARD HALE BIERSTADT 
 
 The thorough success of the volume entitled " Pott- 
 manteau Plays " has encouraged the publication of a 
 second series under the title " More Portmanteau 
 Plays." This continuation carries on the work begun in 
 the first book, and contains " The Lady of the Weep' 
 ing Willow Tree," one of the finest and most effective 
 pieces Stuart Walker has presented under his own name ; 
 " The Very Naked Boy," a slight, whimsical, and 
 wholly delightful bit of foolery; "Jonathan Makes a 
 Wish," a truly strong three-act work with an appeal of 
 unusual vigor. 
 
 With Six full page illustrations on Cameo Paper. 
 
 I2mo. Silk cloth $2.00 
 
 TO BE PUBLISHED IN 1920 
 
 Portmanteau Adaptations 
 
 BY STUART WALKER 
 
 Edited and with an Introduction by 
 EDWARD HALE BIERSTADT 
 
 The third volume of the Portmanteau Series in 
 cludes three of Stuart Walker's most successful plays 
 which are either adapted from or based on works by 
 other authors. The first is the ever wonderful " Gam 
 mer Gurton's Needle," written some hundreds of years 
 ago and now arranged for the use of the modern theater 
 goer. Next comes, " The Birthday of the Infanta " 
 from the poignant story of Oscar Wilde (used also by 
 Alfred Noyes in one of his most effective poems), and 
 last of all the widely popular " Seventeen " from the 
 story of the same name by Booth Tarkington. 
 
 I2mo. Silk doth Net, $2.00
 
 DRAMATIC LITERATURE 
 
 The Truth 
 
 About The Theater 
 
 Anonymous 
 
 Precisely what the title indicates facts as they 
 are, plain and unmistakable without veneer of any 
 sort. It goes directly to the heart of the whole 
 matter. Behind the writer of it who is one of 
 the best known theatrical men in New York are 
 long years of experience. He recites what he 
 knows, what he has seen, and his quiet, calm, au 
 thoritative account of conditions as they are is with 
 out adornment, excuse or exaggeration. It is in 
 tended to be helpful to those who want the facts, 
 and for them it will prove of immeasurable value. 
 
 ' The Truth About the Theater," in brief, lifts 
 the curtain on the American stage. It leaves no 
 phase of the subject untouched. To those who are 
 ambitious to serve the theater, either as players or 
 as playwrights, or, again, in some managerial ca 
 pacity, the book is invaluable. To those, too, who 
 would know more about the theater that they may 
 come to some fair estimate of the worth of the in 
 numerable theories nowadays advanced, the book 
 will again prove its value. 
 
 Net $1.25
 
 DRAMATIC LITERATURE 
 
 The 
 
 Provincetown Plays 
 
 EDITED BY 
 GEORGE CRAM COOK AND FRANK SHAY 
 
 THE CONTENTS ARE: 
 
 Alice Rostetter's comedy THE WIDOW'S VEIL 
 
 James Oppenheim's poetic NIGHT 
 
 George Cram Cook's and 
 
 Susan GlaspelPs SUPPRESSED DESIRES 
 
 Eugene O'Neill's play BOUND EAST FOR CARDIFF 
 
 Edna St. Vincent Millay's ARIA DE CAPO 
 
 Rita Wellman's STRING OF THE SAMISEN. 
 
 Wilbur D. Steele's satire NOT SMART 
 
 Floyd Dell's comedy THE ANGEL INTRUDES 
 
 Hutchin Hapgood's and Neith 
 
 Boyce's play ENEMIES 
 
 Pendleton King's COCAINE 
 
 Every author, with one exception, has a book or more to 
 his credit. Several are at the top of their profession. 
 
 Rita Wellman, a Saturday Evening Post star, has had 
 two or three plays on Broadway, and has a new novel, 
 THE WINGS OF DESIRE. 
 
 Cook and Glaspell are well known he for his novels 
 and Miss Glaspell for novels and plays. 
 
 E. Millay is one of America's best minor poets. Steele, 
 according to O'Brien, is America's best short-story writer. 
 
 Oppenheim has over a dozen novels, books of poems 
 and essays to his credit. 
 
 O'Neill has a play on Broadway now, BEYOND THE 
 HORIZON. 
 
 Hutch. Hapeood is author of the STORY OF A 
 LOVER, published by Boni and Liveright anonymously. 
 
 8vo. Silk Cloth, Gilt Top Net $3.00
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 
 Los Angeles * 
 This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. 
 
 MAY 23 1955 
 
 REC'D LD-URD 
 
 Form L9-50m-ll.'50 (2554)444 
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 A 000 929 288 9