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 STEWART & KIDD COMPANY 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 anthology brings together for the first time the epoch- making theories and criticisms of the drama which have affected our civilization from the beginnings in Greece down to the present day. Beginning with Aristotle, each utterance on the subject has been chosen with reference to 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 by an exhaustive bibliography; each writer whose work is represented is made the subject of a brief biography, and the entire volume is rendered doubly valuable by the index, which is worked out in great detail. Prof. Brander Matthews of Columbia University says: "Mr. Clark deserves high praise for the careful thoroughness with which he has performed the task he set for himself. He has done well what was well worth doing. In these five hundred pages he has extracted the essence of several five-foot shelves. His anthology will be in valuable to all students of the principles of playmaking; and it ought to be welcomed by all those whose curiosity has been aroused by the frequent references of our latter day theorists of the theater to their predecessors." Wm. Lyon Phelps of Yale University writes: "Mr. Clark's book, ' European Theories of the Drama, 1 is an exceedingly valuable work and ought to be widely useful." Large 8<vo, 500 pages Net, $4.50 STEWART & KIDD COMPANY Plays and Players LEAVES FROM A CRITIC'S SCRAPBOOK BY WALTER PRICHARD EATON PREFACE BY BARRETT H. CLARK A new volume of criticisms of plays and papers on act ing, play-making, and other dramatic problems, by Wal ter Prichard Eaton, dramatic critic, and author of " The American Stage of To-day," " At the New Theater and Others," "Idyl of the Twin Fires," etc. The new volume begins with plays produced as far back as 1910, and brings the record down to the current year. One sec tion is devoted to American plays, one to foreign plays acted on our stage, one to various revivals of Shakes peare. These sections form a record of the important activities of the American theater for the past six years, and constitute about half of the volume. The remainder of the book is given over to various discussions of the actor's art, of play construction, of the new stage craft, of new movements in our theater, such as the Washington Square Players, and several lighter essays in the satiric vein which characterized the author's work when he was the dramatic critic of the New York Sun. Unlike most volumes of criticisms, this one is illustrated, the pictures of the productions described in the text furnishing an ad ditional historical record. At a time when the drama is regaining its lost position of literary dignity it is partic ularly fitting that dignified and intelligent criticism and discussion should also find accompanying publication. Toronto Saturday Night: Mr. Eaton writes well and with dignity and inde pendence. His book should find favor with the more serious students of the Drama of the Day. Detroit Free Press: This is one of the most interesting and also valu able books on the modern drama that we have encountered in that period popularly referred to as " a dog's age." Mr. Eaton is a competent and well- esteemed critic. The book is a record of the activ ities of the American stage since 1910, down to the present. Mr. Eaton succinctly restores the play to the memory, revisualizes the actors, and puts the kernel of it into a nutshell for us to ponder over and by which to correct our impressions. Large I2mo. About 420 pages, 10 full-page illustra tions on Cameo Paper and End Papers Net $2.75 Gilt top. Y$ Maroon Turkey Morocco Net 8.50 STEWART & KIDD COMPANY Four Plays of the Free Theater Francois de Curel's The Fossils Jean Jullien's The Serenade Georges de Porto-Riche's Francoise' Luck Georges Ancey's The Dupe Translated 'with an introduction on Antoine and Theatre Libre by BARRETT H. CLARK. Preface by BRIEUX, of the French Academy, and a Sonnet by EDMOND ROSTAND. The Review of Reviews says: "A lengthy introduction, which is a gem of con densed information." H. L. Mencken (in the Smart Set) says: "Here we have, not only skilful playwriting, but also sound literature." Brander Matthews says: "The book is welcome to all students of the modern stage. It contains the fullest account of the activities of Antoine's Free Theater to be found anywhere even in French." The Chicago Tribune says: "Mr. Clark's translations, with their accurate and comprehensive prefaces, are necessary to anyone in terested in modern drama ... If the American reader will forget Yankee notions of morality ... if the reader will assume the French point of view, this book will prove a rarely valuable experience. Mr. Clark has done this important task excellently." Handsomely Bound. I2mo. Cloth Net, $j,oo Y^ Turkey Morocco 5.50 DRAMATIC LITERATURE Contemporary French Dramatists By BARRETT H. CLARK In "Contemporary Trench Dramatists" Mr. Barrett H. Clark, author of "The Continental Drama of Today," "The British and American Drama of Today," translator of "Four Plays of the Free Theater," and of various plays of Donnay, Hervieu, Lemaitre, Sardou, Lavedan, etc., has contributed the first collection of studies on the modern French theater. Mr. Clark takes up the chief dramatists of France beginning with the Theatre Libre: Curel, Brieux, Hervieu, Lemaitre, Lavedan, Donnay, Porto-Riche, Rostand, Bataille, Bernstein, Capus, Flers, and Caillavet. The book contains numerous quotations from the chief rep resentative plays of each dramatist, a separate chapter on "Characteristics" and the most complete bibliography to be found anyivhere. This book gives a study of contemporary drama in France which has been more neglected than any other European country. Independent, New York: "Almost indispensable to the student of the theater." Boston Transcript: " Mr. Clark's method of analyzing the works of the Playwrights selected is simple and helpful. * * * As a manual for reference or story, 'Contemporary French Dramatists,' with its added bibliographical material, will serve well its purpose." Uniform with FOUR PLAYS. Handsomely bound. Cloth Net, $2.00 54 Turkey Morocco 5.50 DRAMATIC LITERATURE The Antigone of Sophocles By PROF. JOSEPH EDWARD HARRY An acting 'version of this most perfect of all dramas. A scholarly iuork in readable English. Especiallly adaptable for Colleges, Dramatic Societies, etc. Post Express, Rochester: "He has done his work well." "Professor Harry has translated with a virile force that is almost Shake spearean." "The difficult task of rendering the choruses into English lyrical verse has been very cred itably accomplished." Argonaut, San Francisco: "Professor Harry is a competent translator not only because of his classical knowledge, but also be cause of a certain enthusiastic sympathy that shows itself in an unfailing choice of words and expression." North American, Philadelphia: "Professor Harry, teacher of Greek in the Cincin nati University, has written a new metrical transla tion of the Antigone of Sophocles. The translation is of fine dramatic quality." Oregonian, Portland: "A splendidly executed translation of tke celebrated Greek tragedy." Herald, Boston: "Scholars will not need to be urged to re-ad this noteworthy piece of literary work, and we hope that many others who have no special scholarly interest will be led to its perusal." &vo. cloth. Dignified binding Ntt, $1.25 STEWART & KIDD COMPANY 4 6 European Dramatists ' By ARCHIBALD HENDERSON Author of "George Bernard Shaw: His Life and Works." / the present work the famous dramatic critic and biographer of Shaw has considered six representative dramatists outside of the United States, some living, some dead Strindberg, Ibsen, Maeterlinck, Wilde, Shaw, Bar' ker, and Schnitzler. Velma Swanston Howard says: "Prof. Henderson's appraisal of Strindberg is cer tainly the fairest, kindest and most impersonal that I have yet seen. The author has that rare combina tion of intellectual power and spiritual insight which casts a clear, strong light upon all subjects under his treatment." Baltimore Evening Sun: "Prof. Henderson's criticism is not only notable for its understanding and good sense, but also for the extraordinary range and accuracy of its information." Jeanette L. Gilder, in the Chicago Tribune: "Henderson is a writer who throws new light on old subjects." Chicago Record Herald: "His essays in interpretation are welcome. Mr. Henderson has a catholic spirit and writes without parochial prejudice a thing deplorably rare among American critics of the present day. * * * One finds that one agrees with Mr. Henderson's main conten tions and is eager to break a lance with him about minor points, which is only a way of saying that he is stimulating, that he strikes sparks. He knows his age thoroughly and lives in it with eager sympathy and understanding." Providence Journal: "Henderson has done his work, within its obvious limitations, in an exceedingly competent manner. He has the happy faculty of making his biographical treatment interesting, combining the personal facts and a fairly clear and entertaining portrait of the indi vidual with intelligent critical comment on his artistic work." Photogravure frontispiece, handsomely printed and bound, large I2mo Net, $2.75 STEWART & KIDD COMPANY A FEW CRITICAL REVIEWS OF George Bernard Shaw His LIFE AND WORKS A CRITICAL BIOGRAPHY (Authorized) By ARCHIBALD HENDERSON, M.A., PH.D. The Dial: "In over five hundred pages, with an energy and carefulness and sympathy which deserve high com mendation, Dr. Henderson has presented his subject from all conceivable angles." The Bookman: "A more entertaining narrative, whether in biog raphy or fiction, has not appeared in recent years." The Independent: "Whatever George Bernard Shaw may think of his Biography the rest of the world will probably agree that Dr. Henderson has done a good job." Boston Transcript: "There is no exaggeration in saying it is one of the most entertaining biographies of these opening years of the Twentieth Century." Bernard Shaw: "You are a genius, because you are somehow sus ceptible to the really significant and differentiating traits and utterances of your subject." Maurice Maeterlinck: "You have written one of the most sagacious, most acute and most penetrating essays in the whole mod ern moment." Edwin Markham: "He stands to-day as the chief literary critic of the South, and in the very forefront of the critics of the nation." William Lyon Phelps: "Your critical biography of Shaw is a really great work." Richard Burton: "In over five hundred pages, with an energy and carefulness and sympathy which deserves high com mendation, Dr. Henderson has presented his subject from all conceivable angles. * * * Intensely interest ing * * * sound, and brilliant, full of keen insight and happy turns of statement. * * * This service Professor Henderson's book does perform ; and I incline to call it a great one." 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,, appraising the drama of the past sixty years, its changes, contributions and tendencies. Has an expression of the larger realities of the art and life of our time. B . B. Hale in TKe Dial: " One of the most widely read dramatic critics of our day; few know as well as he what is ' up ' in the dramatic world, what are the cur rents of present-day thought, what people are thinking, dreaming, doing, or trying to do." New York Times: " Apt, happily allusive, finely in formed essays on the dramatists of our own time his essay style is vigorous and pleasing." L ok News Monthly: " Shows clear understanding of the evolution of form and spirit, and the differentia tion of the forces spiritual, intellectual and social which are making the theatre what it is today . . . we can recollect no book of recent times which has such con temporaneousness, yet which regards the subject with such excellent perspective . . . almost indispensable to the gen eral student of drama ... a book of rich perspective and sound analysis. The style is simple and direct." Geo. Middleton in La Follette's: " The best attempt 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