* /-i 
 
 To 
 M. S. S 
 
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 
 
 That part of the Introduction which deals with the history of dra 
 matic literature in the United States obviously owes much to the 
 original studies of Brander Matthews, Professor of Dramatic Litera 
 ture in Columbia University, and Member of the American Academy 
 of Arts and Letters; to the research of Arthur Hobson Quinn, Dean 
 of the College, University of Pennsylvania; and to the writings of 
 Montrose J. Moses. 
 
 Besides referring gratefully to these authorities, the editor takes 
 pleasure in thanking warmly Augustus Thomas, George S. Kaufman, 
 Marc Connolly, and Booth Tarkington, whose plays are included in 
 this volume. To the courtesy of Messrs. G. P. Putnam s Sons and 
 Messrs. Little, Brown and Company respectively, the editor owes 
 permission to use Dulcy and Beau Brummell. The Copperhead 
 is here printed for the first time. The Intimate Strangers, just pub 
 lished in Harper s Magazine, has never appeared in book form 
 before. 
 
 The editor is again indebted to Helen Hopkins Crandell for her 
 faithful work on the proofs of this book. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 DRAMA IN AMERICA, AN INTRODUCTION ix 
 
 CLYDE FITCH 
 
 Introduction ........ 3 
 
 Beau Brummell II 
 
 AUGUSTUS THOMAS 
 
 Introduction . . 87 
 
 The Copperhead . . . .... 95 
 
 GEORGE S. KAUFMAN and MARC CONNELLY 
 
 f Introduction . . . . . . . ,165 
 
 Dulcy . . . 170 
 
 BOOTH TARKINGTON 
 
 Introduction . ... 251 
 
 The Intimate Strangers . . . . . . 255 
 
 SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY FOR THE STUDY OF DRAMA 
 
 IN AMERICA . . . .... .,; . .347 
 
DRAMA IN AMERICA! 
 
 AN INTRODUCTION 
 
 The four plays in this volume have, with one exception, been 
 written and produced since 1918. Beau Brummell alone has 
 attained the dignity of years. And yet, because it lacks what 
 is commonly called " structure," Clyde Fitch s comedy of over 
 three decades ago is astonishingly modern in method. Its sub 
 ject marks it as belonging to the succession of romantic plays 
 that has been unbroken since the eighteenth century. The 
 Copperhead, though of more recent date than Beau Brummell, 
 somewhat resembles in workmanship the Civil War melodramas 
 of the eighties and nineties of the last century. In theme, The 
 Copperhead is aligned with plays on kindred subjects that began 
 to be written during the conflict between the Colonies and Eng 
 land and followed the trail of American history through the 
 difficulties with the Barbary States, the War of 1812, the 
 j Mexican War and the Civil War. Dulcy, with its penetrating 
 study of American business men and its deadly characterization 
 of a droll feminine type, and The Intimate Strangers, with its 
 wise and humorous reflections on the youngest generation, are in 
 a sense similar in motive to the social satires which, beginning 
 with The Contrast^ have appeared from time to time on our 
 stage. 
 
 Though the acted play can be exhaustively studied only in 
 New York, now admittedly the center of theatrical activity in 
 the United States, the vogue of the printed play shows how 
 general and how extended is an intelligent interest in the theatre. 
 A collection like the present one is made in the interests of a 
 widely distributed reading public. The growth of this public 
 is more or less coincident with a dramatic revival that took place 
 in England and in America about forty years ago. As Brander 
 Matthews has recently observed : " The drama of our language 
 . . . underwent an eclipse in the midyears of the nineteenth 
 century. There was then a divorce between literature and the 
 drama so complete that the plays that were actable were unread- 
 
x DRAMA IN AMERICA 
 
 able and the plays which were readable were unactable. But a 
 little more than forty years ago there were signs of a reconcilia 
 tion. The theatre began to regain its old popularity, and plays 
 once more were published in the hope that the verdict of the 
 stage might be confirmed by the judgment of the study." 
 
 It has been said more than once by competent critics that there 
 was no American drama till it was founded in 1890 by Clyde 
 Fitch. But Bronson Howard came before Clyde Fitch, and 
 plays have been written and acted in the United States ever since 
 the years following the close of the French and Indian Wars. 
 The Prince of Parthia, a romantic tragedy in blank verse, was 
 performed in 1767 in Philadelphia. This was the first American 
 play to be acted by professionals. It was composed by a young 
 poet, Thomas Godfrey. He had been a pupil of William Smith, 
 Provost of the College of Philadelphia, later the University of 
 Pennsylvania, the scene in the mid-eighteenth century of sundry 
 masques, dialogues and entertainments of a quasi-dramatic char 
 acter. These academic exercises, together with the presence of a 
 company of professional actors in Philadelphia, are supposed to 
 have quickened Godfrey s impulse to write his tragedy. 
 
 The scene of his play is laid in Parthia about 200 B.C. The 
 plot suggests, in the pairing off of its characters, the artificial 
 symmetry of classical French tragedy as popularized by various 
 English dramatists of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, 
 and, in its machinery of murders and supernatural horrors, the 
 familiar mechanisms of the Elizabethan tragedy of blood. The 
 lines, 
 
 "E en the pale dead, affrighted at the hour, 
 As tho unsafe, start from their marble goals, 
 And howling thro the streets are seeking shelter," 
 
 call up the familiar lines to a similar effect in Julius Gasar, 
 
 "And graves have yawned and yielded up their dead; 
 And ghosts did shriek and squeal about the streets." 
 
 A fair sample of the quality of Godfrey s play is to be found in 
 the lines of Lysias, spoken as a soliloquy within the precincts of 
 a prison : 
 
 "The Sun sets frowning, and refreshing Eve 
 Lost all its sweets, obscur d in double gloom. 
 
DRAMA IN AMERICA xi 
 
 This night shall sleep be stranger to these eyes, 
 
 Peace dwells not here, and slumber flies the shock; 
 
 My spirits, like the elements, are warring, 
 
 And mock the tempest with a kindred rage 
 
 I, who can joy in nothing, but revenge, 
 
 Know not those boasted ties of Love and Friendship ; 
 
 Vardanes I regard, but as he give me 
 
 Some hopes of vengeance on the Prince Arsaces 
 
 3 Tis to my wish, thus would I form designs, 
 
 Horror should breed beneath the veil of horror, 
 
 And darkness and conspiracies " 
 
 This passage is hardly distinguishable in intent, at any rate, from 
 many similar speeches in the sixteenth century tragedy of 
 revenge, a type transcendently represented by Hamlet. 
 
 Twenty years elapsed before Royall Tyler s comedy of man 
 ners, The Contrast, was acted in New York by a group of pro 
 fessionals who called themselves the " Old American Company." 
 This period was something of an interregnum for American 
 playwrights. The lull in dramatic activity was partly the result 
 of a recommendation, passed by the Continental Congress in its 
 Articles of Association, that the Colonists " discountenance and 
 discourage all horse racing and all kinds of gaming, cock fight 
 ing, exhibitions of shows, plays and other expensive diversions 
 and entertainments." 1 But the British officers quartered in 
 the Colonies during the Revolutionary War seem to have been 
 devoted to theatricals. They are in no small measure re 
 sponsible for keeping alive the interest in the theatre during 
 the years between Lexington and Yorktown. General Bur- 
 goyne s staff presented a succession of English plays at Faneuil 
 Hall in Boston. A farce, called The Blockade of Boston, 
 that may well have been written by Burgoyne himself, was 
 among the pieces attempted in the historic hall. When 
 it was produced on January 8, 1776, its performance was 
 interrupted and the theatre emptied by the news of 
 the attack on Bunker Hill. Major Andre also, the tragedy 
 of whose life was soon to be the subject of a number of early 
 American plays, was notable as a moving spirit in army the 
 atricals, first in New York and later in Boston. He supple 
 mented his activities as playwright and manager by painting 
 sets of scenes, one of which was in existence till 1821 when 
 the Southwark Theatre in Philadelphia was burned. In Percy 
 
 1 Arthur Hobson Quinn, The Early Drama, 1756-1860, Cambridge 
 History of American Literature, New York, 1917, Vol. i, p. 217. 
 
xii DRAMA IN AMERICA 
 
 MacKaye s ballad play, Washington the Man Who Made Us, 
 acted in 1920 by Walter Hampden, the foremost Shakespearian 
 actor of the present day in America, an engaging picture of 
 Major Andre s activities in the theatre is given. 
 
 Two years before the British finally took their leave, in 
 spite of the recommendations of the Continental Congress 
 there was a revival of theatrical activity of a professional char 
 acter in the playhouses of Baltimore, Annapolis, and New 
 York. The first American comedy to be acted by a profes 
 sional company in the post-Revolutionary period was The 
 Contrast by Royall Tyler (1757-1826), shown at the John 
 Street Theatre in New York in 1787. Tyler, a New Eng- 
 lander, came to New York as an aide to Major-General Ben 
 jamin Lincoln, to help put down Shay s Rebellion. While in 
 the city he visited a theatre for the first time and saw Sheri 
 dan s The School for Scandal. Two days later he began his 
 own comedy of manners and finished it in a few weeks. When 
 the play was published in 1790 by the actor Thomas Wignell, 
 who created the part of Jonathan, and to whom Tyler had 
 turned over the copyright, the first name on the list of sub 
 scribers was George Washington s. 1 
 
 The theme of the play is not unlike the central idea of a 
 recent comedy, Tarkington and Wilson s The Man from 
 Home. There is, of course, no similarity at all in the plot 
 or characters. In both plays, however, the " contrast " be 
 tween a certain fine native dignity and an artificiality con 
 ventionally associated with foreigners and foreign importa 
 tions is played up. The most important character in The 
 Contrast from the viewpoint of dramatic history is the servant, 
 Jonathan, who is the first of a long line of stage Yankees. 
 
 There is an undoubtedly autobiographical flavor in the dia 
 logue which takes place between Tyler s Jonathan and a fellow 
 servant, in which the Yankee s reaction to his first play-going 
 experience is embodied: 
 
 "JENNY. So, Mr. Jonathan, I hear you were at the play last night. 
 JONATHAN. At the play! why, did you think I went to the devil s 
 drawing-room ! 
 
 JENNY. The devil s drawing-room! 
 
 1 See The Contrast. A Comedy in Five Acts, by Royall Tyler, 
 with a history of George Washington s copy by James Benjamin 
 Wilbur. Boston and New York, 1921. 
 
DRAMA IN AMERICA xiii 
 
 JONATHAN. Yes; why an t cards and dice the devil s device, and 
 the play-house the shop where the devil hangs out the vanities of 
 the world upon the tenter-hooks of temptation. I believe you have 
 not heard how they were acting the old boy, one night, and the 
 wicked one came among them sure enough, and went right off in a 
 storm, and carried one quarter of the play-house with him. Oh! no, 
 
 JONATHAN. So I went right in, and they showed me away, clean 
 up to the garret, just like meeting house gallery. And so I saw a 
 power of topping folks, all sitting around in little cabins, * just like 
 father s corn-cribs ; and then there was such a squeaking with the 
 fiddles, and such a tarnal blaze with the lights, my head was near 
 turned." 
 
 William Dunlap (1766-1839) is called for reasons hereafter 
 to be catalogued the Father of the American Theatre. He is 
 believed to have been incited to dramatic composition by the 
 success of his slightly older contemporary, Royall Tyler. Dun- 
 lap is credited with writing sixty-five plays, some of them 
 adaptations from French and German originals. His connec 
 tion with the theatre was not confined to play writing: he 
 was for nine years a manager, and toward the end of his life 
 he wrote his History of the American Theatre. His tragedy, 
 ^Andre, performed in New York in 1798, was the first play 
 acted in the United States during Washington s lifetime in 
 which the latter figured as a character. Andre himself proved 
 to be a favorite character in early American plays. In Dun- 
 lap s Andre, Washington is introduced simply as General. His 
 righteous indignation is restrained by the mild-mannered blank 
 verse in which the play is written: 
 
 " Think st thou thy country would not curse the man, 
 Who, by a clemency ill-tim d, ill-judg d, 
 Encourag d treason? That pride encourag d, 
 Which, by denying us the rights of nations, 
 Hath caused those ills which thou hast now pourtrayM? 
 Our prisoners, brave and generous peasantry, 
 As rebels have been treated, not as man. 
 Tis mine, brave yeomen, to assert your rights; 
 Tis mine to teach the foe, that, though array d 
 In rude simplicity, ye yet are men, 
 And rank among the foremost. Oft their scouts, 
 The very refuse of the English arms, 
 Unquestion d have our countrymen consign d 
 To death, when captured, mocking their agonies." 
 
xiv DRAMA IN AMERICA 
 
 Dunlap is also remembered by students of American literature 
 as the friend and biographer of the novelist Charles Brockden 
 Brown. 
 
 The connection of Washington Irving, another one of our 
 first men of letters, with early American drama is quite direct. 
 He is known to have collaborated with John Howard Payne 
 (1791-1852), author of "Home, Sweet Home," in more than 
 one play. Charles II, first performed in London in 1824, was 
 their joint venture. " In The Life and Letters of Washington 
 Irving, by Pierre Irving (1883), an account is given of Irving s 
 sending the manuscript to Payne in November, 1823, after 
 having revised it and added to it some new ideas. The idea of 
 Captain Copp constantly trying to sing a song and never 
 being able to complete it, was conceived by Irving to meet 
 the English taste for broad fun. In the introduction by Payne 
 in the edition of 1824 he refers to the literary friend to whom 
 he is indebted for invaluable touches. " 1 
 
 The subjects treated by American playwrights up to the 
 end of the nineteenth century fall for the most part into six 
 categories: the Indians and frontier life; our wars; idiosyn 
 crasies of American character; New York life; American so 
 ciety satirically treated ; and the romance of other lands or other 
 times or both. For thirty years or more, American plays have, 
 owing to new European influences and native genius, become 
 so diversified in theme and treatment that the fallacy of de 
 scribing American drama as a continuous development becomes 
 plain. The topics enumerated continue nevertheless to be 
 popular in our theatre. 
 
 Indian plays began to be written for our stage in 1794. 
 Pocahontas herself figured often in these dramatic versions of 
 the ideal Indian, the noble red man of Cooper s imaginings. 
 It is interesting to compare the simplicity of characterization 
 in James W. Barker s (1784-1858) The Indian Princess 
 (1808) with the characterization based on intimate observa 
 tion in Mary Austin s The Arrow Maker (1910). In the 
 Indian plays of the early nineteenth century, of which Barker s 
 is typical, there is practically no attempt to present the cus 
 toms, folk lore or psychology of the American Indian. Bar- 
 
 1 Arthur Hobson Quinn, Representative American Plays, New York, 
 1917, p. 144. 
 
DRAMA IN AMERICA xv 
 
 ker s Indian princess, to turn to matters of form, speaks in 
 prose, unrhythmic and unimaginative. At a moment, when 
 with Captain John Smith s head actually inclined to the block, 
 her words might be surcharged with emotion, she delivers her 
 self as follows: 
 
 "Oh, do not, warriors, do not! Father, incline your heart to 
 mercy; he will win your battles, he will vanquish your enemies! 
 [First Signal] Brother, speak! save your brother! Warriors, are 
 you brave? preserve the brave man! [Second Signal} Miami, 
 priest, sing the song of peace; ah! strike not, hold! mercy!" 
 
 The blank verse of Barker s English characters hardly lifts 
 the play above the level of this prose. 1 
 
 The most popular of the early Indian plays was Metamora 
 or the Last of the Wampanoags (1829), by John Augustus 
 Stone, only an unprinted fragment of which survives in manu 
 script. This play had a career which lasted for ten years. 
 The duration of its popularity is attributed to the distinguished 
 acting of Edwin Forrest in the title role. Barker s The 
 Indian Princess and Stone s Metamora are for our purpose 
 sufficiently representative of the stage treatment of the literary 
 Indian, which persisted well into the middle of the nineteenth 
 century. 
 
 Collections of American plays made within the last few 
 years as source books for the study of dramatic art contain 
 only comparatively late examples of the frontier drama so 
 closely allied in subject with plays about Indians. The first 
 of these frontier dramas in point of time is The Lion of the 
 West (1831), by James K. Spaulding, which introduced the 
 famous character of Colonel Nimrod Wildfire, a prototype of 
 several generations of backwoods heroes. Augustin Daly, one 
 of the foremost American managers of the last generation, pro 
 duced, in 1871, another outstanding play of this character 
 called Horizon, which ran for two months. Frank Mur- 
 dock s Davy Crockett (1873), also a study of frontier life, 
 was pronounced by Laurence Hutton in 1891 to be " almost 
 
 1 Barker s play, Superstition (1824), resumes the seventeenth century 
 English fashion of using witchcraft as material for drama. Here 
 again there is opportunity for comparison between the early nineteenth 
 century treatment of the theme and Percy MacKaye s The Scarecrow 
 (1910). 
 
xvi DRAMA IN AMERICA 
 
 the best American play ever written. A pure sylvan love- 
 story, told in a healthful, dramatic way, it is a poem in four 
 acts; not perfect in form, open to criticism with faults of con 
 struction, failings of plots, slight improbabilities, sensational 
 situations, and literary shortcomings, but so simple and so touch 
 ing and so pure that it is worthy to rank with any of the crea 
 tions of the modern stage in any language. The character of 
 Davy Crockett, the central figure, is beautifully and artistically 
 drawn: a strong brave young hunter of the Far West; bold 
 but unassuming; gentle but with a strong will; skilled in 
 woodcraft but wholly ignorant of the ways of the civilized 
 world he had never seen; capable of great love and of great 
 sacrifice for his love s sake ; shy, sensitive and proud ; unable to 
 read or to write; utterly unconscious of his own physical 
 beauty and of his own heroism; faithful, honest, truthful in 
 short a natural gentleman." 1 Such later plays as Augustus 
 Thomas s Arizona (1899) and In Mizzoura (1893) and 
 David Belasco s The Girl of the Golden West (1905) may 
 also be thought of as belonging to the category of frontier 
 drama. William Vaughn Moody s The Great Divide (1906) 
 represents the highest achievement of the native dramatist in 
 the treatment of this theme. Plays of frontier life continue to 
 be popular on the boards. One of the popular successes of 
 the New York theatrical season of 1920-21 was Porter Emer 
 son Brown s The Bad Man, the scene of which is laid on a 
 cattle ranch near the Mexican border in Arizona. 
 
 Dunlap s Andre, already mentioned, is one of a number of 
 plays that employed events of the Revolutionary War as their 
 setting and their subject. New testimony to the persistent 
 popularity of Andre s name is found in the revival in New 
 York in February, 1922, of John Jay Chapman s The Treason 
 and Death of Benedict Arnold. Summing up this aspect of 
 American drama, Quinn writes : " Practically every great event 
 from the Boston Tea Party to the Battle of Yorktown was 
 dramatized. The treason of Arnold and Andre s capture was 
 a favorite theme and it is to our credit that Andre usually is 
 a heroic figure. Marion and Franklin were also favorites, but 
 
 1 Laurence Hutton, Curiosities of the American Stage, New York, 
 pp. 30-31. 
 
DRAMA IN AMERICA xvii 
 
 everyone else runs a bad second to Washington so far as the 
 stage is concerned." 1 
 
 Though the list of characters includes no historic names, a 
 representative play of the War of 1812 is The Triumph at 
 Plattsburg (1830), by Richard Penn Smith (1799-1859). In 
 two acts a conventional story is told with some humor of the 
 marriage of an American girl to a British officer, and the com 
 plications arising therefrom. The dialect of a migrated 
 Scotchman decks out the play with comic touches. How de 
 pendent the drama of English-speaking peoples has been since 
 the days of Shakespeare s Henry V on the laughter produced 
 by the dialectic difficulties of the Welshman, Frenchman, Ger 
 man, Scotchman, or Irishman, as the case may be! 
 
 Plays with a Civil War background or with the actual 
 events of that struggle constituting an integral part of their 
 plot have been common since the eighties of the last century. 
 The leading motive in most of them has been the temporarily 
 thwarted love of war-crossed couples whom fate and the 
 dramatist have assigned to opposite sides of the Mason and 
 Dixon line. Bronson Howard s Shenandoah (1889) marks 
 the progress American playwrights were making in learn 
 ing their craft. The contrast between the almost childish 
 work of Richard Penn Smith, with its wandering story, and the 
 neatly jointed plot of Howard s war drama is striking. The 
 dialogue, too, of the American war play had grown in im- 
 pressiveness. In Richard Harding Davis s 2 charming; and 
 delicate fiction, The Princess Aline (1896), we have the hero, 
 to further his own suit, referring appreciatively to the situa 
 tion embodied in these lines from Shenandoah: 
 
 " GERTRUDE. Your wound ! 
 
 KERCHIVAL. Wound ! I have no wound. You do love me ! [Seiz 
 ing her hand. ] 
 
 GERTRUDE. Let me call the Surgeon, Kerchival. 
 
 KERCHIVAL. You can be of more service to me than he can. [De 
 taining her. Very heavy sounds of the battle; she starts, listening. ] 
 Never mind that! It s only a battle. You love me!" 
 
 1 Arthur Hobson Quinn, The Early Drama, 1756-1860, Cambridge 
 History of American Literature, New York, 1917, Vol. i, p. 225. 
 
 2 Richard Harding Davis himself belongs to the history of American 
 drama; a list of his plays would include The Galloper, The Dictator^ 
 The Yankee Consul, and Miss Civilization. 
 
xviii DRAMA IN AMERICA 
 
 Other popular plays written about Civil War incidents or 
 consequences, to mention but a few, are William Gillette s 
 Held by the Enemy (1886) and Secret Service (1896), Au 
 gustus Thomas s Alabama (1891), David Belasco s The Heart 
 of Maryland (1895), James A. Herne s Griffith Davenport 
 (1899), and Clyde Fitch s Barbara Frietchie of the same year. 
 The effect of the Great War upon American drama cannot 
 yet be calculated. The plays on the subject by native writers 
 remembered by the average playgoer are The Crowded Hour 
 (1918), by Edgar Selwyn and Channing Pollock, in which a 
 scene at a telephone switchboard behind the lines invites com 
 parison with the telegraph office scene in Gillette s Secret 
 Service; James Forbes s The Famous Mrs. Fair (1919), which 
 presents a not uncommon type of modern woman in the light 
 of her reactions to war conditions; Booth Tarkington s Clar 
 ence (1919), the comedy in which arises from the dryly hu 
 morous response of the scientific temperament to army life 
 and post-war employment conditions; and Gilbert Emery s 
 The Hero (1921), in which the tragedy springs from irrecon 
 cilable conflicts in the character of the " hero." 
 
 At the present time there are comparatively few plays being 
 written for the purpose of presenting the peculiarities of the 
 typical American. The nearest approach in our current 
 theatrical output to the character play popular in the early 
 and middle years of the nineteenth century are productions like 
 Alice Brown s Children of Earth (1915), Augustus Thomas s 
 Palmy Days (1919), and Winchell Smith and Frank Bacon s 
 Lightnin (1918). The earliest Jonathan in Tyler s The 
 Contrast had many successors, one of the best known 
 being Jonathan Plowboy in The Forest Rose (1825), a "pas 
 toral opera " by Samuel Woodworth, author of " The Old 
 Oaken Bucket." Woodworth s Jonathan Plowboy " speaks 
 a dialect that was then supposed to prevail among the less 
 enlightened inhabitants of New England and especially of Con 
 necticut. Jonathan, like all his kin, never supposes or thinks; 
 he calculates or guesses/ Instead of asking he * axes. He 
 finds * an t more economical than * is not. He declares that 
 he wouldn t sarve a negro so. His favorite expletive is 
 1 darn, or for variety * darnation used both as a noun and ! 
 an adjective. His speech is full of homely comparisons per- 
 
DRAMA IN AMERICA xix 
 
 taining to cows, pigs, etc. . . . His part in the plot ... is not 
 vital, his function being chiefly to provide comic realism." 1 
 
 The part of Uncle Nat in Shore Acres (1892), written and 
 acted by James A. Herne, continued the tradition of the 
 American countryman with such added touches of artistry as 
 lifted conventional characterization into the realm of realism. 
 Herne s American portraits were the delight of the playgoers 
 of a generation ago. Henry George, the eminent economist 
 and publicist, expressed his enthusiasm for Uncle Nat in a 
 well-known letter to Herne. " I cannot too much congratu 
 late you," he wrote, " upon your success. You have done 
 what you sought to do made a play pure and noble that 
 people will come to hear. You have taken the strength of 
 realism and added to it the strength that comes from the wider 
 truth that realism fails to see; and in the simple portrayal of 
 homely life, touched a universal chord." 2 
 
 Herne s plays have none of them appeared in print. Our 
 knowledge of many other productions significant in the history 
 of the stage in America comes to us also from the reminiscences 
 of contemporaries or the records of descendants. These pro 
 ductions live in our records, because they offered rare oppor 
 tunities to the character actors of their day. Solon Shingle, 
 a Massachusetts type from The People s Lawyer (1839), by 
 J. S. Jones; Judge Bardwell Slote, the low politician from 
 The Mighty Dollar ( 1875), by Benjamin Woolf ; Colonel Mul 
 berry Sellers, the Southerner from the dramatization of Mark 
 Twain and Charles Dudley Warner s The Gilded Age 
 (1874); and Joshua Whitcomb from The Old Homestead 
 (1885), are remembered because created severally by Charles 
 Burke, W. J. Florence, John T. Raymond, and Denman 
 Thompson, actors of charmed memory. Even the present gen 
 eration knows that most popular of all American stage char 
 acters, Rip Van Winkle, from the play of the same name. 
 Washington Irving s story was first dramatized in 1829. The 
 version made famous in recent years by Joseph Jefferson ( 1829- 
 
 1 Oral Sumner Coad: The Plays of Samuel Woodworth, The 
 Sewanee Review, Sewanee, 1919, Vol. 27, p. 168. 
 
 2 Quoted by Barrett H. Clark in The British and American Drama 
 of To-day, New York, 1915, p. 232. 
 
xx DRAMA IN AMERICA 
 
 1905) is the cumulative work of many hands, including Jef 
 ferson s own. 
 
 To the fifth class of subjects that have been enumerated as 
 most popular on the American stage belong the plays about 
 New York life. Perhaps their nature can best be understood 
 if we think of them as paralleling the topical interest of a con 
 temporary play like Augustus Thomas s dramatization of the 
 Chimmie Fadden stories of Edward W. Townsend, or the 
 sentimental appeal of a piece such as Rida Johnson Young s 
 Little Old New York (1920). It will be recalled by those 
 who saw Little Old New York, which professed to reproduce 
 the social life of the city a century ago, that the Volunteer 
 Fire Department played an important part in accelerating the 
 interest. In 1848, a play called A Glance at New York, the 
 first of a numerous family of New York character plays that 
 held the stage for the next thirty years, ran for twelve weeks 
 in the city the life of which it described. It is said to have 
 been a mere hodge-podge with no artistic merit of any kind, 
 but it proved a success because of the acting of a certain F. S. 
 Chanfrau who took the part of Mose, a " B hoy " or tough of 
 that day who ran with the fire wagons. " He wore," accord 
 ing to Laurence Hutton s description, " the soap locks of the 
 period, the * plug hat/ with a narrow black band, the red 
 shirt, the trousers turned up without which the genus was 
 never seen and he had a peculiarly sardonic curve of the lip. 
 ,. . . Mr. Chanfrau s Mose hit the popular fancy at once, 
 and retained it until the Volunteer Fire Department was dis 
 banded." 
 
 Another development of the play concerned with the rough 
 and tumble elements of the city is found in the productions of 
 Edward Harrigan and Tony Hart that began in 1876. Their 
 plays, the names of two of the best known of which are Old 
 ^Lavender (1877) and The Mulligan Guards Ball (1870), 
 were a lightly cohering succession of characters and incidents 
 peculiar to New York, the comedians of the company imper 
 sonating local Irish, Negro, or German types. Charles Hoyfs 
 farces of twenty years later use the peculiarities of the New 
 York scene for their effects. Walter Pritchard Eaton sees in 
 these burlesques of Harrigan and Hart and in the Hoyt farces 
 the direct antecedents of the plays of those contemporary hu 
 morists, George Ade and George Cohan, whose work, as it 
 
DRAMA IN AMERICA xxi 
 
 appears on the stage to-day, is being closely followed by those 
 who are interested in the history of drama in America. 
 
 Tyler wrote The Contrast, as we have seen, after a visit to 
 The School for Scandal. Satirical studies of American 
 manners have since been frequent in the theatre. Often 
 they have been studies of society life in New York or in resorts 
 or suburbs whither the characteristic social life has been trans 
 ferred. One of the best known of American social satires, 
 Fashion, by Anna Cora Mowatt Ritchie, dramatist and actress, 
 was produced in New York in 1845. It was, it is interesting 
 to note, reviewed by Edgar Allan Poe in the Broadway Journal 
 of March 29 of that year. In this play the juxtaposition of 
 Americans, Europeans, and Americans who have lived abroad 
 reminds one of the persons to be met with in the novels of 
 Henry James. Mrs. Mowatt, as she was when she wrote 
 Fashion, evidently knew her Moliere well, for there are scenes 
 in the play that show plainly the influence of situations in Les 
 Femmes Savantes and Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme. Snobbishness 
 and title-mongering are the particular objects of Mrs. Mowatt s 
 attack. Bronson Howard s Saratoga (1870) is a play of the 
 same type as Fashion. It seems even less indigenous than Mrs. 
 Mowatt s play. The several scenes laid in the old Academy 
 of Design in New York and at Congress Springs in Saratoga 
 provide local color in a diluted form. The locale was Ameri 
 can even though the maneuvers of the New York society folk 
 who people the play were manipulated after the English and 
 French models popular in the American theatre of the day. 
 
 The same Clyde Fitch who could turn out romantic period 
 plays like Beau Brummell and Captain Jinks of the Horse 
 Marines was even more emphatically master of the play used 
 for purposes of social satire. The Climbers (1901) is second 
 only perhaps to Langdon Mitchell s The New York Idea 
 (1906), which, according to the authoritative judgment of 
 Arthur Hobson Quinn, "represents American social comedy at 
 its best." In 1918 a satirical social comedy, Why Marry? by 
 Jesse Lynch Williams, won the Pulitzer prize at Columbia 
 University for the best play of the year, that same prize which 
 has since been carried off by two strictly realistic plays of 
 small town or rural American life, Eugene O Neill s Beyond 
 the Horizon and Zona Gale s Miss Lulu Bett t both unrelenting 
 and unrelieved presentations of actualities. 
 
xxii DRAMA IN AMERICA 
 
 The romantic play continues to perpetuate itself in our stage 
 history. As romantic poetic drama, The Prince of Parthia was 
 the forerunner of such later plays as Robert Montgomery Bird s 
 The Broker of Bogota (1834), Nathaniel Parker Willis s 
 Tortesa the Usurer (1839), Henry Wadsworth Longfellow s 
 The Spanish Student (1843), George Henry Boker s Francesca 
 da Rimini (1855), an d the verse dramas of Thomas Bailey 
 Aldrich, Josephine Preston Peabody, Cale Young Rice, Percy 
 MacKaye, and Olive Tilford Dargan. 
 
 Boker s treatment of the Francesca story is more skillful 
 dramatically than Stephen Phillips handling of the same mate 
 rial. The English poet s Paolo and Francesca was written after 
 Tennyson had shown the possibilities of new and lovelier 
 cadences in English blank verse, yet the lines of Boker s here 
 reprinted are representative of many other passages of real 
 poetry in the American play: 
 
 "PAOLO. . . . And now for the romance. Where left we off? 
 
 FRANCESCA. Where Launcelot and Queen Guenevra strayed 
 
 Along the forest, in the Youth of May. 
 
 You marked the figure of the birds that sang 
 
 Their melancholy farewell to the sun 
 
 Rich in his loss, their sorrow glorified 
 
 Like gentle mourners o er a great man s grave. 
 
 Was it not there? No, no; twas when they sat 
 
 Down on the bank, by one impulsive wish 
 
 That neither uttered." 
 
 Francesca da Rimini was successfully revived, with Otis 
 Skinner in the young lover s part, as lately as 1901. 
 
 Kenneth Macgowan, analyzing critically the tendencies 
 that are showing themselves in contemporary drama, in his 
 challenging, brilliant, and sophisticated book, The Theatre of 
 Tomorrow, predicts a revival of interest in the poetic drama of 
 romance, and suggests that Sidney Howard s Swords, produced 
 in New York in 1921, and Percy MacKaye s A Thousand 
 Years Ago (1913) hint at the possibility that free verse and 
 blank verse may be so manipulated, so alternated, as to become 
 less mannered and more expressive for the purpose of the 
 drama. " There may be/ he has written, " verse in the 
 future drama, plenty of it; but it will not be limited to a 
 single measure. It will fit the emotion of the scenes and 
 change as the emotion changes." 
 
DRAMA IN AMERICA xxiii 
 
 As illustrative of the responsiveness to varying moods of 
 Percy MacKaye s verse two passages have been chosen from his 
 version of the Turandot legend, A Thousand Years Ago. The 
 first is a speech of the strolling actor Capocomico : 
 
 "Precisely, my bully-boy! 
 
 What would you? At home, half the world is dyspeptic 
 With pills of reformers and critics and realists. 
 Fun for its own sake? Pho, it s old-fashioned! 
 Art with a mask on? Unnaturalistic, 
 
 They warn you, and scowl, and wag their sad periwigs. 
 So ive the unmatched, immortal, Olympian 
 Maskers of Antic, we, troop of the tragical, 
 Symbolical, comical, melodramatical 
 Commedia dell Arte we, once who by thousands 
 Enchanted to laughter the children of Europe- 
 Behold us now, packed out of town by the critics 
 To wander the world, hobble-heel, tatter-elbowed, 
 Abegging our way four vagabond-players, 
 And one master director me, Capocomico ! " 
 
 But MacKaye s meter provides other music for the lover 
 Calaf s words: 
 
 "Forget? 
 
 Forget that night? That night I died indeed, 
 And rose from out the river s chilly death 
 Into strange paradise: A garden, walled 
 With roses round: A moon, that zoned with pearl 
 A spirit there: a lady, garbed in gold 
 And her more golden smile! Wrapt in disguise 
 A beggar s cloak, which you had hid me in, 
 The river s ooze still staining me with slime 
 On me me, outcast and destroyed, she smiled, 
 And tossed for alms the white rose from her hair! 
 
 [Taking from his bosom a withered rose, he looks on 
 
 it rapturously.] 
 My deathless rose ! " 
 
 The romantic play in prose is more frequent in the course 
 of American drama than the romantic play in verse and has 
 ordinarily been more successful on the stage. The style of 
 acting common in the seventies encouraged the composition of 
 melodramas characterized by rank romantic extravagances. 
 Examples of a progressively more restrained manner in ro 
 mantic prose plays are Steele MacKaye s Hazel Kirke (1880) 
 and Paul Kauvar, or Anarchy (1887), Madame Butterfly 
 (1900), by John Luther Long and David Belasco, The Scare- 
 
xxiv DRAMA IN AMERICA 
 
 crow (1910), by Percy MacKaye, Kismet (1911), by Edward 
 Knoblock, and Romance (1913), by Edward Sheldon. The 
 Emperor Jones (1920), by Eugene O Neill, dramatizing in all 
 their strangeness and beauty negro folk superstitions against a 
 tangled jungle background, is one of the latest and most im 
 pressive of the romantic plays. Imaginative phantasies like 
 Eleanor Gates s The Poor Little Rich Girl (1913) and George 
 Hazelton and J. H. Benrimo s The Yellow Jacket (1912), 
 have plainly no precedent in the earlier history of our 
 drama. 
 
 Likewise new to the tradition of the American stage are such 
 plays as Clyde Fitch s The Truth (1906), Eugene Walter s 
 The Easiest Way (1909), Charles Kenyon s Kindling (1911), 
 Edward Sheldon s Salvation Nell (1908), The Nigger 
 (1909), and The Boss (1911), Rachel Crothers s He and She 
 (1911), Joseph Medill Patterson s Rebellion (1911), Louis K. 
 Anspacher s The Unchastened Woman (1915), a comedy of 
 which William Lyon Phelps has said that it " would be a credit 
 to any dramatist in the world," Frank Craven s The First 
 Year (1920), Arthur Richman s Ambush (1921), and Eugene 
 O Neill s Anna Christie (1921). 
 
 The contribution of Bronson Howard, whose work has 
 several times been mentioned in passing, should certainly be 
 singled out for special comment even in so brief a treatment 
 of the subject as the present one. At a time when American 
 managers were afraid to la^el plays as native products, 
 Howard forced A. M. Palmer, the manager, to advertise The 
 Banker s Daughter as an American comedy, thus establishing a 
 precedent for American plays that were not mere adaptations. 
 In an address delivered at Harvard, 1886, Howard enumerated 
 the following as important considerations in the construction 
 of a play : 
 
 "I. The actual strength of the main incident of a play. 
 II. Relative strength of the main incident, in reference to the 
 importance of the subject; and also the length of the play. 
 
 III. Adequacy of the story in relation to the importance and dig 
 nity of the main incident and of the subject. 
 
 IV. Adequacy of the original motives on which the rest of the 
 play depends. 
 
 V. Logical sequence of events by which the main incident is 
 reached. 
 
 yi. Logical results of the story after the main incident is passed. 
 
DRAMA IN AMERICA xxv 
 
 VII. The choice of the characters by which the sequence of events 
 is determined. 
 
 VIII. Logical, otherwise natural, use of motives in these particular 
 characters, in leading from one incident to another. 
 
 IX. The use of such human emotions and passions as are uni 
 versally recognized as true, without those special explanations which 
 belong to general fiction and not to the stage. 
 
 X. The relation of the story and incidents to the sympathies of 
 the audience as a collection of human beings. 
 
 XI. The relation of the story and incidents to the sympathies of 
 the particular audience for which the play is written; to its knowl 
 edge and ignorance; its views of life; its social customs; and to its 
 political institutions, so far as they may modify its social views, as in 
 the case of a democracy or an autocracy. 
 
 Minor matters such as the use of comic relief, the relation of 
 dialog to action, the proper use of superfluous characters to prevent 
 an appearance of artificiality in the treatment, and a thousand other 
 details belonging to the constructive side of a play must also be 
 within the critic s view." 1 
 
 Howard s theories taken in conjunction with his seventeen 
 plays influenced profoundly the development of native Ameri 
 can drama. 
 
 No survey of American actors has been attempted in this 
 sketch. It is obvious, however, that one cannot really appreci 
 ate the circumstances under which American plays have been 
 written unless one is familiar with the art of Edwin Forrest, 
 Charlotte Cushman, the Jeflersons, the Wallacks, Edwin 
 Booth, John McCullough, John T. Raymond, Mary Anderson, 
 the Hacketts, the Drews, the Barrymores, Richard Mansfield, 
 the Sotherns, Otis Skinner, Julia Marlowe, Margaret Anglin, 
 Minnie Maddern Fiske, Augustin Daly s stock company of the 
 eighties, 2 and Daniel Frohman s Lyceum Stock Company of the 
 nineties. These do not exhaust the names that glorify the 
 history of our stage, or begin to suggest the ramifications of 
 
 1 The Autobiography of a Play, by Bronson Howard, with an Intro 
 duction by Augustus Thomas, Dramatic Museum of Columbia Uni 
 versity, New York, 1914. 
 
 2 Charles Pike Sawyer, writing of the halcyon days, in a recent 
 newspaper article, refers to "that great revival by Daly of The 
 Taming of the Shrew, in its entirety, in October, 1887, when, 
 William Gilbert gave that delightful performance of Christopher 
 Sly in the induction. And such a cast there was: Charles Fisher, 
 Otis Skinner, John Drew, George Clarke, Charles Leclercq, Joseph 
 Holland, James Lewis, Frederick Bond, Ada Rehan, Virginia Dreher, 
 Jean Gordon, and Mrs. G. H. Gilbert, to say nothing of Master 
 Willie Collier, employed as call-boy and playing small parts." 
 
xxvi DRAMA IN AMERICA 
 
 the star system to which the stock companies gave place in the 
 organization of the theatre. 
 
 Nor has any space been given to the history of theatrical 
 management and methods of production, though, of course, it 
 is generally understood " that the dramatic art of a period 
 made up not alone of the plays that are presented, but of the 
 entire institution of the theatre of the time, comprising its 
 actors, its producers, its managers, its agents, its many artists 
 and workers as well as its writers. The drama of the time 
 is the whole institution of the stage of the time." * The fact 
 that in his day Augustin Daly leaned toward German adapta 
 tions, that A. M. Palmer in turn gave the preference to 
 French plays, that David Belasco worked at literally realistic 
 stage settings and revolutionized stage lighting, that Charles 
 and Daniel Frohman wisely brought Arthur W. Pinero, James 
 M. Barrie, Henry Arthur Jones, and other English playwrights 
 to the attention of the American public, and that Arthur Hop 
 kins assembled and coordinated the various arts of the theatre 
 in making his productions, is plainly significant. The pooling 
 of theatrical interests by 1896, the fight against the " Theatrical 
 Trust " carried on by certain actors, the recent break-up of 
 the monster combination all these circumstances have had an 
 obvious and vital bearing on American drama. Experimental 
 producers like the Theatre Guild and the Provincetown 
 Players, both in New York, have made every effort to encour 
 age the American playwright. The plays of Susan Glaspell 
 and of Eugene O Neill have provided more than one bill for 
 the second of these groups. 
 
 Such exponents of the new art of the theatre as Robert 
 Edmond Jones, Norman-bel Geddes, Lee Simonson, and Rollo 
 Peters, designers of interpretive scenery, are helping at this 
 minute to determine what the American drama of the future 
 is to be like. Out of the development of a device like the 
 Clavilux, or color organ, of Thomas Wilfred may come an art 
 of mobile color suitable as the background or the accompani 
 ment of drama, that will suggest the creation of new dramatic 
 forms. 
 
 The actors, the managers, and the artists have their place and 
 importance in the scheme of the theatre, but the controlling 
 
 1 T. H. Dickinson, The Case of American Drama, Boston and New 
 York, 1915, p. 183. 
 
DRAMA IN AMERICA xxvii 
 
 force in the development of the drama will always be the play 
 wright. At the moment the commanding figure among the 
 younger generation of American dramatists is Eugene O Neill. 
 His early contact with the stage through his father James 
 O Neill, the colorful adventures of his young manhood, a period 
 of serious ill health, and a desultory though amazing education, 
 culminating in study at Harvard in the dramatic workshop of 
 George Pierce Baker, are, all of them, experiences vitally influ 
 encing the molds in which his ideas are cast. The subjects 
 that seem most to interest him are the sea, the jungle, the human 
 being warped physically or morally, and the grosser inequalities 
 of society. O Neill has been writing for nine years. In that 
 time his sense of artistry has caused him to destroy eighteen out 
 of the forty-one plays that he has completed. His vigor and ex 
 pressiveness, his strength and imagination, and his experiments 
 with a new and original dramatic technique combine to secure 
 for him a conspicuous position among contemporary American 
 playwrights. He represents nothing like a new school in 
 American drama, but his work illustrates forces that are abroad 
 in the theatre to-day. 
 
BEAU BRUMMELL* 
 
 By 
 CLYDE FITCH 
 
 * Copyright, 1908, by Little, Brown, and Company. All rights 
 reserved. 
 
 This play is fully protected by the copyright law, all requirements 
 of which have been complied with. In its present printed form it is 
 dedicated to the reading public only, and no performance of it may 
 be given without the written permission of Mrs. Richard Mansfield, 
 owner of the acting rights, who may be addressed in care of the 
 publishers. 
 
 The subjoined is an extract from the law relating to copyright. 
 
 SEC. 4966. Any person publicly performing or representing any 
 dramatic or musical composition for which a copyright has been 
 obtained, without the consent of the proprietor of said dramatic or 
 musical composition, or his heirs or assigns, shall be liable for 
 damages therefor, such damages in all cases to be assessed at such 
 sum not less than $100.00 for the first and $50.00 for every subsequent 
 performance, as to the court shall appear to be just. 
 
 If the unlawful performance and representation be willful and for 
 profit, such person or persons shall be guilty of a misdemeanor and 
 upon conviction be imprisoned for a period not exceeding one year. 
 
Clyde Fitch, author of Beau Brummell and of fifty other 
 plays, some of them adaptations, 1 was born May 2, 1865, at 
 Elmira, New York. Part of his childhood was passed at 
 Schenectady; and William Lyon Phelps speaks of having been 
 a schoolmate of Fitch s at Hartford, Connecticut. His college 
 days were spent at Amherst, from which he was graduated in 
 1886. Active as an undergraduate in theatricals, his imper 
 sonation of that sentimental heroine, Lydia Languish, became 
 especially famous. At his death it was found that he had 
 made provision in his will for the endowment of a professor 
 ship at Amherst. The college also has fallen heir to his 
 library. 
 
 He began his literary career by writing children s stories, 
 that were published in the Independent and in the Christian 
 Union. Before he gave himself up wholly to the theatre, he 
 also essayed verse and short stories. But only three years after 
 his graduation from college, he wrote Beau Brummell, and 
 from that date, until his death twenty years later, he was 
 engaged uninterruptedly in turning out the plays that secured 
 him fame and fortune. 
 
 He lived in New York and had country houses at various 
 times at Katonah, New York, and at Greenwich, Connecticut. 
 According to the editors of the memorial edition of his plays: 
 " In one respect it may be said that from the time Clyde 
 Fitch began to be regarded as America s most popular play 
 wright, each year found him externally doing the same things 
 fulfilling contracts, selecting casts, arranging rehearsals, and 
 attending openings. Faster and faster grew the whirl of 
 routine until, during the last year of his life, he was attempting 
 sufficient to undermine the health of the strongest man. Every 
 year found him abroad, noting with the quick eye of the 
 trained expert what was best in the Continental theatres, and 
 meeting Charles Frohman or some other American manager 
 in order to read a manuscript or to talk over an embryo 
 
 1 For a complete list of his plays, see Montrose J. Moses, The 
 American Dramatist, Boston, 1911, pp. 171-172. 
 
 3 
 
4 " ** : : * BEAU BRUMMELL 
 
 comedy. It was the life of a successful literary man of the 
 theatre, and was filled with interesting associations, corre 
 spondence, and travel." 1 It was during Fitch s periodical 
 visits to Venice that much of his writing was done. He was 
 seen there once scribbling for dear life as his gondola swept 
 him along. But he hardly needed the special stimulus of time 
 or place; his ideas for plays were so pressing and so abundant 
 that they forced themselves to the surface for expression. 
 While he waited at the roadside for his automobile, for ex 
 ample, or while he sat with friends at the opera, the impulse 
 to set down his thronging thoughts would not be restrained. 
 
 On September 4, 1909, Clyde Fitch died at Chalons-sur- 
 Marne. Though he had twenty years of feverish activity as 
 a dramatist behind him, he was still a young man. He had 
 shown great promise; more than that, performance had not 
 been lacking. His unexpected and untimely death is but an 
 other of countless illustrations of the unequal race between 
 Art and Time. 
 
 Among the " fifty other plays " referred to at the begin 
 ning of this sketch, five stand out as Fitch s most signal achieve 
 ments in American drama. 2 They are Beau Brummell, written 
 at the suggestion of the distinguished creator of the role, 
 Richard Mansfield, who in turn had had the character called 
 to his attention by William Winter, 3 The Climbers, The Girl 
 with the Green Eyes, The Truth, which was met with greater 
 acclaim in Europe than in the playwright s own country, and 
 The City, posthumously produced. Fitch s knowledge of 
 New York types as evidenced in the last four plays and in 
 others like Captain Jinks of the Horse Marines and The Girls 
 has been compared to O. Henry s. But the range of the writer 
 of short stories was narrower. Fitch was fond, too, of the 
 period play. Nathan Hale, Barbara Frietchie, and Beau 
 Brummell, in spite of certain frank distortions of fact, exhibit 
 their author s intelligent use of historical material. 
 
 We owe the lifelike and artistic delineation of the great 
 
 1 Plays by Clyde Fitch, edited by Montrose J. Moses and Virginia 
 Gerson, Boston, 1915, pp. vi-vii. 
 
 2 See William Lyon Phelps, Essays on Modern Dramatists, New 
 York, 1920, p. 1 60. 
 
 3 See William Winter, Life and Art of Richard Mansfield, New 
 York, 1910, Vol. i, pp. 128-136; and William Winter, Shadows of the 
 Stage, Third Series, New York, 1906, pp. 212-220. 
 
BEAU BRUMMELL 5 
 
 dandy to the joint researches of Fitch and Mansfield. They 
 had ample data for their study. The real George Bryan 
 Brummell was born June 7, 1778, and baptized at Westmin 
 ster. Even while at Eton, to which he was sent in 1790, he 
 was known as " Buck Brummell." During his four years at 
 that college he became increasingly popular. His reputation 
 as a social genius and as a wit was made even in these early 
 days. At this period he attracted the attention of the Prince 
 of Wales, later Regent for George III and later still himself 
 King George IV, and was an attendant at the Prince s wed 
 ding. He was given a cornetcy in the Prince s, his own 
 regiment, the Tenth Hussars. From Eton in 1784, Brummell 
 went to Oxford, but, disinclined for study, left Oriel College 
 the same year. 
 
 He was presently promoted to a captaincy in his regiment, 
 retiring at length from the service in 1798. About that time 
 coming into his fortune, he set up a bachelor establishment in 
 Mayfair. With the Regent as his friend, he became a social 
 power. His taste and authority in matters connected with 
 fashion were acknowledged to be faultless, and though in no 
 sense a fop, he became a dictator of the mode. Leigh Hunt 
 wrote of him: " I remember that Lord Byron once described 
 him to me, as having nothing remarkable in his style of dress, 
 except a * certain exquisite propriety. " * Even the Prince 
 bowed to his mandates and is said, on one occasion, to have 
 begun " to blubber when told that Brummell did not like the 
 cut of his coat." Brummell counted Byron and Sheridan 
 among his friends in the gay world. The author of The 
 Rivals and The School for Scandal, second in stage popularity 
 only to Shakespeare, used to send his verses to Brummell. The 
 Beau owed his position no less to his assurance and ready wit 
 than to his supremacy in all that pertained to dress. The two 
 following anecdotes perpetuate certain of his affectations : " He 
 pretended to look upon the City as a terra incognita ; and when 
 some great merchant requested the honour of his company at 
 dinner, he replied, With pleasure, if you will promise faith 
 fully not to tell. . . . An acquaintance having, in a morn 
 ing call, bored him dreadfully about some tour he had made 
 in the north of England, enquired with great pertinacity which 
 
 1 William Jesse, The Life of George Brummell, London, 1893, 
 p. 47. 
 
6 BEAU BRUMMELL 
 
 of the lakes he preferred; when Brummell, quite tired of the 
 man s tedious raptures, turned his head imploringly towards 
 his valet, who was arranging something in the room, and said, 
 Robinson. Sir/ , Which of the lakes do I admire ? 
 Windemere, sir/ replied that distinguished individual. Ah 
 yes, Windemere, replied Brummell, so it is, Winde 
 mere. " x 
 
 He finally quarreled with the Prince. The break is usually 
 attributed to the Beau s sharp tongue. The famous " Who s 
 your fat friend?" and "Wales, will you ring the bell?" are 
 traditional, if not authentic. Brummell did not, as in the 
 play, lose his place in society. It was only when his gambling 
 losses overwhelmed him that he was constrained to leave Eng 
 land. He fled to Calais on May 16, 1816, where for a time 
 in his little home under the ramparts, he gave himself to the 
 reckless elegance of his old life 2 until a new accumulation of 
 debts proved once more his undoing. When, a year after 
 George IV s accession, the new king passed through Calais, he 
 did not even see his old friend, nor were there any offers of 
 assistance. 
 
 For two years, from 1830 until 1832, Beau Brummell was 
 British consul at Caen. Here, in 1835, he was consigned to 
 prison for his debts. The days of his glory were over. His 
 mind began to fail. He did actually hold " phantom recep 
 tions of the beauties and magnates of old days." He became 
 careless and finally disgusting in his personal habits. His last 
 days were spent in the asylum of the Bon Sauveur, Caen. On 
 March 30, 1840, he died and was buried in the Protestant 
 cemetery of the town. 
 
 It will thus be seen that Clyde Fitch follows with con 
 siderable fidelity the outlines of the real Beau s character, even 
 such traditional anecdotes as have been quoted having their 
 counterpart in the play. Though a play does not have to be 
 documented, yet a period play must create an atmosphere, and 
 in Beau Brummell the England of the Regency appears to live 
 again. 
 
 Brummell had figured in literature before Clyde Fitch s 
 
 1 William Jesse, The Life of George Brummell, London, 1893, pp. 
 79-80. 
 
 2 Cf. The Diary of a Dandy, in John Ashton, Social England under 
 the Regency, London, 1899, Chapter XXXIII. 
 
BEAU BRUMMELL 7 
 
 play. He is supposed to be the prototype of Bulwer s Pelham, 
 and the character of Trebeck in Lister s Granby, published in 
 1826, is a portrait of the Beau in his own lifetime, to the 
 accuracy of which he himself bore witness. There was also 
 a two-act play on the subject by Blanchard Jerrold which 
 Mansfield examined and discarded before broaching his idea to 
 Clyde Fitch. 1 Edgar Fawcett in 1887 had also treated the 
 subject in blank verse. 2 
 
 When Beau Brummell was produced on Monday, May 19, 
 1890, at the Madison Square Theatre in New York, it met 
 only with the qualified approval of the dramatic critics. The 
 verdict, printed in the New York Dramatic Mirror, pro 
 nounced that "Beau Brummell is very far from perfection in its 
 dramatic construction. If produced under less favorable cir 
 cumstances that is, with an ordinary company it is ques 
 tionable whether the piece would have attained any marked 
 attention from the critical fraternity. The principal draw 
 back in the first sample of Mr. Fitch s work as a playwright, 
 is the lack of dramatic action. Of all things, a modern audi 
 ence abhors a talky J play. It is extremely fortunate, there 
 fore, that the abundance of talk in Beau Brummell is not of 
 a tiresome character. On the contrary, the conversation 
 throughout scintillates with witty retorts, partly compiled from 
 authentic sources and partly supplied by the dramatist him 
 self." This opinion is more or less representative of the stand 
 taken by the critics generally in 1890. It was almost always 
 implied that it was Richard Mansfield s acting that lent dis 
 tinction to the play. 
 
 During Fitch s lifetime, the criticism appearing in the 
 newspapers and in the magazines must have made poor read 
 ing indeed for the playwright. A later commentator on Fitch 
 has attributed the lack of enthusiasm on the part of the play 
 reviewers to the fact that they left the theatre with a sense of 
 depression due to the circumstance that this dramatist s attack 
 and exposition were, as a rule, superior to his last acts. 
 
 1 Jerrold s Beau Brummell was first produced at the Royal Lyceum 
 Theatre in London on April n, 1859. There are no English scenes 
 in the play at all. It has almost nothing in common with Clyde 
 Fitch s piece of the same name. 
 
 2 Two Scenes in the Life of Beau Brummell, in Songs of Doubt 
 and Dream, New York, 1891, p. 190. 
 
8 BEAU BRUMMELL 
 
 Neither the novel situations that he invented nor the brilliant 
 dialogue that he supplied served to counteract the chilling ef 
 fect of those last acts. More recent appraisers of Fitch s work 
 have considered him in relation to a larger movement. They 
 have, generally, conceded his cleverness as a technician, his 
 unexcelled knowledge of the conditions of the theatre, and his 
 appreciation of the tastes of the average audience of his all-too- 
 short day. He is, even more significantly, coming gradually 
 to be associated with the good fight that has been going on 
 ever since the days of Bronson Howard for an independent 
 and artistic native drama. 
 
NOTE 
 
 The idea of this play was Richard Mansfield s, and the author 
 gratefully acknowledges his debt to the actor for innumerable sug 
 gestions. 
 
 This play was first produced at the Madison Square Theatre by 
 Richard Mansfield, on May 19, 1890. The 25Oth representation took 
 place at the Garden Theatre, on January 30, 1891. The cast on this 
 occasion was: 
 
 Beau Brummell Mr. Richard Mansfield 
 
 The Prince of Wales Mr. D. H. Harkins 
 
 Richard Brinsley Sheridan Mr. A. G. Andrews 
 
 Lord Manly Mr. H. G. Lonsdale 
 
 Reginald Courtenay Mr. Vincent Sternroyd 
 
 Mortimer Mr. W. J. Ferguson 
 
 Mr. Abrahams Mr. Harry Gwynette 
 
 Simpson Mr. Smiles 
 
 Bailiffs ..\ r Gwynette and 
 
 ( Mr. Ivan Peronette 
 
 Prince s Footman Mr. F. F. Graham 
 
 Mr. Oliver Vincent Mr. W. H. Crompton 
 
 Mariana Vincent Miss Beatrice Cameron 
 
 Kathleen Miss Ethel Sprague 
 
 The Duchess of Leamington Mrs. Julia Brutone 
 
 Lady Farthingale Miss Helen Glidden 
 
 French Lodging-house Keeper Miss Hazel Selden 
 
 Nurse , Miss Genevra Campbell 
 
 Mrs. St. Aubyn Miss Adela Measor 
 
THE PERSONS IN THE PLAY 
 
 THE PRINCE OF WALES, heir apparent to the throne of Eng 
 land. 
 
 BEAU BRUMMELL, prince of dandles. 
 
 RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN, playwright. 
 
 REGINALD COURTENAY, nephew to the Beau. 
 
 MORTIMER, valet and confidential servant to the Beau. 
 
 MR. OLIVER VINCENT, a self-made merchant, father of 
 Mariana. 
 
 LORD MANLY, a fop. 
 
 MR. ABRAHAMS, a money-lender. 
 
 BAILIFFS. 
 
 PRINCE S FOOTMAN. 
 
 SIMPSON, footman to Beau. 
 
 THE DUCHESS OF LEAMINGTON, middle-aged, but very anx 
 ious to appear young. 
 
 MARIANA VINCENT, young and beautiful, beloved by Beau 
 and Reginald. 
 
 MRS. ST. AUBYN, passee but still beautiful very anxious to 
 captivate the Prince, but unwilling to resign the Beau. 
 
 KATHLEEN, Irish maid of Mariana. 
 
 LADY FARTHINGALE, pretty insipid. 
 
 A FRENCH LODGING-HOUSE KEEPER. 
 
 A NURSE. 
 
BEAU BRUMMELL 
 
 THE FIRST ACT. FIRST SCENE. The morning^ toilet. 
 Mr. Brummell dispatches a proposal of marriage, as 
 sists his nephew, and sends for a new tailor. 
 SECOND SCENE. The Beau receives a number of friends, 
 and makes an unfortunate blunder. 
 
 THE SECOND ACT. A small and early party at Carlton 
 House. Mr. Brummell proposes to an heiress, and 
 reprimands a Prince. 
 
 THE THIRD ACT. The Mall, and^ how it came about 
 that Mr. Brummell had a previous engagement with 
 His Majesty. 
 
 THE FOURTH ACT. FIRST SCENE. Mr. Brummell s 
 lodgings in Calais. 
 
 (Six months later.) 
 
 SECOND SCENE. The attic at Caen. A very poor dinner 
 with an excellent dessert. 
 
BEAU BRUMMELL 
 
 THE FIRST ACT 
 SCENE ONE 
 
 The scene represents the BEAU S dressing-room. A cheerful 
 room, furnished more like a lady s boudoir than a mans 
 dressing-room. A handsome dressing-table, covered with 
 a bewildering array of silver-topped bottles, stands at the 
 left. A large cheval-glass stands in front of a bay win 
 dow opening out on a balcony. The curtains are open. 
 The door at the back leads into the BEAU S bedroom. A 
 table stands at one side, with books and papers in precise 
 order. A door at the left-hand side leads into an ante 
 room where visitors are detained until the great man 
 wishes to see them. 
 
 MORTIMER, the BEAU S valet and really confidential servant, 
 is discovered sitting on sofa, head back, face covered with 
 handkerchief; he has evidently been asleep. It is about 
 noon. 
 
 [MORTIMER removes handkerchief, yawns and speaks. } 
 MORTIMER. Up till four this morning! It was pretty 
 lively at the club last night, but I have lost all my beauty 
 sleep to pay for it. I don t know how much longer we will 
 be able to continue this style of living. Our nerves will give 
 out if our credit doesn t. Mr. Brummell only turned over 
 twice and then took to his chocolate. That means he will only 
 be half an hour at his bath time for a nap. [Replaces 
 handkerchief. Enter SIMPSON through door from ante-room. 
 SIMPSON is the regulation footman, with powdered hair and 
 liver yJ] 
 
 SIMPSON [at left]. Mr. Mortimer, sir, Mr. Abrahams has 
 just called. He particularly wishes to see you, sir. [Going 
 toward MORTIMER.] 
 
 12 
 
BEAU BRUMMELL 13 
 
 MORTIMER [starting and removing handkerchief]. Hang 
 Abrahams, what s he after? Dear me! It can t be that he 
 thinks of collecting those I. O. U. s of mine. [Rising.] 
 
 SIMPSON [who has a great respect for MORTIMER. Very 
 deferentially]. Been losing again, sir? 
 
 MORTIMER [loftily]. Yes, Simpson, pretty high stakes last 
 night, and one must play, you know. 
 
 SIMPSON. Mr. Mortimer, sir, you couldn t propose me in 
 your club, could you, sir? 
 
 MORTIMER [haughtily and then more kindly, as he sees 
 SIMPSON S downcast face]. No, Simpson, not in your present 
 position, you know; but if you should ever raise yourself, de 
 pend upon me to use all my influence for you. 
 
 SIMPSON [gratefully]. Oh, thank you, sir, I m sure, [go 
 ing] but what about Mr. Abrahams, sir? 
 
 MORTIMER [seating himself]. Oh, damn Abrahams! [En 
 ter ABRAHAMS from ante-room, hat and cane in hand. ABRA 
 HAMS is the typical Jew money-lender of the period, exag 
 gerated in dress and manner.] 
 
 ABRAHAMS [advancing just as SIMPSON crosses back of table 
 and exits, giving him a look of haughty disdain]. No, you 
 don t, Mr. Mortimer; no, you don t, not yet. Where s your 
 master ? 
 
 MORTIMER. Excuse me, where s my gentleman, you mean, 
 Mr. Abrahams. [Rising.] I am a gentleman s gentleman; I 
 have no master. 
 
 ABRAHAMS [at left center]. Oh, you haven t a master, 
 haven t you ? Well, now, suppose I was to come down on you 
 with some of your little I. O. U. s, I wonder then if you d 
 have a master. Where s Mr. Brummell? 
 
 MORTIMER. Mr. Brummell has not yet appeared. 
 
 ABRAHAMS [sitting down as if to wait]. Inform him that 
 Mr. Abrahams wishes to see him. 
 
 MORTIMER [shocked]. I repeat, sir, he is not up. 
 
 ABRAHAMS. Well, then, my good fellow, it s time he were 
 up. Tell him I said so. 
 
 MORTIMER. It is as much as my position is worth, sir, to 
 go to him at this hour. You must call again, Mr. Abra 
 hams. 
 
 ABRAHAMS [rising]. Call again! Call again! This is 
 the seventh time I ve called again. 
 
i 4 BEAU BRUMMELL 
 
 MORTIMER [trying now to placate him}. Yes eh if you 
 please, Mr. Abrahams. 
 
 ABRAHAMS. No, sir; I must see him now. I m in need 
 of money myself, and I must get it from Mr. Brummell. My 
 creditors are pressing me, and they force me to do the same. 
 [Loudly.] I regret the necessity, but I am determined upon 
 seeing him. 
 
 MORTIMER [who is so shocked he can hardly speak~\. Not 
 so loud, Mr. Abrahams, not so loud. If Mr. Brummell were 
 to hear you, he d be distressed. Besides, he never tolerates 
 anyone who raises his voice unnecessarily. If he should hear 
 you, you might never be paid. 
 
 ABRAHAMS [aghast at the thought]. What! 
 
 MORTIMER [hands raised in horror]. Sh! Sh! 
 
 ABRAHAMS. What! [Whispering in MORTIMER S ear.] 
 
 MORTIMER [looking at ABRAHAMS out of the corner of his 
 eye]. Upon my honor, Mr. Brummell was saying only yes 
 terday he thought he would pay Mr. Abrahams. 
 
 ABRAHAMS [a little more calmly]. Then why hasn t he 
 done so? 
 
 MORTIMER. Mr. Brummell only said it yesterday, and Mr. 
 Brummell never does anything in a hurry. 
 
 ABRAHAMS. Is four years a hurry? Well, this is the last 
 time that I will be put off. Do you follow me the last time ! 
 And now, when am I to have your little sums? 
 
 MORTIMER [taking out handkerchief and wiping eyes]. 
 Mine! Oh, I have a wealthy aunt, who is now dying in 
 Clapham, Mr. Abrahams, and I am her sole heir. I fear I 
 must beg you to wait until after her funeral. 
 
 ABRAHAMS [at left center. Really puzzled]. It is very 
 strange, a very large number of my clients have wealthy aunts 
 who are dying, but they don t die. They all appear to be 
 affected with a most lingering sickness. However, Mr. Brum 
 mell has no such relative, and I believe, on consideration, that 
 I will wait for him this morning. [Sits in chair by table] 
 
 MORTIMER [who is now determined to get rid of him, cross 
 ing to ABRAHAMS]. No, really, Mr. Abrahams, you must 
 go. Mr. Brummell would not see you until his toilet is com 
 pleted ; and, indeed, if he would, he could transact no business 
 in deshabille. 
 
 ABRAHAMS. In what? [Jumps up] Oh, very well, very 
 
BEAU BRUMMELL 15 
 
 well; but advise him this is the last time I will be dismissed 
 without seeing him. The next time I call, I will see him 
 whether he is in desh desh or nothing. I will have my 
 money. I will have my money. [All the while he is saying 
 this, MORTIMER is pushing him gently off through the ante 
 room. MORTIMER ushers ABRAHAMS off at the left, then 
 crosses to the right center, and turns away with a sigh of relief 
 as SIMPSON enters very hurriedly] 
 
 SIMPSON. Mr. Mortimer, sir, there are a number of people 
 waiting with their accounts to see Mr. Brummell. What shall 
 I say, sir? 
 
 MORTIMER [resignedly]. Get a list of their names, Simp 
 son, and tell them I ll call around and see them to-day. 
 
 SIMPSON. Very well, sir. [Exit SIMPSON through ante 
 room. A murmur of voices is heard there] 
 
 MORTIMER. Affairs are very shaky. It was only three 
 days since Abrahams called. According to this he will return 
 again to-morrow. [Sits in chair in front of dressing-case, 
 makes himself comfortable, and is about to fall asleep when 
 KATHLEEN appears at door and peeps in] 
 
 KATHLEEN [in door at left. She is MARIANA S Irish maid, 
 very pretty and piquant]. Pst! Pst! [MORTIMER starts 
 and listens, then composes himself for another nap.] 
 
 KATHLEEN. Pst! Pst! 
 
 MORTIMER [still seated]. I did drink pretty heavily last 
 night, but I hardly thought it affected me. 
 
 KATHLEEN. Hello! 
 
 MORTIMER [rising]. Who is it? What is it? 
 
 KATHLEEN [still in door. With pretty impatience]. Is it 
 all right, can I come in? 
 
 MORTIMER [laughingly]. Look here, Kathleen, are you 
 going to indulge in that sort of thing when we are married ? 
 
 KATHLEEN. Can I come in? [Comes in a few steps.] 
 
 MORTIMER [crossing to center]. Yes, it s all right now. 
 Mr. Brummell is finishing the first part of his toilet; he won t 
 be out for some time yet. Well, what do you want, you little 
 minx? [Chucks her under chin.] 
 
 KATHLEEN [tossing her head]. Minx, indeed! [Crossing 
 to right.] I dropped in to find tmt what s your intentions. 
 Mr. Sheridan s gentleman has become very pressing in his, and 
 won t be held off much longer. Now, is it marriage with 
 
!6 BEAU BRUMMELL 
 
 you, Mr. Mortimer, or is it a breaking off, Mr. Mortimer? 
 Am I to be worn in your coat like a flower and thrown aside 
 when I m withered, or am I to be pressed in the album of 
 your affections, Mr. Mortimer? I own there is an air about 
 Mr. Brummell, and I should not be averse to a connection 
 with the family. [Quite seriously.] 
 
 MORTIMER [just as seriously]. And I mean you shall have 
 it, Kathleen, for you would become our position. But the fact 
 is, I can t afford to marry while Mr. Brummell s money mat 
 ters are so bad. I tell you his social position is like a halo, it 
 is glory all round him, but there s a hollow in the middle. 
 
 KATHLEEN [with a sudden thought}. Mr. Mortimer! We 
 must marry Mr. Brummell! First, we must procure a list of 
 the heiresses. 
 
 MORTIMER [slyly]. I understand there is a heap of money 
 in your family. 
 
 KATHLEEN [dubiously]. But there s one obstacle Miss 
 Mariana s affections are already engaged. 
 
 MORTIMER. Indeed, to whom? 
 
 KATHLEEN. That s what I can t find out. The diwle 
 never signs any of his letters. I can promise you one thing, 
 he isn t very high, and Miss Mariana s father has forbid him 
 the house, and swears she shan t have him. Mr. Vincent, oh, 
 ho! he s all for position and fashion. 
 
 MORTIMER [puts arm around her waist and they walk up 
 and down}. Then Mr. Vincent would be glad to marry her 
 to Mr. Brummell. We ll enlist him on our side. Now there 
 are two difficulties with Mr. Brummell first, he is, just at 
 present, very friendly with Mrs. St. Aubyn. Still, I think I 
 can get him out of that predicament, and then you see Mr. 
 Brummell is so demmed particular, the young lady must be 
 correct to a hair in every respect 
 
 KATHLEEN [affectedly]. Lord, Mr. Morty, you needn t 
 worry yourself about that ; ar n t I in her service ? And what s 
 the matter with me? She s a very much a la mud and [crosses 
 to mirror at right] correct in every particular. Mr. Mortimer, 
 do you think you are as becoming to me as Mr. Sheridan s 
 gentleman? [Beckoning to him; he comes up and looks over 
 her shoulder in the glass.} 
 
 MORTIMER [putting his arm around her and leading her 
 
BEAU BRUMMELL 17 
 
 away from mirror}. Look here, Kathleen, no tricks; and 
 what are you doing out at this time of day ? 
 
 KATHLEEN [walking to and fro with MORTIMER]. Why, 
 Miss Mariana sent me over an hour back with this letter 
 [holding up letter] for her young gentleman. They corre 
 spond through me; faith, I m turned into a regular post-bag. 
 But I m afraid I ve missed him this time. 
 
 MORTIMER [laughing]. You will have to miss him quite 
 regularly when we begin to break it off between your young 
 mistress and her lover, and supplant him with my gentleman. 
 
 BEAU [voice in distance from bedroom]. Mortimer! 
 Mortimer ! 
 
 MORTIMER. Yes, sir ! [Alarmed.] That s Mr. Brummell ! 
 
 KATHLEEN [starts off left]. Lord! I m off. [Pointing 
 to dressing-table.] Oh, Morty! Is that where he sits and 
 does it? [MORTIMER nods.] Couldn t I see him? 
 
 MORTIMER [with horror]. What! Before he s finished? 
 Gracious Heavens! No! 
 
 KATHLEEN [crossing to door of ante-room]. Well, I am 
 going. I m loath to leave ye; good-by be faithful. [Throws 
 kiss. Exit KATHLEEN. Enter BEAU from door into bedroom. 
 He enters slowly as though it were too much trouble to come 
 in. He is dressed in a yellow brocaded dressing-gown, tied with 
 a heavy yellow cord. It is long, so that only his patent leather 
 pumps with silver buckles show, with just a glimpse of brown 
 and yellow striped socks. He crosses at once to the dressing- 
 table without paying any attention to MORTIMER, who bows 
 deferentially and says:] 
 
 MORTIMER. Good morning, sir. 
 
 BEAU. Oh, go to the devil. 
 
 MORTIMER [to himself]. Mr. Brummell is in a bad temper 
 this morning. 
 
 BEAU [seating himself at dressing-table]. Mortimer, is the 
 sun shining? 
 
 MORTIMER [crossing to window right]. Oh, finely, sir. 
 [SIMPSON enters, bringing soda-water bottle and glass on a 
 tray.] 
 
 BEAU [simply looks at it and motions it away; exit SIMP 
 SON]. Any gossip, Mortimer? [Has taken up hand-glass, 
 and then gently smooths his eyebrows.] 
 
!8 BEAU BRUMMELL 
 
 MORTIMER. None of any account, sir. The Dowager 
 Lady Slopington ran off yesterday with young Philip Petti- 
 
 BEAU [now manicuring his nails]. If it happened yester 
 day, it must be forgotten to-day. 
 
 MORTIMER. And Captain Badminton shot himself in the 
 Park last night, sir, after losing ten thousand pounds at hazard. 
 
 BEAU [now takes tweezers and pulls out one or two hairs 
 from his face]. Very stupid of him; he should have shot him 
 self first is he dead, Mortimer? 
 
 MORTIMER. No, sir. 
 
 BEAU. He always was a bad shot. You ll find some of his 
 I. O. U. s among my papers; return them to him canceled, 
 with my compliments. He can use them for plasters. And 
 who has called? 
 
 MORTIMER [crosses to small table and looks over cards]. 
 Oh, nobody, sir. To be sure there has been the usual crowd of 
 people. The Honorable Mrs. Donner came for your sub 
 scription to the town charities, and I gave her all you could 
 spare, sir. Mr. Cecil Serious, the poet, called for permission 
 to inscribe your name under the dedication of his new volume 
 of verses. Lord Cowden came to know if your influence might 
 still be used in the support of his party in the coming elections. 
 
 BEAU [still occupied with his toilet]. Yes, he can use my 
 influence. Well, you satisfied them all, I presume. 
 
 MORTIMER [at left]. I took that liberty, sir. Then there 
 was a quantity of trades-people with their bills and accounts. 
 I said you had been out all night with the Prince and really 
 were not able to see them. 
 
 BEAU. Pray, Mortimer, be a little careful of my reputa 
 tion in your lies. You know common people are apt to look 
 upon dissipation very differently from persons of fashion. You 
 may say what you like about the Prince, but handle me a little 
 delicately. 
 
 MORTIMER [bows, then speaks after short pause]. Sprague, 
 the tailor, called again, sir, with his account. 
 
 BEAU [much astonished]. Again! What insolence! Upon 
 what previous occasion had he the presumption to call? 
 
 MORTIMER. A year ago last month, sir. 
 
 BEAU [with real astonishment]. What damned impudence! 
 Mortimer, you may let it be known at your club that he comes 
 
BEAU BRUMMELL 19 
 
 to me no longer. Send for that new tailor what s his name 
 to wait upon me this afternoon. Bring this morning s letters. 
 [MORTIMER brings down table with a number of little notes 
 to BEAU, who is still seated at dressing-table.] 
 
 MORTIMER [holding up a bundle of bills]. These are bills, 
 sir. All of them fresh this morning, and some of them more 
 urgent than usual. 
 
 BEAU [not taking the trouble to look at them]. Hide them 
 away somewhere, where I can t see them, and I shall feel as if 
 they had been paid. 
 
 MORTIMER [pushing forward a bundle of notes]. Your 
 private correspondence, this little collection, sir. 
 
 BEAU [still seated, takes up notes, one at a time, and smells 
 them] . Patchouli ! phew ! Frangipane ! I believe that smells 
 like peppermint. I don t know what that is, but it s very un 
 pleasant. Violet! musk! Take them all away you may 
 read them yourself. 
 
 MORTIMER [holding up a yellow lock of hair which he has 
 taken from an envelope]. This letter has this little enclosure, 
 sir. 
 
 BEAU [in interested tone]. Money? 
 
 MORTIMER. Not exactly, sir, although a similar color. 
 
 BEAU [disappointedly languidly]. Whose is it? 
 
 MORTIMER. Lady Constance Conway s, and she says 
 
 BEAU [interrupts him]. Never mind what she says. I be 
 lieve I did honor her with the request. Write and thank her, 
 and quote some poetry. Say hers is the most precious lock I 
 possess. Rather tender little woman, Lady Constance. [Senti 
 mentally] 
 
 MORTIMER [pointedly]. Is she rich, sir? 
 
 BEAU [sighing]. No, she s not. 
 
 MORTIMER [opening another note]. Oh! A note from 
 Mrs. St. Aubyn. She wants to know where you ve been these 
 two days. She says you are her lover s knot; she s coming to 
 see you at three this afternoon; bids you be ready to receive 
 her. She has, besides, down below in a postscript, a myriad 
 of sentiments which she says belong to you, and she is herself, 
 unalterably yours, Horatia. 
 
 BEAU. The one woman in London with whom it s possible 
 to have a Platonic friendship. One must have something now 
 adays, and these other liaisons are so excessively vulgar. 
 
20 BEAU BRUMMELL 
 
 MORTIMER [very loud as he opens letter}. Mr. Brummell, 
 sir. 
 
 BEAU [shocked], Mortimer, how often have I told you 
 never to startle me? 
 
 MORTIMER [bows an apology]. Mr. Brummell, sir, here s 
 the memorandum of an I. O. U. for one thousand pounds, 
 given by you to Lord Gainsby at White s three nights ago, for 
 sums lost at hazard. 
 
 BEAU [a little disturbed] . The deuce, Mortimer. It must 
 be paid to-day; that s a debt of honor. How can we obtain 
 the money? 
 
 MORTIMER. I can try Abrahams again, sir, but he was 
 very difficult the last time. 
 
 BEAU [rings bell. Enter SIMPSON from ante-room. With 
 out looking at him]. Simpson! 
 
 SIMPSON. Yes, sir. 
 
 BEAU. Go to Mr. Abrahams. Of course, you know where 
 he lives. 
 
 SIMPSON. Yes, sir. [MORTIMER brings table back to place 
 up at right.] 
 
 BEAU. Say Mr. Brummell requests his immediate attendance. 
 
 SIMPSON. Very well, sir! [Exit SIMPSON.] 
 
 MORTIMER [coming down]. Mr. Brummell, sir, this can t 
 go on much longer. 
 
 BEAU. No, I hope not. 
 
 MORTIMER. Everybody s pressing on you, and the only 
 thing that keeps them off at all is your friendship with the 
 Prince, and if anything should happen to that 
 
 BEAU [quite unaffectedly]. Nothing could happen to that, 
 Mortimer, and if anything did, I should cut the Prince and 
 make the old King the fashion. [Rises] 
 
 MORTIMER. I have been wondering, Mr. Brummell, if I 
 might be so bold, if you had ever thought, sir, of the advisa 
 bility of a rich marriage. 
 
 BEAU. Yes, it has occurred to me occasionally; in fact, it 
 has passed through my mind quite recently that it might be 
 desirable. Only to decide on the person really seems too diffi 
 cult a task for me to undertake. You would not have me 
 marry a mere money-bag, would you, Mortimer? 
 
 MORTIMER [at left of table]. But the great Mr. Brum 
 mell has only to choose. 
 
BEAU BRUMMELL 21 
 
 BEAU [staring at him in utter surprise that such a remark 
 should be necessary]. Yes, of course! But one desires some 
 sentiment. I wouldn t care to make a loan for life and give 
 myself as security. 
 
 MORTIMER. Mr. Brummell, sir, have you ever observed 
 Miss Mariana Vincent? 
 
 BEAU [thoughtfully]. Yes, I have noticed her in the Mall, 
 and I must confess it was to admire her ; her person is perfect. 
 Is her matrimonial figure as good? 
 
 MORTIMER. I believe it is sixty thousand pounds, sir. 
 
 BEAU. Oh, dear! 
 
 MORTIMER {hastily }. But Mr. Vincent would be ashamed 
 to offer so little to the wife of Mr. Brummell. 
 
 BEAU [musingly]. Yes, it s a very paltry sum, and Mrs. St. 
 Aubyn 
 
 MORTIMER [insinuatingly] . If you could present her to the 
 Prince, Mr. Brummell, don t you think a Platonic friendship 
 might spring up there? 
 
 BEAU [as though thinking aloud]. She is ambitious, but 
 she is clever and would never forgive a slight. She is a good 
 hater, and if she thought she were being put upon one side, she 
 would make a sly enemy. Well we shall see. Mortimer, 
 write a letter to Mr. Vincent make my proposal for his 
 daughter s hand. Be mindful of your language and careful 
 to accomplish it in the most elegant manner, and request an 
 immediate reply. 
 
 MORTIMER. Yes, sir. 
 
 SIMPSON [enters at left from ante-room]. Mr. Reginald 
 Courtenay, sir. 
 
 BEAU. Yes, you may bid him come in here. [REGINALD 
 comes rushing in from ante-room. He is a handsome, bright- 
 faced lad of twenty, dressed simply, in great contrast to BEAU S 
 gorgeous attire.] 
 
 REGINALD [speaks very loud]. Ah! Mortimer. [Crossing 
 to BEAU, after placing hat and cane on table, with hand ex 
 tended.] Good morning Uncle Beau! 
 
 BEAU. Reginald! You are evidently laboring under the 
 impression that I am a great distance off. [MORTIMER goes 
 into bedroom] 
 
 REGINALD [in a much lower tone]. I beg your pardon, 
 Uncle Beau. [Bows.] Good morning. [Hand extended.] 
 
22 BEAU BRUMMELL 
 
 BEAU. No, I don t think I will shake hands; men shake 
 hands much too often, especially in warm weather. A glance 
 of the eye, Reginald a glance of the eye! Did it ever occur 
 to you, Reginald, how thoughtful our Creator was, in giving 
 us bodies, to give them to us naked, so that we could dress and 
 ornament them as we choose? 
 
 REGINALD. It had not occurred to me before, Uncle. 
 
 BEAU. No, I suppose not. 
 
 REGINALD. I trust you are well this morning? 
 
 BEAU. No, I ve contracted a cold I suppose everybody 
 will have a cold now. I left my carriage on the way to the 
 Pavilion last night, and the wretch of a landlord put me into 
 the same room with a damp stranger. 
 
 REGINALD [goes up, sits on settee at right, with a change of 
 tone and manner}. Uncle, I want your advice and help. 
 
 BEAU [goes to REGINALD, and puts his hand on his shoulder 
 and speaks with real affection]. All the advice I have is yours. 
 Reginald, my boy, I trust you haven t gotten yourself into 
 difficulties. You are the one creature in the world whom I 
 love, and I think it would break my heart to see you in any 
 trouble from which I could not free you. Your mother, my 
 boy, was a mother to me for years, and when I lost my sister 
 I lost the best friend I ever had. She saw the heart that beat 
 beneath the waistcoat. Moreover, she helped me always in 
 every way; if it had not been for her, perhaps even now, I 
 might be in some smoky office in the city that undiscovered 
 country from whose bourn no social traveler ever returns. 
 [Crosses back to dressing-table.} What is it, Reginald? If 
 you are irf debt, I will give you a letter to Mr. Abrahams. 
 If you are in the blue-devils, I will give you one to Mrs. St. 
 Aubyn. 
 
 REGINALD [rises and comes down to BEAU]. I am in 
 neither, Uncle Beau; I am in love. 
 
 BEAU. Dear me, that s worse than either. How do you 
 know you are? 
 
 REGINALD. Why well I feel it here! [Indicating 
 heart.} I live only when she is present, and merely exist when 
 away from her. 
 
 BEAU [staring at him through his glass}. Reginald, don t 
 talk like a family newspaper. Is your fair one possible? 
 
BEAU BRUMMELL 23 
 
 REGINALD [indignantly]. If you mean is she a gentle 
 woman, she is, and besides, young and beautiful and 
 
 BEAU [at right}. Of course, she would be. But does she 
 return your passion? 
 
 REGINALD. She loves me, Uncle. 
 
 BEAU. Of course, she would but 
 
 REGINALD. Her father is opposed to me. He has forbidden 
 our seeing each other ; our meetings have to be clandestine, and 
 our mutual correspondence is carried, on through her maid. 
 He wishes a title for his daughter. He is rich and seeks only 
 position in the world of society, while she, ah ! she cares nothing 
 for it only for me. 
 
 BEAU [looking at him through glass}. Reginald, do you 
 know I think you are more conceited than I am. 
 
 REGINALD [at center}. Oh, no! [Bowing. } Oh! Uncle 
 Beau, you, who are so high in favor at the Court, who have 
 Dukes at your elbow and the Regent on your arm, might help 
 me in a worldly way, that I might win over the father. I 
 know that I am dear to you, as you are to me and that is why 
 I have come to you! 
 
 BEAU. And you shall not have come in vain. [With en 
 thusiasm.} By my manners! You shall have the girl if I 
 have to plead for you myself. But that will not be necessary. 
 No, I will give you social distinction and prominence much 
 more easily. Come for me in a little while, and I ll walk 
 along the Mall with you to White s. Yes, and be seen with 
 you at the Club window a few moments. Now, my dear boy, 
 can anybody possibly do anything more for you? [With abso 
 lute conviction.} 
 
 REGINALD [pleased}. No, Uncle. [Turning to go.~} Yes,. 
 Uncle you can do one thing more for me. I ve left my purse ; 
 will you lend me a couple of crowns to take a chair with? 
 I ve missed an appointment with the maid, and I wish to return 
 to the Park in a hurry. 
 
 BEAU. Reginald, you know I never use silver, it s so ex 
 cessively dirty and heavy. Ask Mortimer for a couple of 
 guineas as you go out. [REGINALD starts to go. } By the way, 
 Reginald, it is just possible that I may enter into the golden 
 bands myself. I am thinking somewhat of a marriage with 
 a certain young lady whose charms, strange to say, very much 
 
24 BEAU BRUMMELL 
 
 resemble those you would have described had I permitted you 
 to inflict me. 
 
 REGINALD [laughing]. You marry! Uncle! You! Your 
 wit makes me laugh in spite of my dolors! Imagine the great 
 Beau Brummell married! Why, Uncle, your children would 
 be little Rosettes. 
 
 BEAU [wincing]. Reginald, never be guilty of a pun; it 
 is excessively vulgar. I am serious. I think I may marry. 
 
 REGINALD [going to BEAU and offering hand quickly]., 
 Then, Uncle, I am glad for you. 
 
 BEAU [starts, looks at hand with eye-glass]. Dear me, 
 what s that? Oh, dear, no, Reginald a glance of the eye. 
 [REGINALD drops hand.] A glance of the eye! My boy, you 
 look so like your mother God bless you! [REGINALD 
 goes to table at left for hat and stick.] 
 
 BEAU. You will return? 
 
 REGINALD [boisterously, crossing to door at left]. Yes, 
 shortly. 
 
 BEAU [again shocked at his loud tone], Reginald! [REG 
 INALD stops, returns a step or two, looks at BEAU as if to say, 
 " What is it? " BEAU bows very politely. REGINALD re 
 members he had forgotten himself for a minute, bows, places 
 hat on his head, as he turns, and exits less boisterously.] 
 
 SIMPSON [enters from ante-room as REGINALD exits]. Mr. 
 Abrahams, sir. 
 
 BEAU. Yes, you can let him in here. 
 
 SIMPSON [exits and returns, ushering in ABRAHAMS]. Mr, 
 Abrahams, sir. 
 
 ABRAHAMS [enters with assurance]. I understand, Mr* 
 Brummell, that you wished to see me. I had much difficulty 
 in leaving my place of business, but you see I am here. 
 
 BEAU [glancing at him through his glass]. Ah Abrahams 
 ah, yes! So you are, so you are. 
 
 ABRAHAMS [insinuatingly]. I thought it was likely, sir, 
 that you wished to make a few payments. 
 
 BEAU [dryly]. I think that s wrong, Abrahams; do you 
 know, I fear you will have to guess again. 
 
 ABRAHAMS [with indignation]. Well, now, really, Mr, 
 Brummell, I hope you don t want to raise another loan. 
 
 BEAU [pleased that he has surmised it]. I believe that s 
 right, Abrahams; second thoughts seem to be always the best. 
 
BEAU BRUMMELL 25 
 
 ABRAHAMS [very loudly]. Really, Mr. Brummell, sir, I m 
 sorry, sir, but the fact is I can t possibly [Enter SIMPSON 
 from ante-room.] 
 
 SIMPSON [interrupting ABRAHAMS]. A footman from His 
 Royal Highness, the Prince Regent, sir. 
 
 BEAU [quite unconcernedly]. Yes, you can let him come 
 in here. [ABRAHAMS looks at BEAU, and backs up a trifle. 
 Enter footman. Stands below door. ] 
 
 BEAU [without looking at him]. Mortimer, which one is 
 it? 
 
 MORTIMER [who had come in from bedroom]. Bendon, 
 sir. 
 
 BEAU [at right. Graciously]. Very well, Bendon. 
 
 FOOTMAN [with great respect]. Mr. Brummell, sir, His 
 Royal Highness wishes to know if you will be at home this 
 afternoon at four o clock. If so, he will call upon you to make 
 arrangements for the dance at Carlton House. 
 
 BEAU. At what o clock did you say, Bendon? 
 
 BENDON [with low bow]. At four o clock, sir. 
 
 BEAU. Say to His Royal Highness to make it half -past four 
 o clock. [Exit footman at left, followed by SIMPSON. ABRA 
 HAMS is overcome with wonder at thisj and looks at MOR- 
 TIMER, who draws himself up proudly] 
 
 BEAU [as if recollecting his presence]. You were saying, 
 Mr. Abrahams, that you could not possibly 
 
 ABRAHAMS [bowing, changing attitude and tone]. H m, 
 ach hem that I should be very glad though I am just now 
 rather pressed myself. How much did you say, sir? 
 
 BEAU. How much did I say, Mortimer? [Enter REG 
 INALD, same door.] 
 
 REGINALD [boisterously rushing to BEAU, left center]. Am 
 I in good time, Uncle? 
 
 BEAU [startled]. Reginald, how often have I told you to 
 enter a room properly. You came in like like a Mortimer, 
 what did Mr. Reginald come like? 
 
 MORTIMER [reproachfully]. Like a thunderbolt, sir. 
 
 BEAU. Ah, yes like a thunderbolt; very unpleasant 
 things, thunderbolts. Mortimer, have I ever seen a thunder 
 bolt? 
 
 MORTIMER. Once, sir. 
 
 BEAU. Yes; I once saw a thunderbolt; very unpleasant 
 
2 6 BEAU BRUMMELL 
 
 things, thunderbolts. You must not come in like a thunder 
 bolt, Reginald. 
 
 REGINALD [looking at ABRAHAMS]. I beg your pardon, 
 Uncle Beau. Are you busy? 
 
 BEAU [as if startled}. I beg your pardon 
 
 REGINALD. Are you busy? 
 
 BEAU. Busy! Ugh! Never employ that term with me. 
 No gentleman is ever busy. Insects and city people are busy. 
 This ah person has come to ask my assistance in some little 
 financial matters, and I think I ve rather promised to oblige 
 him. Mortimer, go with this ah ah person. You go with 
 my valet. [ABRAHAMS bows and bows.] Yes, quite so, quite 
 so. [Exit MORTIMER and ABRAHAMS into ante-room at left, 
 ABRAHAMS backing, bowing all the time.} 
 
 REGINALD [gloomily sitting on sofa}. I was too late; I 
 missed her. 
 
 BEAU. Don t be gloomy, Reginald, or I shall not be able 
 to walk with you. Nothing is more conspicuous than melan 
 choly. [MORTIMER returns coughs.} 
 
 BEAU. Mortimer, are you coughing? 
 
 MORTIMER [apologetically}. Yes, sir. 
 
 BEAU [at right}. Well, I wish you wouldn t. You wish 
 to speak with me? 
 
 MORTIMER. Yes, sir. [BEAU crosses, bowing in apology 
 as he passes REGINALD.] Mr. Brummell, sir, everything is 
 arranged satisfactorily, sir. 
 
 BEAU. Did you send for the new tailor, what s his name, 
 to come this afternoon? 
 
 MORTIMER. Yes, sir. 
 
 BEAU. And have you written the letter to Mr. Vincent? 
 
 MORTIMER. Yes, sir, all ready to seal. 
 
 BEAU. Then seal it and dispatch it at once. And now, 
 Reginald, come with me and you shall see me having my coat 
 put on. [REGINALD rises. Exit BEAU and REGINALD into 
 bedroom. Enter KATHLEEN from ante-room.} 
 
 KATHLEEN. La! I must come in for a minute. I missed 
 my young gentleman in the Park, and I ventured back to ask 
 how we are to discover who he is. That s what we must do 
 somehow, but how? [REGINALD enters from bedroom.} 
 
 REGINALD [coming down}. Mr. BrummelPs snuff-box, 
 Mortimer. [REGINALD and KATHLEEN recognize each other.] 
 
BEAU BRUMMELL 27 
 
 REGINALD. Her maid ! 
 
 KATHLEEN [to MORTIMER]. Oh, Lord! The very young 
 gentleman himself. 
 
 MORTIMER. What! 
 
 REGINALD [at left. Suspiciously], What are you doing 
 here? 
 
 KATHLEEN [at center]. Why, I missed you in the Park, 
 s j r you were too early. [To MORTIMER.] Will you say 
 something? But I saw you in advance of me. [To MOR 
 TIMER.] Give utterance to something! And I followed you 
 here to give you this letter. [Gives note to REGINALD. To 
 MORTIMER.] I had to give it to him that time. 
 
 BEAU [outside, calling], Reginald! [MORTIMER and 
 REGINALD rush KATHLEEN off through bay window. MOR 
 TIMER stands at window after drawing curtain. REGINALD 
 crosses to table at left center, and stands back of same. Enter 
 BEAU from bedroom.] 
 
 BEAU [at center door]. Mortimer, what was that ex 
 traordinary commotion? 
 
 MORTIMER [at right, at window, innocently]. What com 
 motion, sir? 
 
 BEAU [standing in doorway]. Mortimer, don t be an echo; 
 how often have I told you that servants are born to answer 
 questions, not to ask them? I believe you said the sun was 
 shining? [Crosses to window.] 
 
 REGINALD [very loud, stopping him]. Uncle Beau, your 
 snuff-box. [Offering box.] 
 
 BEAU [at center. Starts]. Ah! I knew I lacked some 
 thing; I perceived I had on my coat, my fob, my waistcoat, 
 my unmentionables. Dear me, yes, it was my snuff-box 
 thank you, thank you. [He does not take snuff-box. He is 
 now fully dressed long brown trousers, fitting very closely 
 around the leg and buttoned around the ankle, a yellow bro 
 caded waistcoat, brown coat, ruffled shirt with neckerchief, fob 
 with many seals. He crosses to dressing-table and arranges 
 flowers three yelloiu roses in his coat. MORTIMER has 
 crossed to table and stands holding hat, gloves and stick. REG 
 INALD has the snuff-box. BEAU turns from dressing-table, 
 comes to the center. REGINALD offers him the snuff-box open. 
 BEAU takes a pinch with courteous nod of head. REGINALD 
 takes pinch, closes box, hands it to BEAU, who holds it in hand. 
 
28 BEAU BRUMMELL 
 
 MORTIMER then hands him gloves. BEAU arranges them in 
 hand very precisely. MORTIMER then hands stick. BEAU puts 
 this in just right position. MORTIMER then hands hat. BEAU 
 takes it, is about to put it on, then looks at it, stands aghast, 
 and hands it back with no word, but just an expression of 
 complete astonishment. MORTIMER, very puzzled, takes it and 
 then sees that he has handed it with the wrong side to put on. 
 Bows very low with an expression of great chagrin. Turns it 
 and hands it to BEAU. BEAU takes it, walks to mirror, raises 
 it two or three times until he has it at just the right angle, 
 then puts it on. Turns to REGINALD.] 
 
 BEAU. And now, Reginald, I ll make your fortune for you. 
 I ll walk down the Mall with you to White s. [Walks to 
 door, followed by REGINALD, as 
 
 [THE CURTAIN FALLS.] 
 
THE FIRST ACT 
 SCENE Two 
 
 The BEAU S reception-room. A small room, furnished in 
 chintz. Chippendale sofa at the right. Large entrance at 
 back with red striped chintz curtains. Palms in window. 
 A table on the left holds a standing memorandum tablet. 
 Small arm-chair back of sofa. Two or three other chairs 
 scattered around the room. A door at the left. BEAU 
 BRUMMELL at the rise of curtain is standing by table, 
 looking at the memorandum tablet through his eye-glass. 
 He is dressed as in Scene One. SIMPSON draws the cur 
 tains at the back, and announces: 
 
 SIMPSON. Mrs. St. Aubyn, sir! [SiMPSON then leaves the 
 curtains drawn and goes out. BEAU turns and bows. ] 
 
 BEAU. Punctual as the day, and twice as welcome. [MRS. 
 ST. AUBYN has sailed into the room with an air that plainly 
 says, " You and I are to settle some important things to-day." 
 She Is a very handsome woman of about thirty, beautifully 
 dressed, and showing In every look and motion the woman 
 accustomed to homage and command. She carries a fan, 
 which she uses to emphasize all her remarks."] 
 
 MRS. ST. AUBYN. You received my letter? 
 
 BEAU [with another bowl. And your ambrosial lock of 
 hair. [MRS. ST. AUBYN Is at first offended, and then laughs 
 and sits on sofa.] 
 
 MRS. ST. AUBYN. Not mine, my dear Beau; you know I m 
 not such a fool. [BEAU is not at all taken aback by the mis 
 take he has made.] 
 
 BEAU. Ah, no, I believe I am mistaken; but, my dear 
 Horatia, one gets things of this sort so mixed ; and I plead in 
 extenuation that the wish was father to the thought. [BEAU 
 sits in chair near table.] 
 
 MRS. ST. AUBYN. Have you missed me really these last 
 two days? Where have you been? It s been so dull without 
 
 29 
 
30 BEAU BRUMMELL 
 
 you, I vow, I could almost have married again. [Leans for 
 ward and speaks very confidentially.] Now, I want you to 
 do me a favor, will you? 
 
 BEAU. Whisper it and it is done. 
 
 MRS. ST. AUBYN. Well, then, I will whisper. I want 
 you to get me a card to the dance at Carlton House. 
 
 BEAU. The very privilege that I have looked forward to. 
 I desire to present you myself to the Prince, and witness your 
 triumph. An unselfish pleasure, you would say, but I love 
 you too well, my dear Horatia, not to sacrifice myself to your 
 greatest opportunity. [During this speech, MRS. ST. AUBYN 
 has listened with a slight cynical smile, and now with an air 
 of finality says:] 
 
 MRS. ST. AUBYN. I would not give up your devotion al 
 together even for the Prince s. [With great empressement.] 
 
 BEAU. Take both. Mine you will always have. 
 
 MRS. ST. AUBYN. Yet I think my devotion for you over 
 balances yours. 
 
 BEAU. My dear madam, you are too good. Do you know, 
 I fear you will die young? 
 
 MRS. ST. AUBYN [with an air of giving up this contest of 
 wits]. Oh, the deuce take your fine phrases! If I thought 
 I d a rival, I d let the Prince flit somewhere else. You re 
 clever and the Prince isn t. He ll be very dull. Then he ll 
 be harder to keep within bounds. Oh, [quickly as she sees 
 an almost imperceptible shrug of BEAU S shoulder] it isn t 
 that I m afraid for my reputation that was damned long ago. 
 But I ve certain notions of self-respect which aren t in the 
 fashion and which men don t seem to understand. 
 
 BEAU [very quietly]. Marry him! 
 
 MRS. ST. AUBYN [with real astonishment]. What! 
 
 BEAU [taking out snuff-box and taking snuff]. Marry him. 
 
 MRS. ST. AUBYN. It is impossible! 
 
 BEAU. With you all things are possible. [MRS. ST. AU 
 BYN laughs nervously and steals a surreptitious look at herself 
 in a little mirror in her fan.] 
 
 MRS. ST. AUBYN. My dear Beau, I wish you d make plain 
 sense instead of pretty sentences. What advantages have I 
 to recommend me? 
 
 BEAU. I will ask Mortimer to make out a list, but I may 
 name one only which is all-sufficient. For the past six weeks 
 
BEAU BRUMMELL 31 
 
 I have admired you. [MRS. ST. AUBYN rises with a 
 
 laugh.] 
 
 MRS. ST. AUBYN. Oh, the conceit of the man! But tell 
 me what style of woman is the Prince caught by? [BEAU 
 rising also] 
 
 BEAU. To be perfectly frank with you, the Prince admires 
 the fashion, and I have made you the fashion. I am expect 
 ing him here this afternoon. [MRS. ST. AUBYN gives a shriek 
 of dismay] 
 
 MRS. ST. AUBYN. Who? The Prince! Gracious, why 
 didn t you tell me? [Runs to cheval-glass] How am I 
 looking? There, there, you needn t answer; I know it is one 
 of my bad days. [BEAU is really very much upset by this 
 rushing around and rapid talking. Speaks as though quite 
 overcome] 
 
 BEAU. My dear Horatia, I beg of you not to rattle on so ; 
 you ve no idea how you fatigue me. [SIMPSON enters at back 
 and announces:] 
 
 SIMPSON. The Duchess of Leamington, Mr. Sheridan, sir! 
 [SIMPSON goes out. MRS. ST. AUBYN says to herself, as she 
 comes down to chair at right of sofa:] 
 
 MRS. ST. AUBYN. Damme, that woman. [The DUCHESS 
 and MR. SHERIDAN enter at back. The DUCHESS is a very 
 much painted and bewigged old young woman, dressed in a 
 very light flowered gown, with a very large hat. SHERIDAN is 
 still handsome, but no longer young, dressed in black silk knee- 
 breeches, black coat and stockings; he wears the powdered wig 
 instead of short hair like BEAU S. The DUCHESS makes low 
 curtsy to BEAU, who bows] 
 
 BEAU. Ah, Duchess, what happy accident! Has your car 
 riage broken down at my door, or do you come out of your 
 own sweet charity? We were just speaking of you. I said 
 you were the best-dressed woman in London, but Mrs. St. 
 Aubyn did not seem to agree with me. [To SHERIDAN.] 
 How do you do, Sherry? [Nods to SHERIDAN and, crossing 
 to him, offers him snuff-box. SHERIDAN takes snuff] 
 
 DUCHESS [as though noticing MRS. ST. AUBYN for the first 
 time, says superciliously:] How d ye do? 
 
 MRS. ST. AUBYN [haughtily]. Mr. Brummell pleases to 
 be witty at my expense, Duchess. [Then to herself] I must 
 be on my guard. I don t understand Beau. [The DUCHESS 
 
3 2 BEAU BRUMMELL 
 
 seats herself on sofa. MRS. ST. AUBYN is sitting in chair just 
 below sofa. BEAU is sitting at chair near table, and SHERIDAN 
 is still standing.] 
 
 DUCHESS. Mr. Sheridan and I thought we d come to tell 
 you the news. We knew you were never up till noon, and 
 thought you might want to hear what s going on. [SHERIDAN 
 now brings down chair from the back, and sits about center. } 
 
 SHERIDAN. And when we were nearly here we remem 
 bered that really there was nothing to tell. There seems to 
 be a lamentable dearth of scandal and gossip nowadays. I 
 don t know what we are coming to. The ladies have abso 
 lutely nothing to talk about. 
 
 BEAU. Sherry, I hear the " School for Scandal " is to be 
 revived. It returns to us every year like Spring and the in 
 fluenza. 
 
 SHERIDAN [regretfully]. Yes, but it won t be played as it 
 used to be. 
 
 BEAU [thankfully]. No, I hope not. 
 
 DUCHESS. Dear me, only think of Miss Motional playing 
 Lady Teazle now, at her age! Why is it that passe people 
 are always so anxious to act? \_With a little affected giggle."] 
 I wonder you don t go on the stage, Mrs. St. Aubyn? 
 
 MRS. ST. AUBYN [with great sweetness]. I never expe 
 rienced a scandal of sufficient eclat to warrant such a step. 
 But you, Duchess, what a success you would have ! 
 
 DUCHESS. Spiteful creature! 
 
 BEAU. How very severe [SiMPSON enters at back, and 
 announces:] 
 
 SIMPSON. His Royal Highness, the Prince Regent, sir,. 
 [SiMPSON exits. The PRINCE enters; does not remove his hat. 
 All rise. DUCHESS and MRS. ST. AUBYN curtsy. SHERI 
 DAN bows very low and BEAU bows rather condescendingly. ~] 
 
 PRINCE. Ah, Beau, good morning. 
 
 BEAU. This is very good of you, sir. The Duchess, I am 
 sure, is a welcome vision. Sherry you know, and you have 
 heard surely you have heard of the fascinating Mrs. St. 
 Aubyn. 
 
 PRINCE. But never have seen half enough. 
 
 BEAU. Where will you put yourself, sir? 
 
 PRINCE, [very emphatically says as he crosses to sofa:] 
 Damme, here. [He sits on sofa and makes a motion with his 
 
BEAU BRUMMELL 33 
 
 hand, inviting MRS. ST. AUBYN to sit beside him. To do this, 
 MRS. ST. AUBYN has to cross in front of the DUCHESS, which 
 she does with a look of triumph, while the DUCHESS, in mov 
 ing to MRS. ST. AUBYN S vacated seat, turns up her nose as 
 much as to say, ef That wont last long" And BEAU, having 
 witnessed all this little byplay, has a little smile as he sees all 
 is just as he wants it.~] 
 
 MRS. ST. AUBYN. I believe, sir, Mr. Sheridan is thinking 
 of a new play. 
 
 PRINCE. Don t you put me in, Sherry, or, if you do, mind 
 you make me thin. A fat man played me in the pantomime 
 t other night, and damme, I had him locked up. 
 
 SHERIDAN [with great deference}. Twas a libel, sir, a 
 gross libel. 
 
 PRINCE. I heard, Beau, from my tailor, this morning, that 
 you had gotten up something new in trousers. Why the 
 deuce haven t you told me? 
 
 DUCHESS [with affected girlishness}. Oh, dear me, what 
 are the new trousers? 
 
 SHERIDAN [maliciously}. Why, Duchess, I don t see how 
 they can possibly interest you. 
 
 MRS. ST. AUBYN. Mr. Sheridan, Mr. Sheridan, both your 
 plays and your conversation ought to be expurgated. 
 
 DUCHESS. Come, come, stop all this banter, and Mr. Brum- 
 mell will tell us. 
 
 BEAU [as though bored by all this chatter}. You must 
 excuse me, Duchess; I have contracted a cold. 
 
 PRINCE. I ll tell you, Duchess; they re long trousers which 
 are slit so [pointing with his cane to his own leg} at the bot 
 tom, and then buttoned tight. Very odd, you see, and striking. 
 
 DUCHESS. It might be too striking; don t you think it 
 depends on the eh eh circumstances? [She draws her 
 skirt up very slightly, and strikes her leg with her fan.} 
 
 PRINCE. Damme, Duchess, you re right; and that s just 
 what I want to know of Beau here, whether he thinks my legs 
 could stand em. 
 
 BEAU. Really, my dear fellow, I m no judge of calves. 
 [All laugh} 
 
 SHERIDAN. You must appeal to the ladies, sir. 
 
 MRS. ST. AUBYN [feigning to hide her face with her fan}. 
 No, no; I object! 
 
34 BEAU BRUMMELL 
 
 BEAU. Mrs. St. Aubyn means they are little trifles not 
 worth mentioning. 
 
 PRINCE. Now, I object. Besides, I ve something else to 
 talk about. What think you, Beau, of Tuesday week for the 
 dance at Carlton House? [BEAU rises very slowly, takes 
 tablet, looks it over.] 
 
 BEAU. Tuesday, Tuesday yes, I think I might make 
 Tuesday do. [PRINCE rises, and everybody rises. ] 
 
 PRINCE [to MRS. ST. AUBYN]. You will not forget, then, 
 siren, the opening quadrille with me. May I take you to 
 your chair? [MRS. ST. AUBYN makes him a low curtsy.] 
 
 MRS. ST. AUBYN. You make me wish my chair was at 
 my own door, instead of at Mr. Brummeirs. 
 
 BEAU. That s very good, very good. [MRS. ST. AUBYN 
 curtsies with a look of triumph to the DUCHESS. The PRINCE 
 holds out his hand. She places her hand lightly on his, curtsies 
 low to BEAU, and retires up to the center door, while the 
 PRINCE is making his adieus, which he does by simply nodding 
 to the DUCHESS and SHERIDAN, most graciously nodding to 
 BEAU; and then he takes MRS. ST. AUBYN S hand again and 
 they go off chattering.] 
 
 DUCHESS [who has witnessed this with ill-concealed envy], 
 Now, Mr. Brummell, promise me you ll bow to me at the play 
 to-night. You bowed to Lady Farthingale last week Thurs 
 day, and she has given herself airs ever since. 
 
 BEAU. After the play, Duchess, after the play. If I looked 
 at you once during the play, I could never bend my attention 
 again to the players. 
 
 DUCHESS [with a girlish giggle]. And that, Mr. Brum 
 mell, would damn the play. 
 
 BEAU. Yes, I shouldn t wonder if it did. It wouldn t be 
 the first play I ve damned. [DUCHESS curtsies, SHERIDAN 
 bows, and they go off at center door. BEAU takes up memor 
 andum tablet and goes toward door, left, reading as he goes] 
 Let me see Thursday, lunch with Lord and Lady Pleasant, 
 then on to Mrs. Hearsays pour passer le temps. Dinner 
 with the Dowager Countess of Alimony, dance at Gordon 
 House, then to the Rag, then to the Raleigh, then to Vauxhall. 
 [BEAU goes out. SIMPSON enters at center door, showing in 
 MR. VINCENT. VINCENT is a stout, red-faced man, bluff 
 
BEAU BRUMMELL 35 
 
 manner, dressed rather loudly, with brown bob-wig, and he 
 drops his h s.} 
 
 SIMPSON. Whom shall I say, sir? 
 
 VINCENT. Never mind introducing me. I ll introduce my 
 self tell him a gentleman wishes to see him in answer to his 
 message; he ll understand. 
 
 SIMPSON. Yes, sir. [ SIMPSON goes out at left door with 
 a look of disdain at VINCENT.] 
 
 VINCENT [who is in a state of great excitement}. Well, 
 am I really in the great Mr. Brummell s house? I thought 
 I d show my appreciation of the honor I feel in Mr. Brum 
 mell s suit for my daughter s and by answering his message 
 in person. But, really, now I m ere, I m not sure I ve done 
 the right thing. It s perfectly absurd, ridiculous, but I m 
 slightly nervous. I, the most successful cloth merchant of the 
 day unreasonable! I must appear at my ease or I shall fail 
 to make an impression. Let me see, what shall I say when 
 he comes in? After greeting him cordially, but with dignity, 
 which is due to my position, I ll tell him in the proper lan 
 guage, with a few figures of speech to show I m a man of 
 some learning he s coming. [Shows great nervousness. Be 
 gins to bow very low, moving first on one foot, then on the 
 other, rubbing his hands together.] 
 
 BEAU [enters from left door; tablet in hand; as he comes 
 on he says:} Sunday Sunday! 
 
 VINCENT. He s coming, he s coming. 
 
 BEAU. Sunday after service, lunch with Lady Sybilla 
 Sybilla! She is " un tant soit peu passe, >f but there was a time, 
 there was a time, when poor Sybilla and I [VINCENT S 
 bowings and movements now attract BEAU S attention, and he 
 looks at him through eye-glass.} 
 
 BEAU [to himself}. Ah, yes, the new tailor. [Aloud.} 
 I will speak with you presently. I am somewhat occupied just 
 now. [Resumes soliloquy.} Dinner with Figgles silly beast, 
 Figgles, but delicious truffles. [ViNCENT has still continued 
 to bow.} 
 
 BEAU [looks at him again}. Would you be so kind as not 
 to wobble about in that way? [VINCENT stops a moment .} 
 
 BEAU. Thank you. [Resumes soliloquy.} Then on to 
 Lady Ancient s very tedious, but I must go or the poor 
 
3 6 BEAU BRUMMELL 
 
 woman s rooms will be quite vacant. [ViNCENT has again 
 resumed his bowing and clasping and unclasping his hands.] 
 
 BEAU [looks at him]. Did you hear what I observed? 
 Would you be kind enough not to wobble about in that way, 
 and please do not wash your hands incessantly with imaginary 
 soap, or chassez about in that manner? You have no idea how 
 you distress me. [ViNCENT never stops, growing more and 
 more nervous.] How very extraordinary; he does not seem 
 to be able to stop. Perhaps he is suffering with St. Vitus s 
 dance. I shall never be able to employ a person so afflicted. 
 Well, I won t dismiss him at once. I ll turn my back on him 
 so I can t see him. [BEAU turns his back to VINCENT.] Let 
 me see, where was I ah yes, Lady Ancient s very tedious, but 
 I must go or the poor woman s rooms will be quite empty; 
 then on to the club. 
 
 VINCENT [very deprecatingly]. But, sir 
 
 BEAU. I ll speak with you presently. I am somewhat occu 
 pied just now, and, although my back is turned, I can feel you 
 are wobbling about. [To himself.] I think I might venture 
 to play again with my present prospects, Monday Monday 
 
 VINCENT [who is noiu getting restive, and realizes he is 
 being treated badly]. But! 
 
 BEAU. Please do not say " but " again, 
 
 VINCENT. My lord! 
 
 BEAU. Nothing so commonplace. 
 
 VINCENT. Sir 
 
 BEAU. Very well, I suppose I had better speak with him 
 the sooner it is over the better. You ve come to see me 
 about my suit, I suppose. 
 
 VINCENT. Yes, the honor it confers upon my daughter and 
 myself 
 
 BEAU. It s affected his head. Does your daughter sew, 
 also? 
 
 VINCENT [surprised]. Oh, beautifully, Mr. Brummell, 
 but 
 
 BEAU. I must ask you to omit your " buts." Now, if you 
 will stand perfectly still for a few moments, I will endeavor 
 to ask you one or two questions; but you must try to stand 
 still, and if you try very hard, you may succeed. But do try 
 there s a good man try, try, try again. [Aside.] I m so 
 sorry for him. He must suffer so. Well, I won t look at him. 
 
BEAU BRUMMELL 37, 
 
 [Turns away and sits down at table. During all this time 
 VINCENT has been bowing, trying to stand still, but not suc 
 ceeding, owing to his great embarrassment.] Now, have you 
 any new cloths? 
 
 VINCENT. My dear sir, I was not aware that you were 
 at all interested in cloths. [Looks around for a chair,, and 
 goes up to back of room to get one.] 
 
 BEAU. He s violent he s going to attack me. 
 
 VINCENT [bringing down the chair near to BEAU]. Yes, 
 there are some very fine new cloths. Now, if you ll allow; 
 me 
 
 BEAU. Certainly not, sir; certainly not. [Aside.] Poor 
 man, I suppose he never waited upon anyone before. 
 
 VINCENT [can now stand it no longer, and rises]. This is 
 too much. Tis outrageous. I ll not stand it, sir. I am a 
 gentleman, sir. 
 
 BEAU. Then why don t you behave like one? 
 
 VINCENT. I ve come here 
 
 BEAU. Of course, you ve come here, that s very evident. 
 You ve come in answer to my message, haven t you? 
 
 VINCENT. Yes, sir, I ve come in answer to your message 
 asking for my daughter s and 
 
 BEAU. Your daughter s what? 
 
 VINCENT. My daughter s and > 
 
 BEAU. Your daughter s hand? [If begins to dawn upon 
 him.] I beg your pardon. 
 
 VINCENT. I came to accept your offer of marriage, but I ve 
 altered my intention. 
 
 BEAU. Dear me, you are 
 
 VINCENT. Mr. Holiver Vincent, sir. 
 
 BEAU [aside]. And I thought he was the tailor! [Aloud.] 
 A thousand apologies; won t you be seated? I was very 
 much preoccupied. I ask you a thousand pardons but [ViN- 
 CENT has begun to bow and wobble again] what can you ex 
 pect if you will wobble about in that manner, my dear Sir 
 Oliver! [VlNCENT, indignant, again is soothed by title] 
 
 VINCENT. Not Sir Holiver yet, Mr. Holiver Mr. Holi 
 ver Vincent, at your service. 
 
 BEAU. I only regret that you did not say so before. 
 [SIMPSON enters.] 
 
 SIMPSON. Sir, the Duke of York sends word, will you be 
 
3 g BEAU BRUMMELL 
 
 so gracious as to take mutton with him to-night? [BEAU 
 looks at VINCENT, who looks pleadingly at him, as much as to 
 say, " Dine with me/ ] 
 
 BEAU Send my polite regrets to His Royal Highness and 
 say I dine to-night with Mr. Oliver Vincent. [SIMPSON exits 
 at center door. BEAU offers his snuff-box to VINCENT, who 
 takes a pinch and snuffs it with a loud, disagreeable noise, which 
 shocks BEAU unspeakably. 1 
 
 [THE CURTAIN FALLS.] 
 
THE SECOND ACT 
 
 The ballroom at Carlton House, a large, stately room hung 
 in yellow damask yellow damask furniture. On the 
 right, a door leading into reception room. On the left 
 are three curtained recesses. At the back a large door 
 way extends the whole width of room; it is curtained with 
 yellow brocade curtains, which are looped back, showing 
 a long hall hung with mirrors; it leads to supper room. 
 
 On the stage, at rise of curtain, is the PRINCE, standing near 
 the center, talking to MRS. ST. AUBYN. The PRINCE is 
 dressed in black, with the blue ribbon of the Garter; 
 MRS. ST. AUBYN in elaborate evening dress. SHERIDAN, 
 the DUCHESS OF LEAMINGTON, LADY FARTHINGALE, 
 LORD MANLY and other guests are standing at back. 
 
 PRINCE [a little impatiently, as though he had been wel 
 coming guests until tired]. Anyone else, damme; I m ready 
 to dance. [Servant enters from the door on the right.] 
 
 SERVANT. Mr. Brummell, Mr. Oliver Vincent, Miss Vin 
 cent. [Servant steps to one side of door as MR. BRUMMELL 
 comes in with MARIANA, her hand resting lightly on his. 
 The DUCHESS then steps forward and takes MARIANA S 
 hand. MR. BRUMMELL steps back to the side of VINCENT, 
 who has followed them on. The DUCHESS leads MARIANA 
 to the PRINCE. While this is going on, MRS. ST. AUBYN, 
 who has stared in amazement, says:] 
 
 MRS. ST. AUBYN. What s this presentation for: does it 
 mean money for the Duchess? She does not need it. 
 
 DUCHESS [as she presents MARIANA]. Your Royal High 
 ness Miss Vincent. [Both curtsy to the PRINCE.] 
 
 PRINCE. This places me deeper than ever in Mr. Brum- 
 mell s debt. [The DUCHESS and MARIANA back away and 
 retire to the back of room, where they are joined by SHER 
 IDAN. BEAU now advances to the PRINCE, closely followed 
 by VINCENT, who is greatly excited.] 
 
 39 
 
4 o BEAU BRUMMELL 
 
 BEAU. Sir, I have the honor to present my friend, Mr. 
 Oliver Vincent. 
 
 MRS. ST. AUBYN [aside]. It s Mr. Brummell who is at 
 the bottom of this. I think I begin to see. 
 
 PRINCE. Mr. Vincent? Is this the Mr. Vincent, of the 
 City ? For, egad, sir, I am pleased 
 
 VINCENT [greatly embarrassed]. Your Highness, sir, the 
 honor is all mine, ah, all mine, Your Highness, thank you for 
 your cordiality, Your Highness. [Offers the PRINCE his hand. 
 BEAU quietly throws it up, and motions VINCENT away to 
 the back, covering his retreat, as it were, by his own self- 
 possession and the look of humorous appeal which he gives to 
 the PRINCE.] 
 
 MRS. ST. AUBYN. Your Royal Highness, what does Beau 
 mean? Really, sir, I think you take too much from him. 
 They are from the City, these Vincents; you can see its dust 
 on their feet. 
 
 PRINCE [chuckling at his own wit]. Yes, damme, madam; 
 but it s gold dust. 
 
 MRS. ST. AUBYN [with a slight smile, such as an offended 
 goddess might give}. Pray, sir, let us have the dance now. 
 [The PRINCE offers her his hand and they take their places at 
 the head of the set. SHERIDAN leads the DUCHESS to one 
 yide. LORD MANLY leads LADY FARTHINGALE to the 
 other.] 
 
 BEAU [to MARIANA]. May I have the delight of leading 
 you out in the dance? 
 
 MARIANA. I fear, Mr. Brummell, you will find me but a 
 poor dancer. 
 
 BEAU. I know you dance well, or I should not have asked 
 you. I have watched you. One must always judge for one 
 self. [He leads MARIANA to the head, opposite the PRINCE. 
 They dance an old-fashioned quadrille, the end of which is a 
 deep curtsy from the ladies and a bow from the men. The 
 PRINCE then goes up to center door, and out through the hall 
 with MRS. ST. AUBYN.] 
 
 PRINCE. Egad! Poor Beau! Your charms have made me 
 false to my friend. 
 
 MRS. ST. AUBYN. Ah! But I fear Your Royal Highness 
 is fickle, and may be false to me, too. 
 
 PRINCE. Zounds! I could only be that by being false to 
 
BEAU BRUMMELL 41 
 
 myself. [They are now out of sight. The DUCHESS has 
 joined BEAU and MARIANA, LADY FARTHINGALE and LORD 
 MANLY. The latter couple now curtsy and bow and exit 
 through center door, and go down the hall.] 
 
 DUCHESS. I really think it gives one more eclat to dance 
 with Mr. Brummell than to dance with the Prince. 
 
 BEAU [quite sincerely]. I really think it does. [The 
 DUCHESS and MR. SHERIDAN then bow, and also go out at 
 center door, meeting VINCENT, who bows to them in a most 
 exaggerated way and then comes down toward the BEAU and 
 MARIANA. BEAU bows in courtly fashion and also goes out 
 through center door, so VINCENT and MARIANA are left alone. 
 MARIANA is a charming type of a young English girl, dressed 
 in white, her hair in soft ringlets, with a wreath of tiny rose 
 buds] 
 
 VINCENT. This is the proudest moment of my life! He 
 had heard of me; he recognized me at once, Mariana. 
 
 MARIANA [quizzically]. Of course, papa, he had read 
 your name on his buttons. 
 
 VINCENT. You are mistaken, my dear; I am not a tailor, 
 I am a cloth merchant. Did you notice how cordial His Royal 
 Highness was? [Regretfully] I was too stiff with him, 
 much too stiff, but Mr. Brummell would have it so. 
 
 MARIANA [still trying to make a jest of it]. Quite right, 
 papa; you needed your dignity and His Royal Highness did 
 not. 
 
 VINCENT. Think, Mariana, what a difference to-day from 
 yesterday. Yesterday, I was Vincent, of the City to-night, 
 I am Vincent, of the Court. It is a proud position, my dear; 
 think of it, Holiver Vincent, the Prince s friend! No more 
 " The Hoak, the Hash, and the Bonny Hivy Tree." No more 
 " A Weary Lot Is Thine, Fair Maid." [Imitates the playing 
 of a piano] No more going to sleep after dinner. No, my 
 dear, we ll read our names every morning, several times over, 
 in the Court Journal. It ll be a staggerer for your Aunt Jane 
 at Oundsditch. 
 
 MARIANA [sadly]. I think, for my part, we are very well 
 as we are, and very happy. And I like the old songs, and 
 I like my old father just as he is. 
 
 VINCENT. Pooh! My child, I am ambitious, and, if you 
 marry the Beau, in a year from now, I may wear a coronet ; 
 
4 2 BEAU BRUMMELL 
 
 a coronet. [Makes a gesture as though placing a coronet on 
 his head. ] 
 
 MARIANA. Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown, papa, 
 and how much are you going to give for the coronet? Any 
 body can buy one nowadays. Give your money for it, by all 
 means but not your daughter s happiness. [Crossing and go 
 ing up toward center as though to end the discussion.] 
 
 VINCENT [follows her and speaks pleadingly]. Mariana, 
 I have been a kind father to you. My heart is set upon the 
 accomplishment of this thing. You have ever been a dutiful 
 child. 
 
 MARIANA [turning quickly ]. And you shall ever find me 
 so. But I hold, papa, that a woman s heart alone should guide 
 a woman s choice. 
 
 VINCENT [turns away vexed] . Yes, I know but 
 
 MARIANA. Still, my affection for you shall largely influence 
 my decision. Go, my ambitious father. [Goes to him and 
 puts her hand on his shoulder.] I will see what I can do to 
 win the coronet for your head. 
 
 VINCENT [delightedly kisses her forehead]. That s a good 
 child. [He goes up and out through center door.] 
 
 MARIANA. If I can only tear the arrow from my heart. 
 [Walks slowly up and down] No dream of greatness, no 
 wish even of my father s, should for one instant weaken my 
 devotion to Reginald if I could believe him true to me. But 
 he has ceased to write ; I hear of him only in social dissipation. 
 He is gay and merry, and Mariana is forgotten. Since I can 
 not be happy, there is only my dear old father to be pleased. 
 And yet and yet [Starts and turns as BEAU, the DUCH 
 ESS and MR. VINCENT enter from the center door.] 
 
 DUCHESS [as she comes gaily down]. Ma mie, you are 
 very fortunate, I vow you will be the talk of the town to 
 morrow to have pirouetted with our Beau here. Tis no 
 small favor, I assure you and one his Beauship has never yet 
 bestowed upon his doting Duchess you naughty, naughty 
 Beau ! [Shakes her fan at BEAU.] And I must say, ma mie f 
 you comported yourself right well, right limber and nimbly for 
 a debutante. Though I am no bad executante on the tips of 
 my toes myself, i faith. [Gives a little pas seul.] 
 
 BEAU [putting up glasses and looking at her critically]. Ah, 
 Duchess, all you need is a ballet skirt and a tambourine. But, 
 
BEAU BRUMMELL 43 
 
 egad, we forgot the Prince the Merchant Prince we have 
 just left the title! Permit me, my dear Duchess, to present 
 to you the money. Mr. Oliver Vincent Her Grace, the 
 Duchess of Leamington. 
 
 DUCHESS [as she curtsies to VINCENT, who bows very low]. 
 Deuce take me, Mr. Brummell, have you ever known me to 
 refuse a presentation to money? 
 
 BEAU. No, my dear Duchess, and I have known you to 
 become very familiar with it at the card-table without even a 
 formal introduction. 
 
 DUCHESS. Beau, I vow you re a brute. [She crosses to 
 VINCENT and they go up a little. ] 
 
 BEAU [crossing to MARIANA], You hear that, Mariana. 
 I am a brute, tis true, and I am looking forward to a con 
 junction of Beauty and the Beast. [Turning to the DUCH- 
 ESS.] Duchess, shall Sir Money conduct you to the card- 
 room? 
 
 DUCHESS [smiling at VINCENT], With pleasure, if he ll 
 stay there with me. 
 
 BEAU. No fear of that, for your Grace is sure to put him 
 in your pocket. 
 
 DUCHESS. Incorrigible! Come, Mr. Vincent, your arm, 
 your arm; fore Gad, we are routed. [Takes VINCENT S arm; 
 they turn to go.~\ 
 
 BEAU [stopping them~\. One moment, my dear Vincent. 
 [BEAU bows to DUCHESS, who joins MARIANA, and they stand 
 talking, while BEAU speaks to VINCENT.] My valet has 
 neglected placing my purse in my pocket, and I am going to 
 allow you the privilege of lending me five hundred guineas 
 before you run away with the Duchess. 
 
 VINCENT [heartily}. Certainly, my dear Mr. Brummell, 
 certainly, sir, take ten [Puts his hand in his pocket.] 
 
 BEAU [with a look of horror]. Not here, my good sir, not 
 here in the card-room. 
 
 VINCENT [going up to the DUCHESS]. My arm, madam, 
 my purse and myself are entirely at your service. 
 
 DUCHESS [taking his arni\. I only need one of them; but 
 come, come, I see you are quite a courtier. Au revoir, Beau. 
 [To MARIANA, as she waves a kiss.] Ma cherel [Curtsies 
 to the BEAU, waves her hand airily to MARIANA, and goes off 
 with VINCENT.] 
 
44 BEAU BRUMMELL 
 
 BEAU. Your most humble and devoted slave, Duchess. 
 
 MARIANA. You do not follow the cards, Mr. Brummell? 
 
 BEAU. They are too fickle; I am always unlucky. 
 
 MARIANA. Unlucky at cards, lucky in love [Stops 
 abruptly, vexed that she has mentioned the word ff love"] 
 
 BEAU. That is why I am here. 
 
 MARIANA [a little coquettishly}. Well, what sort of a 
 hand shall I deal you? 
 
 BEAU [with great meaning}. Yours! 
 
 MARIANA [with equal meaning}. Are diamonds trumps? 
 
 BEAU [reproachfully}. No. Hearts! 
 
 MARIANA [lightly}. I haven t one in the pack. 
 
 BEAU. Nay, but you deal your cards badly. 
 
 MARIANA. That is because I have chosen Nature, not Art, 
 to be my mistress. 
 
 BEAU. By my manners! I ve a mind to bring Dame Na 
 ture into fashion again. 
 
 MARIANA. Then there s not a woman here could show her 
 face. 
 
 BEAU. But you. And if you would deign to be seen al 
 ways on my arm 
 
 MARIANA. Mercy! Mr. Brummell, I fear you would wear 
 me as you do your coat, and throw me aside when I m 
 wrinkled. 
 
 BEAU [with a shudder}. Don t mention wrinkles; they 
 give me the jaundice. 
 
 MARIANA [seriously}. I cannot but remember that only 
 one short week ago every bench in the Mall, every lady s tea- 
 table, every entr acte of the play was the occasion for report- 
 ings of Mr. Brummell s fancy for the Honorable Mrs. St. 
 Aubyn. 
 
 BEAU. You cannot imagine I have not favored some women 
 more than others. Mrs. St. Aubyn was clever and amused 
 me. We passed our time in laughter, not in loving. [MRS. 
 ST. AUBYN, who has entered at back, hears this last remark.} 
 
 MRS. ST. AUBYN. I fear I am malapropos, but I will be 
 deaf and blind. [She comes down the center, while VINCENT, 
 SHERIDAN, LADY FARTHINGALE and the DUCHESS enter also 
 at center door.} 
 
 MARIANA. It would be a pity, madam, to destroy two 
 faculties which serve you to such good purpose. [Crosses and 
 
BEAU BRUMMELL 45 
 
 passes MRS. ST. AUBYN with a slight bend of her head, and 
 joins VINCENT.] 
 
 BEAU. Oh, that s very good. [To MRS. ST. AUBYN, as 
 he crosses to her.] Don t you think that s very good? [They 
 stand together, apparently talking, MRS. ST. AUBYN very 
 angrily.] 
 
 VINCENT [to MARIANA]. A most bewitching woman that, 
 but I m sorry she would insist upon hunting Mr. Brummell, 
 for I knew you wouldn t want to be interrupted. I did all I 
 could with politeness. I took her to every other room before 
 this. [MARIANA and VINCENT go out at center door, as 
 LORD MANLY comes rushing on, almost running into 
 them] 
 
 LORD MANLY [he is a fop of the period, and quite a little 
 the worse for drink]. My dear Beau! My dear Beau! [A 
 little louder. BEAU pays no attention to him] My dear 
 Beau!! [Still louder. BEAU finally looks at him] Lord 
 Crawlings is cheating at the card-table. It is a fact! He has 
 cards up his sleeve. What shall I do? 
 
 BEAU. Cheating at the card-table? 
 
 LORD MANLY. Yes; he has cards up his sleeve. 
 
 BEAU [thoughtfully]. Cards up his sleeve! 
 
 LORD MANLY. Yes. What shall I do? 
 
 BEAU. Well, if he has cards up his sleeve, bet on him. 
 
 LORD MANLY [with a blank stare] . Oh thank you. [He 
 joins LADY FARTHINGALE and offers her a chair, which she 
 refusing, they stand conversing with other guests] 
 
 LADY FARTHINGALE. If Mr. Brummell marries Miss Vin 
 cent, he ll have no more difficulty in paying for his clothes, 
 though I hear he s sadly in debt now. 
 
 SHERIDAN. Poor Beau! He will never be able to forget 
 the old gentleman s cloth; it will be like riding to wealth on 
 a clothes-horse. 
 
 DUCHESS [who has been looking down the hall]. Lord, 
 Mr. Sheridan! They are starting for supper. You can do 
 as you please, but I want an oyster. [SHERIDAN and DUCH 
 ESS go off at center door, followed by LADY FARTHINGALE, 
 LORD MANLY and other guests] 
 
 MRS. ST. AUBYN [to BEAU, who was starting to go]. I 
 insist upon a few words with you. 
 
 BEAU. Your wishes are my commands. [He is now stand- 
 
4 6 BEAU BRUMMELL 
 
 ing in the door, center, so he can look down the hall. MRS. 
 ST. AUBYN is walking angrily back and forth.] 
 
 MRS. ST. AUBYN. I found myself quite de trop when I 
 entered the room a few minutes ago. 
 
 BEAU. You speak of impossibilities. 
 
 MRS. ST. AUBYN. Pray, spare me; I overheard your last 
 speech. 
 
 BEAU. You mean you listened to what I said. 
 
 MRS. ST. AUBYN. Well, if I did I begin to see through 
 you now. 
 
 BEAU. Happy me! 
 
 MRS. ST. AUBYN. Did you think me blind when you pre 
 sented these Vincents to the Prince? 
 
 BEAU [bowing to some imaginary guests down the half}. 
 How do you do? Who could think those eyes blind? 
 
 MRS. ST. AUBYN. You presented me to the Prince, not 
 for my own sake, but for yours. Twas a pleasant way to be 
 rid of me. 
 
 BEAU. No way with such a destination could possibly be 
 pleasant. ~ 
 
 MRS. ST. AUBYN. You have puffed the Prince with the 
 conceit that he is driving you out of my affections against your 
 will. Suppose he were to know the truth? 
 
 BEAU. Royal personages are so rarely told the truth that 
 if he did hear it he would not recognize it. How do you do! 
 [Again bowing to some imaginary person.] 
 
 MRS. ST. AUBYN. What would become of his friendship 
 for you, do you think, and what would you do without it ? 
 
 BEAU. He would have my sincere sympathy. 
 
 MRS. ST. AUBYN. Suppose I were to inform him? 
 
 BEAU [again bowing]. How do you do, my dear Lady 
 Betty; how do -you do? Yes, presently with great pleasure 
 h m. [Turning and apparently paying attention to MRS. 
 ST. AUBYN for the first time.] My dear Horatia would not 
 be so foolish as to ruin herself. Would the Prince, do you 
 think, still care for you if he thought I no longer admired 
 you? He affects you now for the same reason he wears my 
 coats, because I have made you as I made them the Fashion. 
 
 MRS. ST. AUBYN [triumphantly]. But there s something 
 that binds one faster to a man than the button of a coat. 
 There is, my dear Beau, such a thing as marriage. 
 
BEAU BRUMMELL 47 
 
 BEAU. Oh, yes, to be sure! There, my dear madam, I 
 bow to your vast experience [MRS. ST. AUBYN makes an 
 impatient movement], but, when it comes to a question of 
 the Prince s wedding coat, I fear you will find the buttons 
 are sewed on with a very light thread. 
 
 MRS. ST. AUBYN. There you are wrong. You seem to 
 forget, my dear Beau, that the Prince already dotes on me. 
 We are both playing a little game you and I but I am per 
 suaded I shall win, for I stake on a heart. [Sweeps past 
 BEAU with a superb gesture, toward the left.] 
 
 BEAU [very quietly]. Your fortune will turn, for you 
 stake on a knave. 
 
 MRS. ST. AUBYN. What will take my knave when the king 
 is out of the pack? 
 
 BEAU. Why, then, I think a queen might turn up. [Be 
 fore MRS. ST. AUBYN can crush him with the reply that is on 
 her lips, VINCENT enters.] 
 
 VINCENT. Ah,, ere you are, my dear Mr. Brummell; you 
 are losing your supper, and Mrs. St. Aubyn, too, is depriving 
 the feast of its most brilliant hornament. 
 
 BEAU. Yes, truly, it is too selfish of Mrs. St. Aubyn. Mr. 
 Vincent, Mrs. St. Aubyn must permit you to conduct her to 
 the supper-room. 
 
 MRS. ST. AUBYN [sarcastically]. Surely, Mr. Vincent did 
 not do me the honor of leaving the table to search me out. 
 
 VINCENT. Fore Gad, madam, though I did see a vacant 
 seat next His Royal Highness, in truth I came to look for my 
 daughter. 
 
 BEAU. Mrs. St. Aubyn will hardly permit the chair which 
 awaits her next to the Prince to remain vacant. [Takes MRS. 
 ST. AUBYN S hand and hands her with great empressement to 
 VINCENT.] Meanwhile, Mr. Vincent, I will go through the 
 rooms for your daughter. [MRS. ST. AUBYN stops, gives 
 BEAU a look, is about to make a scene, then thinks better of it, 
 and lets VINCENT lead her from the room.] 
 
 BEAU. You amused me once, but you do so no longer. 
 No, you re clever; yes, you are clever, and you dress to per 
 fection, but Mariana has all your charms and more a heart! 
 Horatia St. Aubyn, your day in the world is waning ; Mariana s 
 reign begins. I will go and inform her so. She cannot be 
 insensible to my regard, to my love, for, strange to say, I 
 
4 8 BEAU BRUMMELL 
 
 begin to think I do love her. Yes, I believe I do. [Quite 
 seriously.] And I think I love her madly yes, I do, I love 
 her madly. [Stands for a moment in deep thought; then walks 
 slowly off through center door down the hall. MARIANA 
 enters from door down right from reception room. She has a 
 note in her hand.] 
 
 MARIANA. Kathleen has conveyed to me my own letter to 
 Reginald unopened. She says he has left his lodgings, and his 
 landlady does not know when he will return. I am afraid men- 
 are not what they are represented to be. [Sits down in chair 
 near the door at right. LORD MANLY comes on through hall 
 and center door. He is slightly intoxicated. ] 
 
 LORD MANLY. Ah! Miss Vincent! What happiness. 
 
 MARIANA [annoyed]. Here s another! 
 
 LORD MANLY. Won t you drink something? I mean eat 
 something ? 
 
 MARIANA [not looking at him]. Thank you, I care for 
 nothing! There can be no mistake; Kathleen vowed she de 
 livered the letters. 
 
 LORD MANLY. You won t eat, and you won t drink 
 most straordinary ! What will you do? 
 
 MARIANA. I will dispense with your society, sir. [As she 
 rises, she looks at him.] I do believe he is intoxicated. 
 
 LORD MANLY. She s coy! She s coy! No, fair creature, 
 I have follolled follolled I have follolled most straor 
 dinary I can t say follolled I have follolled you from room 
 to room to find you. 
 
 MARIANA. And, having found me, you may leave me, sir! 
 
 LORD MANLY. Leave you! Never! Never will I stir 
 from this sacred spot. [In his endeavor to stand quite still, 
 he staggers and almost falls over.] I mean the sacred spot 
 where you are. Miss Vincent, I adore you! Fact. All you 
 do, I see through rosy-colored glasses. 
 
 MARIANA. Wine-colored glasses you mean, sir. Let me 
 pass ! 
 
 LORD MANLY. No, fair tantalizer. [Nods his head with 
 great satisfaction.] Good word tantalizer. I will speak; 
 my heart is full. 
 
 MARIANA. There can be no doubt about the fullness. 
 
 LORD MANLY. Here on my knees [looks at knees] egad, 
 look at my knees. I have four knees instead of two knees 
 
BEAU BRUMMELL 49 
 
 but, no matter here on all my knees [kneels, almost falling ] 
 I will pour out 
 
 MARIANA. More liquor, sir! You do not need it. 
 
 LORD MANLY. You cannot ignore me, my love, my pas 
 sion, my adorashion I mean adoration Miss Vincent I 
 [BEAU has come on through center door. Unperceived, he 
 comes down, takes LORD MANLY by the ear t making him rise 
 and stagger back.} 
 
 BEAU. My dear Miss Vincent, how unfortunately uncon 
 ventional. 
 
 LORD MANLY. Mr. Brummell, sir, you are no gentleman. 
 
 BEAU. My good fellow, you are no judge. 
 
 LORD MANLY. My honor, sir, my honor! 
 
 BEAU. Fiddlesticks! Come, trot away, trot away. You 
 may apologize to Miss Vincent to-morrow. 
 
 LORD MANLY. You apologize to me now, sir. 
 
 BEAU. I never had occasion to do such a thing in my life. 
 [Walks up and looks off down the hall.] Now trot away; I 
 think I see the Prince approaching. 
 
 LORD MANLY. Proach aprincing! I mean Prince ap 
 proaching. Miss Vincent, it is with deep regret I say adieu! 
 [He stumbles to door at right and goes o/f.] 
 
 BEAU [coming down and offering MARIANA a chair. She 
 sits~\. I heartily congratulate you, my dear Miss Vincent, on 
 having escaped a scene. Nothing but the regard I bear you 
 could have persuaded me to so nearly incur a possible fracas. 
 Lord Manly was born with a silver spoon in his mouth, and 
 he has thought it necessary to keep that spoon full ever since. 
 But now that we have found one another, may I not be per 
 mitted to continue the conversation where it was broken off? 
 I desire to speak with you seriously. I wish to make a con 
 fession. I want to tell you what perhaps you know when 
 I first sought your hand, I did not bring my heart. I admired 
 you, tis true, but I did not love you not then not madly! 
 I was I am so deeply in debt, so hemmed in by my creditors, 
 so hard pressed on every side, it was necessary for me to do 
 something to find the wherewithal to satisfy their just demands, 
 or sink under my misfortunes and give up forever the life of 
 the world which had become my very breath and being. The 
 one means at my disposal to free myself from my difficulties 
 was a marriage. I knew your fortune and I sought you out. 
 
5 o BEAU BRUMMELL 
 
 The admiration I entertained for you the first few days deep 
 ened into esteem, and finally expanded into love mad love! 
 That is why I have rehearsed this to you. At first it was 
 your fortune which allured me but now it is yourself! 
 
 MARIANA. Mr. Brummell! 
 
 BEAU. Yet, were you penniless, I would not wed you. 
 
 MARIANA [rising in astonishment]. Mr. Brummell! 
 
 BEAU. Because I would not drag you down to share this 
 miserable, uncertain lot of mine. No ! I would seek you once 
 to tell you of my love, and then step aside out of your path, 
 and never cross it again. I would not willingly, purposely 
 encompass your unhappiness. 
 
 MARIANA [slowly ]. I begin to believe in you. 
 
 BEAU. I remember no other word that you have spoken. 
 May I have the delight of pressing my very unworthy lips 
 to your very dear hand? [MARIANA is about to give BEAU 
 her hand; then suddenly withdraws it.] 
 
 MARIANA. I think, Mr. Brummell, I would rather you 
 did not. 
 
 BEAU [thoughtfully]. I believe you are right. Yes, I am 
 quite sure you are! Thank you. You have saved me from 
 doing something very commonplace. 
 
 MARIANA. You are not angry, sir? 
 
 BEAU. I believe it is exactly fifteen years since I last lost 
 my temper but, Mariana, I still await your answer. It is 
 a new sensation for Brummell to be kept waiting. 
 
 MARIANA. Will you leave me, sir, to consider my de 
 cision? I pray you, Mr. Brummell, give me a few moments 
 here alone. [She motions toward recess farthest down stage, 
 and crosses toward it.] 
 
 BEAU. I would refuse you nothing. I will await your 
 pleasure in this other recess, and seek you here in five slow 
 minutes. [He motions toward the recess, the farthest up stage, 
 and with a low bow to MARIANA goes in and draws the 
 curtain.] 
 
 MARIANA [holding the curtain which closes the recess where 
 she is standing]. I cannot bring myself to say yes to him, 
 although a certain sympathy pleads in his behalf, and joins with 
 pride to prompt me against Reginald, who has neglected me. 
 Why has he not replied to my letters? Tis very soon to be 
 forgotten! Oh, Reginald, to be absent when most I needed 
 
BEAU BRUMMELL 51 
 
 you! You are no better than the men of the world. Father 
 is right. Mr. Brummell shall have his answer. [The PRINCE 
 and MRS. ST. AUBYN enter at center door, so much engrossed 
 in each other that they do not see MARIANA.] Oh, how pro 
 voking! [MARIANA hides in recess and draws the curtain.] 
 
 BEAU {who has also looked out at that moment]. How 
 very annoying! I shall have to play Patience on a window- 
 seat, and wait. 
 
 MRS. ST. AUBYN. Yes. I must own to you, my senti 
 ments toward Mr. Brummell are greatly altered. Until I 
 met you can you believe it? I positively thought him a man 
 of some parts. 
 
 BEAU [from the window]. Really, really! 
 
 PRINCE. Goddess! Of course, he has been much with me, 
 and naturally smacks somewhat of my wit. 
 
 BEAU. Ah, that s very good! Very good! 
 
 MRS. ST. AUBYN. But only as a false echo does, for he 
 has none of your delicate pleasantry. 
 
 BEAU. No, thank goodness, I haven t. 
 
 MRS. ST. AUBYN. He mimics you in dress, in everything, 
 but, then, you know, he never had your figure. [The PRINCE 
 and MRS. ST. AUBYN go toward middle recess and seat them 
 selves] 
 
 BEAU. Heaven forbid! 
 
 MRS. ST. AUBYN. He really has no taste. 
 
 PRINCE. He showed that when he chose Miss Vincent for 
 his marked attention. 
 
 MRS. ST. AUBYN. And do you think so, too? Why, I 
 know Miss Vincent is an insignificant little thing, whose name 
 has never been associated with any gentleman of quality, but, 
 though without mind or manners, she has money, sir. She 
 dresses like a guy, but her clothes, like the clouds, have silver 
 lining. 
 
 MARIANA [with a hasty look out of the curtain]. I wish 
 I could escape by the window. 
 
 BEAU. I ve half a mind to crawl out of the window, but 
 I might be observed. There s no resource but to try to go 
 asleep. 
 
 PRINCE. You are a flatterer and a coquette. 
 
 MRS. ST. AUBYN. No ; only a woman and under a spell. 
 
 PRINCE. Damme, that sounds very fine. I should like 
 
52 BEAU BRUMMELL 
 
 MRS. ST. AUBYN. Well? 
 
 PRINCE. I should like to be one of those little words that 
 kiss your lips and die. 
 
 BEAU. One of my pet speeches number five. 
 
 MRS. ST. AUBYN. Beware, sir, let me warn you remem 
 ber, I have been married once already. 
 
 PRINCE. Fore Gad, madam, I wish that you would marry 
 twice. 
 
 MRS. ST. AUBYN. Never! Now! To be sure, I once 
 thought there was something like love engendered in me by 
 Mr. Brummell, but now I know it was not real love; it was 
 only a shadow. 
 
 PRINCE. Why do you think that? [At this moment VIN 
 CENT enters from the center door. All the curtains of the 
 different windows are drawn so he can see no one.] 
 
 VINCENT. I cannot keep away any longer; she s been sensi 
 ble and accepted him, or they d have been gone long before this. 
 [MRS. ST. AUBYN moves the curtain a little, with a slight 
 exclamation] There they are in the recess behind the curtain. 
 Oh, he s clever Mr. Brummell very clever. 
 
 MRS. ST. AUBYN. I tremble to acknowledge, even to my 
 self, the dictates of my own heart. Ah, sir, I conceive you 
 know only too well who reigns there now. 
 
 VINCENT [who apparently cannot hear]. I should just like 
 to hear a word to see how the great Mr. Brummell makes 
 love. I wonder would it be wrong now to listen a bit? Why 
 should it be am I not her father? It s my duty, and I will. 
 [Comes further down and listens.] 
 
 PRINCE. Siren! You make me drunk with joy! 
 
 MRS. ST. AUBYN. No; let me recover myself. You have 
 bewitched me, sir. I must resist your fascinations, and not 
 forget the difference in our rank. Fashion would condemn me. 
 
 PRINCE. Damn Fashion! 
 
 VINCENT. Oh! Mr. Brummell a-damning Fashion. How 
 he loves her! How he loves her! 
 
 MRS. ST. AUBYN. Ah! sir, we women are so frail, so 
 easily beguiled! 
 
 PRINCE [falling on his knees}. By Heaven, I will not lose 
 you! 
 
 VINCENT [joyfully]. He s on his knees! He s on his knees! 
 
BEAU BRUMMELL 53 
 
 PRINCE. Superb! sumptuous! beautiful woman! [Kisses 
 her hand.] 
 
 VINCENT. He s kissing her! He s kissing her! 
 
 PRINCE. I swear I will marry you! 
 
 VINCENT [who can restrain himself no longer, rushes for 
 ward and draws curtain aside]. And so you shall! Bless you, 
 my [Sees the PRINCE and MRS. ST. AUBYN. Falls back] 
 Oh, Lord! The Prince! [All guests enter at center door] 
 
 PRINCE [rising, indignantly]. What do you mean, sir? 
 Confound your damned impudence! Will someone show this 
 gentleman 
 
 BEAU [who has come slowly down]. Oh, take his bless 
 ing; it won t hurt you. 
 
 PRINCE. Damn his blessing! 
 
 BEAU. Be composed, my dear Wales, or you ll make a fool 
 of yourself. 
 
 PRINCE [too exasperated to take from BEAU what he usu 
 ally thinks all right]. Oh, I am tired of your deuced im 
 pertinence, too, Beau. Step aside, step aside! 
 
 BEAU [slowly handing his snuff-box to the PRINCE]. My 
 dear Wales, first you lose your equilibrium, and now you lose 
 your temper. Take a little snuff. 
 
 PRINCE. Damn your snuff! [Knock? snuff-box out of 
 BEAU S hand] 
 
 BEAU [puts up his glass and looks quietly at him]. Very 
 bad manners, very bad. I shall have to order my carriage. 
 Wales, will you ring the bell ? [Everybody is aghast at BEAU S 
 daring. The PRINCE stands petrified. BEAU holds out his 
 hand to MARIANA, who has been standing in the recess, half 
 fainting. She comes forward, bows low to the PRINCE, and 
 backs to the door, followed by her father, who is pitifully de 
 jected. As BEAU, with a last look at the PRINCE through his 
 glass, turns and walks toward the door, 
 
 [THE CURTAIN FALLS.] 
 
THE THIRD ACT 
 
 The Mall, St. James Park, the great promenade where, every 
 day, all London walks. There are benches on each side 
 of the stage under the trees. At the back, ladies and 
 gentlemen can be seen walking. 
 
 MORTIMER come s on from right-hand side, and walks up and 
 down impatiently. After a little, KATHLEEN appears in 
 a great hurry. 
 
 KATHLEEN. Oh! You re there, are you? 
 
 MORTIMER {indignantly}. Am I here? You re half an 
 hour late. 
 
 KATHLEEN [airily]. Well, what do you expect? Aren t I 
 a woman? Say, what s the matter with your face? You have 
 an awful gloomy expression of countenance. 
 
 MORTIMER [laughing]. You little minx. Well, how goes 
 it? 
 
 KATHLEEN [crossing to bench and sitting down}. Why, 
 bad. I can t for the life of me keep one lie from spoiling the 
 other. Say, is all this true about Mr. Brummell and the 
 Prince? 
 
 MORTIMER. Yes. We ve quarreled. 
 
 KATHLEEN. And did the Prince cut ye s? 
 
 MORTIMER. No; we cut the Prince, and on account of you 
 Vincents, too. The Prince is deuced put out with Mr. Brum 
 mell, [crosses to bench and sits] so Bendon told me. It s all 
 abroad, and I left a swarm of creditors at the house, and, 
 worse still, there are two bailiffs after him. [KATHLEEN gives 
 an exclamation of horror.] We must hurry on this marriage, 
 Kathleen, or you and I ll be ruined. We must take pains to 
 keep Mr. Brummell and his nephew apart, for he s that partial 
 to him there s no telling what he mightn t do if he was to 
 discover Miss Mariana and Mr. Reginald were lovers. 
 
 KATHLEEN. And we must see to it that Miss Mariana 
 and Mr. Reginald don t meet, else he d explain how he d never 
 
 54 
 
BEAU BRUMMELL 55 
 
 received any of her letters. I kept them all carefully, for I 
 thought it might comfort him to read em after she was mar 
 ried to Mr. Brummell. But I must be off. [Rises.] Good 
 morning, me Lud. [Makes very deep curtsy.] 
 
 MORTIMER [bowing very low]. Till this evening, me 
 Lady. 
 
 KATHLEEN. Till this evening. [Turns to go out, and 
 meets REGINALD face to face.] 
 
 REGINALD. Ah! Kathleen, where have you been this last 
 week? 
 
 KATHLEEN [is very much perturbed; MORTIMER has re 
 treated to the back of the Mail, and has disappeared]. Here, 
 sir, here. 
 
 REGINALD. Will your mistress be in the Park this morning? 
 
 KATHLEEN. No, sir; she left town to-day, sir. 
 
 REGINALD [a little wistfully]. Was she in good spirits, 
 Kathleen? 
 
 KATHLEEN. Oh, beautiful, sir! She skipt with joy. 
 
 REGINALD [gives KATHLEEN money, and then slowly walks 
 away]. I cannot understand it. I am sure there is some 
 mistake. 
 
 KATHLEEN [looking at the coin disdainfully]. That s 
 mighty small pay for a mighty big lie. Bad cess to him ! [She 
 walks off at the right with a toss of her head. As she disap 
 pears, REGINALD comes down as though to call her back, but 
 she has gone, and he turns to see MORTIMER.] 
 
 REGINALD. Ah, Mortimer, is Mr. Brummell well ? 
 
 MORTIMER [very respectfully, hat in hand]. No, sir. Not 
 at all, sir. He can see no one, sir. 
 
 REGINALD. But he will see me? 
 
 MORTIMER. Excuse me, sir, but he especially mentioned 
 your name, sir; he could not even see you. 
 
 REGINALD. Will he not be in the Mall this morning? 
 
 MORTIMER. No, oh no, sir. 
 
 REGINALD. Well, tell him I will visit him to-morrow. 
 [REGINALD goes off down path to the right.] 
 
 MORTIMER. That was a tight squeeze. I expect him here 
 any moment. I must see him and warn him of the bailiffs, 
 if he only arrives before they do. [MORTIMER goes off hur 
 riedly by a path to the left. BEAU enters from the lower left- 
 hand side, and walks slowly to the center^ followed by MOR- 
 
56 BEAU BRUMMELL 
 
 TIMER. MORTIMER seems quite out of breath. BEAU is 
 dressed in dark green silk knee-breeches, green coat, black silk 
 stockings, buckled shoes, frilled shirt and neckcloth; wears two 
 fobs, carries cane with eye-glass in the top; has gray high hat 
 of the period, yellow waistcoat, yellow gloves, large red 
 boutonniere.] 
 
 MORTIMER. Mr. Brummell, sir! [BEAU starts, turns, lifts 
 cane slowly, looks at MORTIMER through glass on top, then 
 turns away and continues his walk.] 
 
 MORTIMER [very deferentially, but firmly]. Mr. Brum 
 mell, sir! 
 
 BEAU [without turning]. I think there is some mistake. 
 
 MORTIMER. Excuse me, sir, but I must speak to you. 
 
 BEAU. You forget, Mortimer, servants in the street are 
 like children at the table, they may be seen, but must not be 
 heard. 
 
 MORTIMER. I have not forgotten, sir, but this is serious. 
 
 BEAU. Serious! then it is sure to be unpleasant wait till 
 I take some snuff. [Takes snuff very quietly, and with much 
 ceremony replaces box; then nods to MORTIMER and listens.] 
 
 MORTIMER. Sir, your quarrel with the Prince is already 
 common talk. 
 
 BEAU [brushing- a little snuff off his ruffles]. Ah, poor 
 Wales! 
 
 MORTIMER. There was a crowd of creditors at your door 
 when I left, sir. 
 
 BEAU. That is neither new nor serious. 
 
 MORTIMER. But they were angry and would not go away. 
 
 BEAU. Why did you not send them off? 
 
 MORTIMER. Sir, we ve been sending them off for the past 
 two years, and now they won t be sent. Besides, sir, there 
 are two bailiffs who swore they d have you if they had to take 
 you in the Mall. 
 
 BEAU. Impossible! 
 
 MORTIMER. I fear not, sir; one is from Mr. Abrahams. 
 
 BEAU. Here? In the Mall? I would rather perish! 
 There is no help for it. [To himself.] I must make a shield 
 of my marriage. I blush to do it, for it would seem to leave 
 a blot upon my love for Mariana, but a blot upon that love 
 is better than a blot upon the name of Brummell, the name 
 she is to wear. [Aloud to MORTIMER.] Mortimer! 
 
BEAU BRUMMELL 57 
 
 MORTIMER. Yes, sir. 
 
 BEAU. You must hasten back and meet them, these dogs of 
 bailiffs; you must prevent them by telling them of my mar 
 riage to the daughter of Mr. Oliver Vincent. That prospect 
 should satisfy them. Promise them all they demand and 
 added interest. [BEAU starts to go off at the right-hand side; 
 MORTIMER also moves off to the left] Promise them every 
 thing. [MORTIMER stops and bows respectfully, then starts 
 again. BEAU moves on a few paces, then stops again.] Prom 
 ise them anything! [MORTIMER again stops and bows. BEAU 
 moves on again, and MORTIMER also starts again to go. BEAU 
 stops suddenly] 
 
 BEAU. And, Mortimer! [MORTIMER stops, and comes 
 back a few steps] You must not go unrewarded [MORTIMER 
 looks pleased and expectant]} promise yourself something! 
 [BEAU walks slowly off at the right-hand side and MORTIMER, 
 with low bow, replaces his hat, and goes quickly off at the left 
 side] 
 
 MORTIMER [as he exits]. Yes, sir! [VINCENT and MARI 
 ANA enter from the upper left-hand entrance. MARIANA is 
 dressed simply but prettily in a light flowered silk gown and 
 poke bonnet, with a parasol] 
 
 VINCENT. We ll be sure to meet him here somewhere. 
 You must do it all, Mariana. He was just as haughty with 
 me last night after we left Carlton House as he always was. 
 You wouldn t have thought he had just sacrificed himself for 
 me. 
 
 MARIANA. Sacrificed himself for you, papa? 
 
 VINCENT. Isn t it sacrificing himself for him to give up 
 his position in the world? And isn t that what he has done 
 to resent your father s insult? 
 
 ^ MARIANA \_trying to lighten the seriousness of the situa 
 tion]. I fancied he did it partly on my account, papa. 
 
 VINCENT. Of course, you little rogue, it was for us both, 
 but it s you alone who can repay him. He hasn t a penny, and 
 this rupture with the Prince has brought down all his creditors 
 upon him. With the money your dowry will bring him 
 [MARIANA turns her head away, biting her lip], he can pay 
 off his creditors and defy the Prince, Without it he can do 
 neither, and is utterly ruined. 
 
 MARIANA. I realize, father, that it is through us this sud- 
 
5 8 BEAU BRUMMELL 
 
 den calamity has come upon Mr. Brummell. It was you, papa, 
 who were to blame. Why did you bring down the curtain 
 before the comedy was over? 
 
 VINCENT [a little irritably]. Come, come, Mariana, you 
 have too teasing a temper. 
 
 MARIANA [seriously enough now]. Ah, my dear father, I 
 only want to help you by making light of the matter. Come 
 [taking his arm and crossing slowly toward the right], let us 
 find Mr. Brummell. I am not blind to the fact that it was 
 by protecting you and me he exposed himself to insult. Well, 
 he shall not suffer for it. Father, I promise you that I will 
 accept his hand! 
 
 VINCENT. And I feel sure that it will mean happiness for 
 you in the end. Wait here [seats MARIANA on bench at 
 right] a moment, and I will return with Mr. Brummell. 
 [VINCENT exits at the upper right-hand path.] 
 
 MARIANA. Yes, yes. I must hesitate no longer. I must 
 think now only of my father, and not remember Reginald, who 
 has neglected me. Gratitude and sympathy shall take the 
 place of love in my heart. [MRS. ST. AUBYN enters from 
 right-hand entrance, dressed very exquisitely in white, large 
 white hat; she carries a fan.] 
 
 MRS. ST. AUBYN. Ah, Miss Vincent! Is Mr. Brummell 
 with you? [Makes a very slight curtsy.] 
 
 MARIANA [rising and curtsying]. No; my father. 
 
 MRS. ST. AUBYN. And you have him to thank for the 
 scene last evening. It is he Mr. Brummell has to thank for 
 the Prince s displeasure. 
 
 MARIANA [anxiously]. Madam, and is the Prince still 
 angry ? 
 
 MRS. ST. AUBYN [with great relish]. He is furious, and 
 swears he will never forgive him. There is, I think, only one 
 person who could influence him in Mr. Brummell s behalf, 
 and that person is myself! [Crosses triumphantly in front 
 of MARIANA, with a sweep of her fan on the last word.] 
 
 MARIANA [eagerly going a little toward her]. Then, surely, 
 you who have been such a good friend of Mr. Brummell will 
 use your influence in his behalf. Indeed, if I am not wrong, 
 it was through Mr. Brummell that you met the Prince. Your 
 smoothing this quarrel, then, will be but a fair return to 
 him. 
 
BEAU BRUMMELL 59 
 
 MRS. ST. AUBYN. You forget I am a woman of fashion. 
 We take all we can get, but we never give anything. No, only 
 on one condition shall I persuade the Prince to hold Mr. 
 Brummell again in favor. 
 
 MARIANA [with quiet scorn}. Ah, I see, a condition. Then 
 you women of the world condescend to sell, if you will not 
 give. 
 
 MRS. ST. AUBYN [angrily]. You would do better not to 
 ruffle me. My condition is this: If you will promise to relin 
 quish Mr. Brummell, I will make the Prince promise not to 
 cut him, as he has sworn to do publicly to-day. [Looks tri 
 umphantly at MARIANA, then turns away as though to give 
 her time to consider.] 
 
 MARIANA. I would I could accept this proposition, but I 
 cannot, I cannot! Twould be the greatest injustice to Mr. 
 Brummell. I must not forget that he did not hesitate to 
 sacrifice himself for me and my father. I spoke to her of mak 
 ing him a return. Let me not shrink then from making as just 
 a one myself. [Then speaking to MRS. ST. AUBYN, who has 
 turned toward MARIANA.] What right have you to ask 
 anyone to give him up? 
 
 MRS. ST. AUBYN. He sought my favors before you enticed 
 him from me. 
 
 MARIANA [very quietly]. I do not believe that. 
 
 MRS. ST. AUBYN [angrily]. You are uncommonly insolent. 
 [Then changing her tone to one of condescension.] Well, 
 even if it were not so, I should still have the right to ask you. 
 You seem to forget the difference in our position. [She sweeps 
 past MARIANA with a grand air toward the right. At this 
 moment BEAU enters from the right-hand side; he has over 
 heard the last speech. He crosses to the center, bowing to 
 MRS. ST. AUBYN as he passes her, and with a very low bow 
 to MARIANA says:] 
 
 BEAU. It is you, Mrs. St. Aubyn, who forget. It is greatly 
 to the credit of Miss Vincent if she can overlook a difference 
 your present conduct makes so very marked. 
 
 MRS. ST. AUBYN [with a very low curtsy]. I will repeat 
 to you what I have just said to Miss Vincent. 
 
 BEAU [airily]. Pray do not fatigue yourself, madam. 
 
 MRS. ST. AUBYN. You will learn that I know how to 
 remain a friend when once I become one. I offered Miss 
 
6o BEAU BRUMMELL 
 
 Vincent the chance of regaining for you the Prince s friend 
 ship. 
 
 BEAU. And your price? 
 
 MRS. ST. AUBYN [in a low tone}. Yourself. 
 
 BEAU [to MARIANA]. And you, you refused? [MARI 
 ANA bow s her head.} It would have been most unflattering, 
 madam, had Miss Vincent disposed of me so cheaply. 
 
 MRS. ST. AUBYN [who is now enraged almost beyond the 
 bounds of endurance}. Are you mad? Do you know to 
 whom you are speaking? You are somewhat rash, sir. Dis 
 card me, and the Prince shall know all. 
 
 BEAU. He knows so very little at present, the knowledge 
 of anything would be largely to his advantage. And yet I 
 cannot imagine you will tell him all. 
 
 MRS. ST. AUBYN. Your raillery is ill planned. A woman 
 scorned 
 
 BEAU. Pray spare us, Mrs. St. Aubyn; you were never 
 intended for tragedy it does not become you and it pro 
 duces [pause} wrinkles. 
 
 MRS. ST. AUBYN [has now recovered her composure}. Mr. 
 Brummell, I bid you adieu you have taught me how to smile 
 even when tush I am a woman of fashion! [Crosses to 
 left, passing MARIANA.] Miss Vincent, I wish you joy. 
 [With an exaggerated deep curtsy. MARIANA curtsies. Looks 
 off up the left path, and calls:} Manly Lord Manly. 
 [MANLY comes on, raises hat, bows.} Lord Manly your 
 arm your arm. [They go off arm in arm.} 
 
 MARIANA [sinking down on bench}. Your regard and pro 
 tection leave me too much in your debt. 
 
 BEAU. Pray let that debt weigh no more heavily on you 
 than do my debts on me. One smile of yours had overpaid me. 
 
 MARIANA. If your creditors were as easily satisfied as you 
 are, sir, I should be prodigal of my smiles. 
 
 BEAU [crossing to MARIANA S side}. Ah, Mariana, if your 
 smiles were the coinage, egad, I think I should turn miser. 
 
 MARIANA. You are not practical, sir. I must make you so. 
 
 BEAU. I am your slave, and the chains I wear are no bur 
 den. May I indeed hope that you will accept my humble 
 service? That you will be my wife? [Stands hat in hand.} 
 
 MARIANA. Yes, Mr. Brummell, I honor and respect you. 
 [Gives her hand to BEAU.] I will be your wife. 
 
BEAU BRUMMELL 61 
 
 BEAU [kissing her hand]. And may I hope you will learn 
 to love me a little? 
 
 MARIANA. I do indeed hope so. \_Aside.~\ Or make my 
 self forget. 
 
 BEAU [putting on his hat with a buoyant gesture}. Come, 
 Mariana [MARIANA rises ], honor my arm and we will tell 
 the whole world of our of my happiness. [They go off at 
 left-hand path. VINCENT enters from the right. } 
 
 VINCENT. I can t find him anywhere. I m afraid he s 
 hiding, poor fellow, from those bailiffs, and doesn t dare show 
 his face lest he be taken. Where s Mariana? Has she changed 
 her mind and gone? No, she gave her promise she d accept 
 him, and I can trust to her word. I ll search for her now, and 
 perhaps, by so doing, I may find him. [VINCENT goes out 
 by upper path, left-hand side. Two BAILIFFS enter from 
 upper right-hand path. They are villainous-looking creatures; 
 one limps the other has a patch over one eye, and both have 
 very red noses; they are dressed in ragged clothes.} 
 
 FIRST BAILIFF. Our gentleman s so fine we mustn t 
 bother our eyes with winking, or he ll slip through our fin 
 gers. 
 
 SECOND BAILIFF. Not if I know it. This is the most 
 fashionable affair of my life. Look here who s this? [He 
 points to the left-hand path. They both quickly withdraw* 
 behind a tree. BEAU enters from the left.} 
 
 BEAU. I ll leave her to inform her father. I must find 
 Mortimer; he should have returned by now. What if he 
 should not have met those bailiffs if they should still be at 
 large. Zounds! [He sits on bench at right.} 
 
 FIRST BAILIFF [in a low tone}. That s him! 
 
 SECOND BAILIFF. Lud ain t he scrumptious! We ought 
 to have a pair of silver sugar-tongs to take him with. [They 
 come down, one behind the other.} 
 
 FIRST BAILIFF. Mr. Brummell, sir! 
 
 BEAU [looking up}. The devil! 
 
 FIRST BAILIFF. No, sir, the bailiff. 
 
 BEAU. What is the difference? [The BAILIFFS look at 
 one another in amazement.} 
 
 FIRST BAILIFF. We ve been looking for you, sir. 
 
 BEAU. I am so sorry you have put yourself to that trouble, 
 and you must not speak to me here. Do you realize what you 
 
6 2 BEAU BRUMMELL 
 
 are doing? Suppose some one were to observe you. My valet 
 will attend to you. 
 
 FIRST BAILIFF. Oh, we ll take care of your valet later; 
 it s you that we ve got a couple of papers for this morning. 
 I represent your landlord, sir! [BEAU lifts his cane with great 
 deliberation, and looks at him through the glass.] 
 
 BEAU. Are you the best he can do? 
 
 FIRST BAILIFF. You have lived in his house three years, 
 and he considers it s time as how you paid a bit of rent. 
 
 BEAU [as though to himself]. The ungrateful wretch! 
 The very fact of my having resided in his house should be 
 more than sufficient remuneration. 
 
 SECOND BAILIFF [comes up in front of BEAU, while FIRST 
 BAILIFF retires a little, shaking his head as though completely 
 puzzled]. And I am here for Mr. Abrahams and several 
 other gentlemen. 
 
 BEAU. You remind me of the person in the theatre whom 
 they call the super, who represents the enemy on the march 
 or the company in the ballroom. We will dispense with your 
 company, sir. 
 
 FIRST BAILIFF [coming up again]. That won t do, Mr. 
 Brummell. You must pay, or come along with us. [Makes 
 vague gesture of thumb over shoulder.] 
 
 SECOND BAILIFF [making same gesture as he withdraws 
 again]. Yes, pay, or come along with us. 
 
 BEAU. You men must be mad; the Prince will be here 
 presently, and I will speak to him. [Rises.] 
 
 FIRST BAILIFF [obsequiously]. Oh, if His Royal Highness 
 will help you, sir, of course we won t press matters. 
 
 BEAU. See that you do not. And now [looking at them 
 through his glass], trot away, trot away, and walk in Fleet 
 Street; the Mall is really no place for you. [He turns, lifts 
 his boutonniere so he can inhale the perfume of the flowers, 
 and then walks away with great deliberation. They stand 
 staring after him for an instant, stupefied.] 
 
 FIRST BAILIFF. We ll keep our eye on our gentleman, just 
 the same. These little rumors about the Prince and him might 
 be true after "all, and if they are, why, we won t walk in Fleet 
 Street alone. [He pulls a black bottle out of his pocket, takes 
 a drink, and then hands it to the SECOND BAILIFF, who also 
 takes a drink; then they go off in the same direction BEAU 
 
BEAU BRUMMELL 63 
 
 went. The DUCHESS, LADY FARTHINGALE, LORD MANLY 
 and SHERIDAN come on from the left-hand path. LORD 
 MANLY and LADY FARTHINGALE cross to the right-hand bench. 
 LADY FARTHINGALE sits, MANLY stands by her side. Three 
 ladies and gentlemen come on at the back and stand there, 
 apparently chatting or listening to the DUCHESS.] 
 
 DUCHESS. Where can Beau have disappeared to? It s 
 near time for the Prince to be out, and I wouldn t miss ob 
 serving the meeting for worlds. Pray, Sherry, give us your 
 opinion will he cut him or not? [The DUCHESS has been 
 flying around, looking for BEAU in every direction.] 
 
 SHERIDAN. Really, Duchess, I cannot say what the Prince 
 will do. He s too great a fool for me to put myself in his 
 place. 
 
 MANLY. Damme, of course he ll cut him, and, moreover, 
 Beau deserves it. 
 
 SHERIDAN [decidedly"]. Then, for my part, I say, let s move 
 on. 
 
 DUCHESS [equally decided]. We ll do no such thing. 
 We must see for ourselves, so that we can trust our own ears 
 and know how to treat Mr. Brummell accordingly. Besides, 
 if we observe it, we can inform others of the affair correctly, 
 and there will be some merit in that. [SHERIDAN moves 
 away to the right, with a shrug of his shoulders] 
 
 LADY FARTHINGALE. Mr. Brummell will never be able 
 to stand it if he s injured. I should not wonder now if he 
 fainted! 
 
 DUCHESS. Dear me, do you think so? [Face falls as 
 though disappointed] I don t know, I m afraid not. 
 
 SHERIDAN [impatiently]. He s more likely to resent any 
 insult, I m convinced. 
 
 DUCHESS [most excited, rushes to LADY FARTHINGALE]. 
 What! A duel! Oh, Lud, Lady Farthingale, only think 
 a duel! Deuce take it, where can Beau be? I m afraid the 
 Prince will arrive first. 
 
 SHERIDAN [sarcastically]. My dear Duchess, prithee be 
 calm; you are too great an enthusiast. 
 
 DUCHESS [looking off at the right]. Here comes Mr. 
 Brummell, I vow. Do you notice anything different in his 
 manner of walking? 
 
 SHERIDAN [monocle in eye, looks off in direction BEAU is 
 
64 BEAU BRUMMELL 
 
 supposed to be]. He seems to have the same number of legs 
 as formerly. [He crosses over to the left.] 
 
 DUCHESS. Oh, you may rail at me, Sherry, but it s no 
 laughing matter for Mr. Brummell, I can tell you. 
 
 LADY FARTHINGALE [rising so she can see better]. He s 
 coming he s coming! 
 
 DUCHESS. Lud, we must not expose ourselves! We must 
 at least feign utter ignorance of the affair. [BEAU enters.] 
 Ah, Beau! [The ladies curtsy, the men raise their hats.] 
 
 BEAU. Still loitering, Duchess? I was so afraid you would 
 have returned home. [He joins SHERIDAN on the other side.] 
 
 DUCHESS [aside to LADY FARTHINGALE]. You hear? A 
 hint for us to go, but he ll not hoodwink his Duchess. [To 
 BEAU.] We were just going, but we ll rest a moment for 
 another chat with you. 
 
 BEAU. Too good of you, Duchess. Are you not afraid 
 to risk your what s that called, Sherry? {Touching his 
 cheek.] 
 
 SHERIDAN [much embarrassed]. Complexion. 
 
 BEAU. Yes, your complexion in the sun. [Chats with 
 SHERIDAN. DUCHESS, very angry, does not know what to 
 say until LADY FARTHINGALE S speech gives her a chance to 
 show her spitefulness.] 
 
 LADY FARTHINGALE. Here comes His Royal Highness! 
 
 DUCHESS [looking off at the right]. The Prince! Is he 
 truly? I didn t expect him this morning. Beau, the Prince 
 is coming. 
 
 BEAU [indifferently]. Is he really? Where s the music? 
 In the play the Prince always comes on with music. Let s be 
 going, Sherry, there s no music. [Takes SHERIDAN S arm, and 
 they move off to the left.] 
 
 DUCHESS [meaningly]. What, Beau, you wouldn t leave 
 before His Royal Highness comes? 
 
 BEAU [seeing there is no escape, meets his fate gallantly]. 
 By my manners, no! Sherry, let us meet him. [They turn 
 and start to the right, as the PRINCE enters with MRS. ST. 
 AUBYN on his arm. The DUCHESS has retreated back to 
 where LADY FARTHINGALE is standing.] 
 
 DUCHESS. The deuce, did you hear that, Lady Farthingale? 
 [BEAU and SHERIDAN reach the center and stop. The PRINCE 
 and MRS. ST. AUBYN pass directly by BEAU, although he 
 
BEAU BRUMMELL 65 
 
 stands, hat in hand, and the PRINCE addresses SHERIDAN. 
 BEAU replaces hat and listens with an amused expression. ~\ 
 
 PRINCE. Sup with me to-night, Sherry, after the play. 
 Mrs. St. Aubyn and the Duchess will be there with us, and, 
 egad, we ll make a night of it. [SHERIDAN can only bow 
 acquiescence, and the PRINCE and MRS. ST. AUBYN move on 
 a little way, BEAU, lifting his glass, looks after them and 
 says to SHERIDAN:] 
 
 BEAU. Sherry, who s your fat friend? [SHERIDAN is 
 divided between delight and amazement at his daring, and 
 consternation at thought of the consequences, and whispers in 
 BEAU S ear.] 
 
 PRINCE [who has stopped short]. Well damn his impu 
 dence ! 
 
 BEAU [affects not to hear or understand SHERIDAN], I beg 
 your pardon, who did you say? I had no idea he looked like 
 that. Is it really? You don t say so? Dear, dear, what a 
 pity! What a pity! [Takes SHERIDAN S arm and they go 
 off at the right, BEAU with his usual imperturbable air, and 
 SHERIDAN visibly shaking and dejected. The PRINCE and 
 MRS. ST. AUBYN are at the left, the PRINCE speechless with 
 rage, and MRS. ST. AUBYN trying to say something consoling.] 
 
 DUCHESS. Well, I ve had all my pains for nothing. 
 
 LADY FARTHINGALE. But, Duchess, did you see? 
 
 DUCHESS. See what? There was nothing to see! [With 
 a chuckle.] Lud, Beau got the best of it. 
 
 MRS. ST. AUBYN. Duchess, you look ill. Doesn t the air 
 agree with you, or is it the daylight? 
 
 DUCHESS [loftily }. I hope, my dear Mrs. St. Aubyn, 
 you ll never look worse. [With a deep curtsy."] 
 
 MRS. ST. AUBYN [with affected horror]. Heaven forbid! 
 [The PRINCE and MRS. ST. AUBYN exit at left. All the peo 
 ple at back exit.] 
 
 DUCHESS. Come, let s be going. [LORD MANLY offers 
 one arm to the DUCHESS, LADY FARTHINGALE takes his other 
 arm. They move off toward the left.] Where can Beau 
 have disappeared to? Of course, it s of no interest to us, only 
 I must say it was uncommonly ill-natured of him not to make 
 more of a scene for our sakes, you know. [They all go out. 
 BEAU and SHERIDAN enter from the right, followed by the 
 Two BAILIFFS. SHERIDAN speaks as they come on.] 
 
66 BEAU BRUMMELL 
 
 SHERIDAN. Your marriage, my dear Beau, will redeem 
 your misfortune, and it is the only thing that will. [They 
 have reached the center by this time, and BEAU sees the 
 BAILIFFS. He stops, puts up his glass, looks at them, and 
 says :] 
 
 BEAU [shaking his finger at SHERIDAN]. Sherry, Sherry, 
 who are these fellows following you? [SHERIDAN turns and 
 sees the BAILIFFS, and becomes much agitated.] 
 
 BAILIFF. Mr. Brummell, sir! [BEAU sees it s no use to 
 try to deceive SHERIDAN.] 
 
 BEAU. Zounds! Proceed. Sherry, I will join you in a 
 moment. Well, my good men! [SHERIDAN hurries off, 
 shaking his head sadly] 
 
 BEAU. You donkeys, would you ruin me? 
 
 BAILIFF. Come, come, we ve had enough of your airs, now. 
 You d better come along with us quietly. [Places finger on 
 BEAU S shoulder.] 
 
 BEAU [moves away]. For Heaven s sake, don t put those 
 hands on me! Why don t you wear gloves? [BAILIFF, who 
 had retreated a step, comes closer] And don t come so close. 
 You are too hasty and ill-advised you have no manners. 
 [BAILIFFS retreat in real confusion and astonishment.] 
 There s one resource, I must tell them. [He takes out snuff 
 box, and takes snuff with great deliberation, and does not speak 
 until he has returned box, brushed his lace ruffles, then he 
 turns to them] Had you met my valet he would have de 
 livered to you my message. It was to the effect that the banns 
 of marriage between the daughter of Mr. Oliver Vincent and 
 myself are to be published in St. James s on Sunday. As the 
 son-in-law of the merchant prince, I can not only satisfy your 
 master s demands, but handsomely remember you yourselves. 
 Now, trot away, trot away, anywhere out of my sight. [ Turns 
 away] 
 
 BAILIFF. We ve heard one of your fine stories before, and 
 we don t go till you prove what you say. 
 
 BEAU. How very annoying! [Looks off at left and sees 
 MARIANA. His face lights up] Here comes Mariana. 
 Here is the young lady herself. Withdraw and you shall have 
 your proof. [BAILIFFS look at each other.] 
 
 FIRST BAILIFF [<a little doubtfully]. Well! 
 
 SECOND BAILIFF [still more doubtfully]. Well!! 
 
BEAU BRUMMELL 67 
 
 FIRST BAILIFF. Well, we ll see what it is, eh? [They 
 exit at the back left. BEAU walks down to the right, brushes 
 his shoulder where the BAILIFF S hand had rested, turns and 
 crosses toward left as though to meet MARIANA, and suddenly 
 stops.] 
 
 BEAU. What! [Looks again as though he thought him 
 self mistaken. ] Reginald and Mariana! Mariana and Reg 
 inald! [Shakes his head as though to dispel the thoughts that 
 would come. Then walks slowly toward the path at back t 
 leading off to the left. MARIANA enters hastily f followed by 
 REGINALD, both much agitated.] 
 
 REGINALD. I have been wretched beyond the telling my 
 letters left unanswered, not one word from you in fourteen 
 days! 
 
 MARIANA. My letters and appeals unanswered is what you 
 mean, sir. I wrote you even up to yesterday, and Kathleen 
 vowed that she delivered all the notes till then. 
 
 REGINALD. To whom did she deliver them? Twas not 
 to me. 
 
 MARIANA [with a cry of joy]. What, you did not receive 
 them? Then Kathleen has played me false. Oh, Reginald, 
 what I have suffered in wrongly thinking you untrue to me. 
 
 REGINALD. Such doubt of me was cruel, Mariana, but 
 [lightly] come, ask my pardon and see how quickly I ll for 
 give you. [Comes to her and tries to f ake her hands, but 
 MARIANA draius away.] 
 
 MARIANA. No no! I cannot, I cannot. 
 
 REGINALD [misunderstanding]. Then see, I ll forgive with 
 out the asking. 
 
 MARIANA [still refusing to let him take her hand]. Reg 
 inald, what will you think? How can I tell you? It is too 
 late now. 
 
 REGINALD. Too late! What do you mean? 
 
 MARIANA. I have promised myself to another. [BEAU is 
 seen at back, head bowed, his attitude one of utter sadness.] 
 
 REGINALD [forcibly]. You must break that promise. To 
 whom has it been given? 
 
 MARIANA. To Mr. Brummell. 
 
 REGINALD. Mr. Brummell! [In shocked surprise. ] Great 
 Heavens! Mariana, he is my best friend my benefactor. 
 
 MARIANA. No no ! 
 
68 BEAU BRUMMELL 
 
 REGINALD. My mother s only brother. It is he who, since 
 her death, has cared for me most tenderly, and, all my life, 
 has shielded me from every harm. 
 
 MARIANA. He is overwhelmed now by his difficulties. His 
 creditors are like bloodhounds on his track. He has sacrificed 
 himself for me in defense of my father. Through me alone 
 can he be rid of his distresses. 
 
 REGINALD. And he loves you. I know that, too, and you, 
 do you love him? 
 
 MARIANA [reproachfully]. You should not ask me that. 
 
 REGINALD [taking her hands}. You are right! But I can 
 not give you up, nor can I see my uncle ruined; he is the one 
 man in the universe from whom I would not steal your love. 
 Tis you who must decide. 
 
 MARIANA. And I have done so. I am his. [BEAU comes 
 down to the center. REGINALD and MARIANA draw back on 
 each side.] 
 
 BEAU. No no, I give you up; I release you from your 
 promise. [The BAILIFFS enter and stand at back, listen 
 ing. ] 
 
 MARIANA [starting forward] . Sir ! 
 
 BEAU. Take her, Reginald! [He holds out his hand to 
 MARIANA, who is about to give him hers, when she stops, and 
 withdraws her hand.] 
 
 MARIANA. No, I am yours. I will not be released. Our 
 love would not be happiness if it entailed your ruin. Reginald 
 has told me that he owes to you his life. My father and myself 
 have greater cause for gratitude to you than I can say. I hold 
 you to your vows. 
 
 BEAU. Impossible; I now release you. 
 
 REGINALD [sees the BAILIFFS]. Great Heavens, the bailiffs! 
 You shall not sacrifice yourself for us. I join with Mariana 
 against myself, and say that she is yours. 
 
 BEAU [looks at him with great affection]. No no! 
 [Brushes an imaginary speck from his sleeve] I love you both 
 too well to come between your young hearts happiness. 
 
 MARIANA [in a last effort to change him]. And yet you 
 loved me! [BEAU takes a step toward her with a look of love 
 and reproach] 
 
 BEAU. Mariana! No, [lifting his hat and turning away] 
 I must leave you. 
 
BEAU BRUMMELL 69 
 
 REGINALD. You shall not; we will speak to Mr. Vincent 
 and he will help you. 
 
 BEAU [reprovingly]. I have no claim whatever on Mr. 
 Vincent. [BAILIFFS standing at back give a nod to each 
 other.} Take her, Reginald; wear her very near your heart 
 for my sake. [Hands MARIANA to REGINALD.] And now 
 I would accompany you further, but I cannot not now. 
 [With a slight, almost imperceptible turn toward the BAILT 
 IFFS.] I happen to have a very pressing engagement with 
 with His Majesty! [BEAU turns, after a very ceremonious 
 bow to MARIANA to the right, and moves off. The BAILIFFS 
 have come down, and follow him closely; one of them taps him 
 on the shoulder. BEAU stops for an instant, then takes out 
 snuff-box, and takes snuff, and walks slowly off with the great 
 est dignity. MARIANA hides her face on REGINALD S shoulder 
 as 
 
 [THE CURTAIN FALLS.] 
 
THE FOURTH ACT 
 SCENE ONE 
 
 A lodging house at Calais a room at the top of the house. 
 The shabbiest furniture, bare floor, window at the back 
 with rude settle in it; the tops of neighboring houses can 
 be seen from the window. A large fireplace with small 
 fire is at the right, with a door below, leading into an 
 other room. A table stands in the middle of room with 
 a chair each side. Another door at the left leads into the 
 hall. BEAU is discovered sitting in front of fireplace 
 with his back to the audience. He is dressed in a yellow 
 brocaded dressing-gown, apparently the same one worn in 
 Act I, but with its glory gone, faded and worn, torn in 
 places. He wears old black slippers, with white stock 
 ings and brown trousers, " slit so at the bottom and then 
 buttoned tight." His hair is a little gray, his face thin 
 and worn. At the rise of curtain MORTIMER enters from 
 hallway. He, too, shows the wear and tear of poverty 
 All his jauntiness has gone; he is shabbily dressed. Aftet 
 waiting a minute to see if BEAU will notice him, he speaks 
 
 MORTIMER. Not a letter, sir. No answer to those we 
 sent over a month ago. Only one to me from Kathleen, tc 
 say if I don t return immediately she will take to Mr. Sheri 
 dan s gentleman for good, and enclosing me the passage-mone] 
 over. [BEAU turns a little and looks at him, as though to set- 
 if he is going.] I I gave it to the bootmaker, whom I met 
 at the foot of the stairs with a bailiff as I came in. [BEAU 
 sinks back in his chair again, satisfied that MORTIMER will nor 
 leave him."] 
 
 BEAU. If you would not use it for yourself, Mortimer, yov 
 might at least have bought a pate for dinner instead ; we shoulc 
 have had something to eat, and we could have made the bailiff 
 stop and dine with us. Could you make no further loans 
 [His voice is harsh and strained. ] 
 
 70 
 
BEAU BRUMMELL 71 
 
 MORTIMER. No more, sir. I tried everywhere. No one 
 will trust us any more. 
 
 BEAU. Mortimer, what will become of us? Think what 
 the finest gentleman of his time is undergoing. It s enough to 
 drive one mad. 
 
 MORTIMER. Have you nothing more to sell, sir? [BEAU 
 rises and comes to the table. He has a snuff-box in his hand 
 a small black one, in great contrast to the jeweled box he 
 carried in the earlier scenes.] 
 
 BEAU. My last snuff-box. You would not have me dis 
 pose of that, Mortimer a paltry trifle that would bring noth 
 ing. No, there is nothing, Mortimer. Everything belongs to 
 that wretched female creature who dignifies this hovel with the 
 name of lodgings. [Loud knocking is heard at the door, which 
 is thrown violently open, and the LANDLADY stalks in. She 
 is a very determined-looking woman, short and stout, with a 
 red face and a pronounced moustache. She is dressed in a 
 rather short blue skirt, heavy shoes, blue denim apron, black 
 blouse with white neckerchief, a white cap with broad 
 frill. Stands with arms akimbo, looking at BEAU disdain- 
 fully.-} 
 
 BEAU. Talking of angels! Good morning, my dear 
 madam. So courteous of you to come. It is not my reception 
 day, but you are always welcome. Mortimer, offer this good 
 lady a chair. 
 
 LANDLADY [speaks with French accent]. Chair, humph! 
 Your Mortimer had better offer me some money, some rent 
 money, or I ll have you both shown to the door, do you hear? 
 [Rapping on table; BEAU starts as though in distress at each 
 loud rap] That s what I come to say. [MORTIMER now 
 offers her a chair] No, I thank you, I ll stand! It s my 
 own chair, and I will not wear it out by sitting in it. 
 
 BEAU. Then sit in it yourself, Mortimer; I cannot permit 
 you to stand; you are tired. I m so sorry, my dear madam, 
 that I have nothing to offer you ; the supplies for which Mor 
 timer went out a short time ago have not yet arrived. 
 
 LANDLADY [sneeringly]. Supplies! Not yet arrived! 
 Well, when they do they will not pass my door, I ll tell you 
 that. [Hammers on table again] 
 
 BEAU [wincing]. Do, my dear madam, do help yourself. 
 And speaking of helping yourself reminds me, would you mind 
 
72 BEAU BRUMMELL 
 
 returning some of my shirts? I am sure you cannot wear 
 them yourself. Mortimer! 
 
 MORTIMER. Yes, sir. 
 
 BEAU. How many were there in the wash last week? 
 
 MORTIMER. Twelve, sir. 
 
 BEAU. Yes now if you wouldn t mind returning Mor 
 timer ! 
 
 MORTIMER. Yes, sir. 
 
 BEAU. How many shall I require for the remainder of the 
 week? 
 
 MORTIMER. Five, sir. 
 
 BEAU. Yes, if you would not mind returning five, I think 
 I might manage for the remainder of the week. 
 
 LANDLADY [who has been restraining her wrath with dif 
 ficulty]. I ll do nothing of the sort, sir, and I m sick of your 
 fine manners. I want more of the money, and less of the 
 politeness. [With an exaggerated bow, mocking BEAU.] 
 
 BEAU [taking snuff]. You mean, my dear madam, you 
 want more of the politeness and less of the money. 
 
 LANDLADY [furiously}. What! You dare insult me? 
 Pay me to-day, or out into the street you go! Your polite 
 talk may do good there. It may do for the stones, but it will 
 not do for the flesh, not for this flesh. Pauper! Pauper! 
 Bah! [She shouts the last three words, and as she gets to the 
 door on " Bah" bangs door and goes out. At the word " Pau 
 per" BEAU stands as though turned to stone.] 
 
 BEAU [very slowly]. Mortimer. 
 
 MORTIMER. Yes, sir. 
 
 BEAU. What did she call me? 
 
 MORTIMER [half sobbingly]. Pauper, sir. 
 
 BEAU [sinking into chair by right of table]. Pauper! 
 
 MORTIMER. I am afraid, sir, she s in earnest. 
 
 BEAU [quite simply]. She had that appearance. Morti 
 mer, we must find the money somehow, or I must leave Calais 
 to-night. 
 
 MORTIMER [hesitatingly]. That packet of letters, sir, for 
 which you have had so many offers from publishers. 
 
 BEAU. What packet, Mortimer? 
 
 MORTIMER. Your private letters of gossip and scandal from 
 people of the Court. I know you have been averse, sir 
 
BEAU BRUMMELL 73 
 
 [His voice dies away, as BEAU, drawing himself up, gives him 
 a withering glance.] 
 
 BEAU. Mortimer, you surprise me. I thought you knew 
 me better. No. I would rather suffer anything than live by 
 sacrificing the reputation of those who once befriended me. 
 [Opens drawer in table, and takes out packet of letters tied 
 with a faded ribbon. Fondles them for an instant, then goes 
 to fireplace, kneels and throws them into the flames.} There 
 they go, Mortimer. There they go and almost any one of 
 them might break a heart or blast a reputation. And see how 
 swiftly they vanish, as swiftly as would the reputations which 
 they are destroyed to save. 
 
 MORTIMER. I was wondering, sir, if it would do to appeal 
 to His Majesty. He might overlook what happened when he 
 was Prince. He passes through Calais to-day, sir. 
 
 BEAU [rising and coming to table], I have thought of it, 
 Mortimer, but I fear it would be in vain well, we might 
 try. Go to him, Mortimer, go to him, and take him [pauses 
 to think what MORTIMER can take, and feels snuff-box in 
 pocket; takes it out and handles it lovingly] take him this 
 snuff-box. [Gives MORTIMER the box. Hardly has it left 
 his hands, however, when he reaches out for it again.] That 
 is, you might take him the box, but, perhaps, you d better not 
 take him the snuff. [MORTIMER gives BEAU the box. BEAU 
 picks up a paper lying on the table, saying:] Bills, bills. 
 [Makes the paper into a cornucopia, and empties the snuff 
 from the box into it; then taps box on the table, loosening any 
 remaining particles of snuff with his finger; then looks at table 
 and scrapes any remaining there into the cornucopia; finally 
 hands box to MORTIMER.] Give it to him with your own 
 hands, say Mr. Brummell presents his compliments. And if 
 that fails, like everything else why, then 
 
 MORTIMER. And what then, sir? 
 
 BEAU. Then, [taking snuff elegantly from cornucopia] 
 then, Mortimer, I can starve. And I promise you I shall do 
 it in the most elegant manner. And you you, Mortimer, 
 must return to that Japanese girl; what s her name? 
 
 MORTIMER [tearfully]. Kathleen, sir. 
 
 BEAU. Yes. Kathleen. [Knock at door. MORTIMER 
 opens it and starts back astounded.] 
 
74 BEAU BRUMMELL 
 
 MORTIMER. Mr. Vincent, sir. [VINCENT enters, puffing 
 from the climb upstairs.] 
 
 BEAU [is astonished and annoyed; puts the cornucopia of 
 snuff hastily into his pocket, and draws his dressing-gown 
 around him]. Mr. Vincent! My dear sir! Why, how did 
 you find your way here? You should have been shown into 
 the reception-room, or my drawing-room, or my library; you 
 find me in my morning-gown, in my morning-room. I make 
 a thousand apologies. 
 
 VINCENT. Don t, don t; I was passing through Calais 
 and I just happened in. Phew, you re pretty high up here! 
 
 BEAU. Yes; the air is so very much purer. Will you be 
 seated, Mr. It is still Mr. Vincent, is it not? [To him 
 self:] He must not know my want, my poverty; I could not 
 suffer this man s pity or compassion. 
 
 VINCENT [sits at left of table]. Before I forget it, let me 
 ask you to do me the honor of dining with me to-day. 
 
 BEAU [with an involuntary drawing-in of the breath], 
 Dine! At what hour? 
 
 VINCENT. I always dine at five o clock. 
 
 BEAU. Thank you ; but I fear you will have to excuse me. 
 I could not possibly dine at such an hour. [Turns from table, 
 and goes up toward window] 
 
 VINCENT [aside]. Not changed much in spirit, but in 
 everything else [Aloud] Well, Mr. Brummell, you must 
 lead a dull life of it here in Calais. 
 
 BEAU [still at window, and jauntily]. You forget, Mr. 
 Vincent, that by living in Calais I do what all the young bucks 
 do I pass all my time between London and Paris. 
 
 VINCENT. Witty as ever, Mr. Brummell. The sea air 
 does not dampen your spirits. 
 
 BEAU. No; and I use none other. That is the reason I 
 have nothing to offer you. Had I known of your coming I 
 should have been better prepared to receive you. [Comes 
 down and sits at right of table] 
 
 VINCENT [looking around the room]. You must be hard 
 pressed for money, if you don t mind my saying so. 
 
 BEAU [very hastily and airily, and rising]. Oh, no! You 
 have quite a mistaken notion of my affairs, because you miss 
 certain useless articles given away as pledges [swallows a 
 
BEAU BRUMMELL 75 
 
 word] ahem of gratitude for favors shown me. I always 
 pay a debt, Mr. Vincent, when it s a social one. 
 
 VINCENT. But those other debts which rumor says are 
 overwhelming you again. Now, if you d let me pay them 
 
 BEAU [sits at right of table. In a very cold tone] . Thank 
 you, thank you. No doubt you intend to be kind, but you are 
 impertinent. [VlNCENT turns away rebuffed and disap 
 pointed. BEAU to himself:] No, I will not be so humiliated 
 by her father. I would rather tell a little lie instead. [To 
 VINCENT.] I assure you, since the renewal of my friendship 
 with the Prince, now His Majesty! [Makes a slight 
 bow at " His Majesty/ ] 
 
 VINCENT [cominp down f delighted]. Friendship with His 
 Majesty ! 
 
 BEAU. What! Has not rumor told you that, too? She s 
 a sorry jade, and sees only the gloomy side of things. Then, 
 I suppose you have not heard that the King has pensioned me! 
 [Takes handkerchief from pocket; it is full of holes.] 
 
 VINCENT. But 
 
 BEAU. I see you still have that very unfortunate habit of 
 " butting." Why, how, how, without a pension, could I keep 
 up this establishment? [Holding up the tattered handkerchief 
 in his trembling hand, lie says, aside:] If he can tell me that 
 he will help me more than he knows. 
 
 VINCENT. All the more reason, then, why you should 
 return to London and marry my daughter. 
 
 BEAU. Are you still obstinate on that point? Do you 
 still refuse her to Reginald? [Knock is heard at door.] 
 
 VINCENT. There is Mariana. I told her to join me here. 
 
 BEAU [rises in consternation, draws his dressing-gown 
 around him, looks down at it]. Mariana Miss Vincent, 
 coming here. Mr. Vincent, one moment, one moment, Mr. 
 Vincent, one moment. [Goes hastily to door at right, bows 
 to VINCENT, and exits. MARIANA enters from hall door at 
 
 MARIANA. Is he here? Have you succeeded? 
 
 VINCENT. My child, we have heard false reports in town. 
 He has a pension from His Majesty. He is friends with the 
 King. Dear me! I hope I haven t offended him. 
 
 MARIANA. A pension, papa! [And then as she looks 
 
7 6 BEAU BRUMMELL 
 
 around the dingy room.] Are you quite sure he s not deceiv 
 ing you? 
 
 VINCENT. Quite sure; he could not deceive me. 
 
 MARIANA. Then, father, there is no further need for me 
 to make the sacrifice you demanded, and which Mr. BrummeH s 
 need did justify. 
 
 VINCENT. By no means. I am all the more determined 
 on it. 
 
 MARIANA. I also am determined now, and say I will not 
 marry him. 
 
 VINCENT. Tut, tut! Hush, he s coming he s somewhat 
 changed. [BEAU enters. He has put on his coat a shabby, 
 full-skirted brown coat. Has dingy black neckerchief on. 
 Bows very low to MARIANA.] 
 
 BEAU. Good morning, my dear Miss Vincent. I trust the 
 stairs have not fatigued you. You should feel at home, so 
 high up among the angels. 
 
 MARIANA [shows she is much affected by BEAU S changed 
 appearance]. I am most pleased, sir, that we find you happy 
 with the world and with yourself. We had feared othenvise. 
 
 BEAU. I lead a charmed life; even now, you see, it brings 
 you to me. 
 
 MARIANA. And has it brought your nephew, too, sir? 
 
 BEAU. That may be your privilege. 
 
 MARIANA. I trust it may be, or else that you will bring 
 him back to me. [As she says this, she turns away and goes 
 up toward the window with VINCENT, who shows he is not 
 pleased at this speech. At this moment, REGINALD enters 
 quickly, throwing hat on table as he goes by, and rushing 
 up to BEAU, holds out his hand eagerly.] 
 
 REGINALD. Uncle ! 
 
 BEAU [with great affection]. Reginald! [Then recollect 
 ing himself.] No, Reginald, a glance of the eye. Reginald, 
 my boy, you here, too ! 
 
 REGINALD. I heard yesterday of your distresses 
 
 BEAU [hastily interrupting him]. Do you not see Miss 
 Vincent and her father? [REGINALD turns, sees MARIANA, 
 and crosses to window to her, where they stand eagerly talking. 
 VINCENT goes toward hall door, evidently very anxious to get 
 MARIANA away.] I might have accepted it from him, but he 
 has come too late. This Vincent shall not know the truth. 
 
BEAU BRUMMELL 77 
 
 But Reginald shall have Mariana, and Vincent shall give her 
 to him. 
 
 VINCENT. I think, my dear, you had better go and wait 
 downstairs for me. 
 
 BEAU. No, no, let Miss Vincent remain; my nephew will 
 entertain her [REGINALD and MARIANA at this begin talking 
 more confidentially], and I wish to consult you privately in 
 my room for a few moments. 
 
 VINCENT. Now, my dear Mr. Brummell, I must insist 
 on Mariana s retiring. 
 
 BEAU. And I must insist that Miss Vincent remain. I 
 see your manners have not improved. I will not detain you 
 a moment. I wish to ask your advice. I hear an earldom is 
 soon likely to become vacant. Now, who s eligible? 
 
 VINCENT. An earldom ! 
 
 BEAU. You know more about matters in town than I, and 
 I wish to be prepared in case my influence should be needed. 
 Now, what name would you suggest? 
 
 VINCENT [gasping]. You honor me, Mr. Brummell! 
 
 BEAU. Very likely, but I wish you wouldn t gasp so. In 
 deed, I do honor you in asking you for your daughter s hand 
 [REGINALD and MARIANA start and look around.] 
 
 VINCENT [bows very low]. Mr. Brummell! 
 
 BEAU. For my nephew! [REGINALD and MARIANA turn 
 again toward window, relieved.] 
 
 VINCENT. My dear Mr. Brummell, you know I am op 
 posed to that, and I hope to persuade you 
 
 BEAU [significantly]. Who is eligible for the earldom 
 exactly and I think mind, I say I think we both have the 
 same person in mind. But, first, I must persuade you who is 
 eligible for your daughter. [He bows to VINCENT and mo 
 tions him to door at right.] 
 
 VINCENT [speaking as he goes] . Gad ! Zounds ! An earl 
 dom! If this should be my opportunity .at last. Mariana 
 shall marry the boy if he wants it. [Exits.] 
 
 BEAU [turns to speak to MARIANA and REGINALD, and 
 finds them so absorbed in each other they do not even see him. 
 He attracts their attention by knocking a chair on the floor. 
 They start guiltily apart]. My dears, I am about to draw- 
 up the marriage settlement, and, perhaps, I ll make my will 
 at the same time and leave you everything. [They both bow.] 
 
7 8 BEAU BRUMMELL 
 
 I will now allow you to settle the preliminaries by yourselves. 
 [They immediately retire again to the window, and are once 
 more absorbed in each other. BEAU stands watching them for 
 a few minutes, then turns away, puts hand over his eyes and 
 totters off.] 
 
 MARIANA [coming down left of table]. But I don t under 
 stand, do you? 
 
 REGINALD [coming down to her side]. I don t desire to. 
 I take the fact as it is. [Kisses her.] 
 
 MARIANA. I think you take much else besides, sir. Aren t 
 you a trifle precipitate? 
 
 REGINALD. No, this is the first preliminary. [Puts arm 
 around her waist.] I think I shall linger over the prelim 
 inaries. 
 
 MARIANA. But has my father relented? 
 
 REGINALD. Surely! Or why did you come here? 
 
 MARIANA. We heard Mr. Brummell was in great distress, 
 and we came to help him, but we found the rumors were false; 
 his friendship with the King has been renewed. 
 
 REGINALD. Thank Heaven! Then his troubles are at an 
 end. 
 
 MARIANA. My father still clung to the idea of our mar 
 riage. 
 
 REGINALD. And you? 
 
 MARIANA. That question is superfluous, sir. Have I not 
 allowed the first preliminaries to be settled? [BEAU and 
 VINCENT enter VINCENT a little ahead of BEAU. Also 
 MORTIMER comes on dejectedly from hall door.] 
 
 BEAU. Reginald, give me your hand. [REGINALD crosses 
 to him.] 
 
 VINCENT [who has crossed over to left of table]. Mariana, 
 come to your father. Are you still bent on marrying him ? 
 
 MARIANA. You mean, papa, that he is still bent on marry 
 ing me, and that I I am not unwilling. 
 
 VINCENT. She is yours, sir. 
 
 REGINALD [coming back to MARIANA]. Mine! 
 
 MORTIMER [goes up to BEAU at right of table, and hands 
 him snuff-box]. It was returned without a word, sir. 
 
 BEAU [in a loud tone]. Beg Her Grace to excuse me this 
 afternoon. 
 
 MORTIMER. Yes, sir. 
 
BEAU BRUMMELL 79 
 
 REGINALD. You will dine with us, Uncle Beau, on board 
 the vessel? 
 
 BEAU. Thank you, but I fear you will have to excuse me, 
 and now pardon me if I ask you to retire. I happen to have 
 a very pressing engagement. 
 
 MARIANA. When will you be in London, sir? You will 
 be there for our wedding? 
 
 BEAU. I hope so and you must accept some little present, 
 some little trifle, some little token of my affection and regard 
 some some remembrance. Now what shall it be? Eh? 
 What shall we say? [They all look around the room, which 
 is, of course, bare of all ornament.] What do you really 
 think you would like best hum ? [Absently fingers the snuff- 
 box which MORTIMER brought him. ] Ah, yes, this snuff-box 
 it has just been sent to me by His Majesty. [Hands 
 MARIANA snuff-box, which she takes with deep curtsy and 
 goes back to REGINALD, showing it to him.] 
 
 VINCENT [at door as he goes out]. I shall probably hear 
 from you, Mr. Brummell? 
 
 BEAU [absently]. Ah, yes, perhaps good-by. Reginald, 
 [REGINALD comes to him; BEAU places his hand on REG 
 INALD S shoulder] God bless you [REGINALD picks up 
 hat from table and crosses to door. MARIANA comes down, 
 gives hand to BEAU, curtsies; BEAU raises hand to his lips. 
 MARIANA draws it away, backs toward door, makes another 
 curtsy, turns to REGINALD, and they go off gaily, apparently 
 talking to each other. BEAU puts hand over eyes, staggers 
 back, and leans against table for support.] 
 
 [THE CURTAIN FALLS.] 
 
THE FOURTH ACT 
 
 SCENE Two 
 
 f An attic room. Sloping roof. Walls discolored with the 
 damp. Paper peeling off. Window at the back. A bare 
 deal-table over near the left, with one chair at its side. 
 Another chair stands down near the front, at the right- 
 hand side. Another chair stands at the back, near win 
 dow. There is a door at the right and one also at the left. 
 
 BEAU enters at the right-hand door. You can hear him for 
 some time before he enters, stumbling up the stairs as 
 though feeble. He stands for a moment at the door f 
 bowing very low. He is very shabbily dressed his hat 
 battered his boots gray. 
 
 BEAU. I thought I saw the Prince there, [pointing to 
 chair] there! The boys mocked me in the streets they threw 
 stones at me. No wonder; there has been no varnish on my 
 boots for days. They refused to give me a cup of coffee or 
 a macaroon. They would rather see me starve and starve 
 so in rags. [Sits in chair] 
 
 MORTIMER [enters from door at left]. Shall I announce 
 dinner, sir? 
 
 BEAU [starting]. No, Mortimer, I have only just come in, 
 and you forget this is Thursday, when I always entertain. 
 [Sinks into a reverie] 
 
 MORTIMER. Poor Mr. Brummell! He s getting worse 
 and worse. Lack of food is turning his head instead of his 
 stomach. But I don t dare oppose him when he s this way. 
 
 BEAU. Mortimer! 
 
 MORTIMER. Yes, sir. 
 
 BEAU. I could get nothing for us to eat, Mortimer, noth 
 ing and they refused to wash my cravats! 
 
 MORTIMER. Oh, Mr. Brummell, sir, what shall we do? 
 We will starve, sir. 
 
 BEAU [severely]. Mortimer, you forget yourself! Who 
 has called during my absence? 
 
 80 
 
BEAU BRUMMELL 81 
 
 MORTIMER [goes up to the window-ledge, and brings down 
 an old broken plate with a few dirty cards]. These cards 
 won t last much longer. I have been bringing him the same 
 ones on Thursday for the last year. [BEAU has fallen asleep.] 
 Mr. Brummell, sir! Mr. Brummell, sir! [He puts plate 
 directly in front of BEAU.] 
 
 BEAU [starts and looks at plate]. The the card tray. 
 
 MORTIMER. We ve lent it, sir! [He pushes cards for 
 ward with his thumb and finger, as BEAU takes them one by 
 one and lays them back on plate.] 
 
 BEAU. Duchess of Leamington thank goodness, I was out. 
 Lord Manly do we owe him anything? 
 
 MORTIMER. No, sir. 
 
 BEAU. Why not? Mrs. St. Aubyn and I missed her 
 no matter! They will all dine here this evening. 
 
 MORTIMER [taking plate back to ledge ]. Dine that s the 
 way we eat the names of things but it is very weakening 
 very weakening. 
 
 BEAU. Mortimer! 
 
 MORTIMER. Yes, sir. 
 
 BEAU. Light the candelabra. [Begins to sing very low in 
 a quavering voice:] " She Wore a Wreath of Roses." 
 
 MORTIMER. Yes, sir. [He goes to window-ledge, and 
 brings down to table two pewter candlesticks with a little 
 piece of a candle in each one. He lights both and then with a 
 quick look at BEAU blows out one.] He ll never know, and 
 if it burns, there will be none to light the next time. 
 
 BEAU. Mortimer! 
 
 MORTIMER. Yes, sir. 
 
 BEAU. Is my hat on? 
 
 MORTIMER [choking back a sob]. Yes, sir. 
 
 BEAU [lifts hat with elegant gesture; his hand drops and 
 hat falls to the floor; he rises], Mortimer, I hear carriage 
 wheels carriage wheels! Observe me, Mortimer, am I quite 
 correct? Are there creases in my cravat? I would not wish 
 to make creases the fashion. 
 
 MORTIMER. Mr. Brummell, sir, you are quite correct. 
 
 BEAU. To your post. Bid the musicians play. [Bows 
 as though welcoming guest.] Ah, Duchess, you are always 
 welcome! And in pink! You come like the rosy morning 
 sunshine into the darkness of my poor lodgings. Lord Manly! 
 
82 BEAU BRUMMELL 
 
 And sober truth is stranger than fiction. The Duchess s 
 smiles should have intoxicated you. Mrs. St. Aubyn Your 
 Majesty! [Bows very low.] Pray, sir, honor my poor arm. 
 Permit me to conduct Your Majesty to a chair, whilst I re 
 ceive my less distinguished guests. [Walks to chair with 
 imaginary guest on his arm] My dear Lady Farthingale, how 
 do you do? As beautiful and as charming as ever. [Backs 
 up a little and knocks a chair over] I beg ten thousand 
 pardons! My dear Lady Cecilie, how you have grown and 
 how beautiful. {With vacant stare.] Shall we dine? Dine! 
 Shall we dine? Permit me to escort Your Majesty to the 
 table where we dine! [Goes to chair and escorts the imaginary 
 king to the table] Yours is the honor and mine, Lady Cecilie, 
 my charming vis-a-vis. Mariana Mariana always nearest 
 my heart always. Mortimer Mortimer! 
 
 MORTIMER [who has been leaning against the wall with 
 head on arm]. Yes, sir. 
 
 BEAU. His Majesty waits! [Bows to right and left.] 
 Enchanted! Enchanted! [Waits until, apparently, they are 
 all seated, and then sits] I trust you will find these oysters 
 agreeable ; they arrived but this morning from Ostend. Bird s- 
 nest soup. It is very hot. I am very particular to have 
 the soup hot on these cold evenings. This is very good 
 melon. 
 
 MORTIMER [who has been pretending to pass things], 
 Melon, sir. 
 
 BEAU. Duchess, I trust you are fond of ortolans stuffed 
 with truffles. Brown and glazed. My chef my chef 
 [Voice dies away] 
 
 MORTIMER. His chef! If only we had something to cook, 
 I should not mind the chef. [Sinks in chair] 
 
 BEAU. Mariana, let me fill your glass, and drink with me. 
 My dear. My own always. My only dear one! [His head 
 sinks on chest, and he falls asleep] 
 
 KATHLEEN [after a pause, putting her head in at the door 
 and saying very softly:] And may I come in? 
 
 MORTIMER [rising in bewilderment]. Kathleen! And has 
 it gone to my head, too? 
 
 KATHLEEN [half crying]. No, but to my heart! or to 
 yours for they ve gotten that mixed I don t know which is 
 which. [They embrace.} 
 
BEAU BRUMMELL 83 
 
 MORTIMER [in alarm, fearing BEAU may wake]. Hush! 
 
 KATHLEEN. Miss Mariana that was, Mrs. Reginald 
 Courtenay that is, is out in the hall, and him with her. 
 [MARIANA and REGINALD come in at door.] 
 
 MARIANA. Is he here? [Gives a low, horrified exclama 
 tion at BEAU S changed appearance.] 
 
 MORTIMER. Yes, madam, but I fear the sudden surprise 
 of seeing you will kill him. 
 
 REGINALD. But the King is in town with his suite. We 
 came with him, and they followed us here immediately. 
 
 MORTIMER. The King! 
 
 MARIANA. Yes, Mortimer; your master s and your troubles 
 are over. [MARIANA and REGINALD cross to other side of 
 table, away from door] 
 
 KATHLEEN [aside to MORTIMER, as she goes up to window]. 
 I am not so sure but yours are just beginning. 
 
 KING [appearing at door}. Zounds is this 
 
 MORTIMER [bowing very low]. Your Majesty, I beg your 
 pardon, but sh sh 
 
 MRS. ST. AUBYN [at door]. Dear me, you don t 
 
 KING [turning to her]. Sh sh 
 
 DUCHESS. But how 
 
 KING [goes through same pantomime, turning, putting fin 
 ger on lip and saying:] Sh! 
 
 LADY FARTHINGALE. Where is Mr. Brummell? 
 
 KING [as before]. Sh! Sh! 
 
 LORD MANLY. Well 
 
 KING [as before]. Sh! Sh! 
 
 MORTIMER. If Your Majesty will pardon me, I think I 
 could suggest something. Mr. Brummell has just been imag 
 ining you were all dining with him. I think if you were to 
 take your places at the table, when he saw you the truth would 
 gradually come to him. [They all sit KING at left, MRS. 
 ST. AUBYN next, then the DUCHESS. MARIANA and REG 
 INALD are at the right] 
 
 MORTIMER. Mr. Brummell! [Louder, as BEAU does not 
 move] Mr. Brummell, sir! 
 
 BEAU. Duchess, let me send you this saddle of venison ; it s 
 delicious. [Wakes, looks around, and sees MARIANA.] 
 Mariana! Mariana! Reginald! [They come to his side] 
 Pardon me for not rising; I think I must have forgotten my 
 
84 BEAU BRUMMELL 
 
 manners. You won t leave me, Mariana? You won t leave 
 me, will you, will you? 
 
 MARIANA. No, Mr. Brummell. 
 
 BEAU [sees MRS. ST. AUBYN.] Mrs. St. Aubyn, you 
 you forgive? 
 
 MRS. ST. AUBYN [very gently]. And forget, Mr. Brum 
 mell. 
 
 BEAU [sees the KING]. Your Majesty! Mortimer! 
 
 MORTIMER. Yes, sir. 
 
 BEAU. Is this real is it is it? 
 
 KING. Yes, Beau, you ve hidden from all of us long enough 
 but now we ve found you we don t mean to lose you. We 
 sup with you to-night; to-morrow you dine in London with us. 
 
 BEAU. Dine! [Drawing in his breath, appreciatively.] 
 Dine [Then remembering.] At what hour? 
 
 MORTIMER [bowing and whispering to the KING], At 
 eight, Your Majesty, at eight! 
 
 KING [with a nod of understanding]. At eight o clock. 
 
 BEAU. Mortimer, have I any other engagement? 
 
 MORTIMER [with fear and trembling]. No oh, no, sirl 
 
 BEAU. I shall have much pleasure. Mortimer! 
 
 MORTIMER. Yes, sir. 
 
 BEAU. Mortimer! 
 
 MORTIMER. Yes, sir. 
 
 BEAU. Should anybody call, say I have a very pressing 
 engagement with with His Majesty. [His head falls, and 
 he sinks into chair, supported by MARIANA and REGINALD. 
 All rise] 
 
 [THE CURTAIN FALLS.] 
 
THE COPPERHEAD* 
 
 A DRAMA BY 
 AUGUSTUS THOMAS 
 
 From a Story by Frederic Landis in Two Epochs of 
 Two Acts Each 
 
 * Copyright, 1918, by Augustus Thomas. The acting rights, pro 
 fessional and amateur, and the motion picture rights are reserved by 
 the author. Permission to produce this play must be obtained from 
 the author, who should be addressed in care of The American Play 
 Company, 33 West 42 Street, New York. 
 
The Copperhead, by Augustus Thomas, is a freel" rendered 
 dramatic version of Frederic Landis s tale, The Glory of 
 iHis Country. Mr. Thomas s first experiment with the story 
 was a one-act play put on at the Lambs Club in New York. 
 There it was acclaimed by the professional audience privileged 
 to see it. The success of the play in its short form gave Mr. 
 Thomas the idea of using the same material, with certain 
 additions, for a four-act play in the nature of a chronicle his 
 tory. " The difficulty, from a dramatic point of view," as 
 Mr. Thomas has told the present editor, " lay in putting into 
 action the incidents described, in that they covered two periods 
 with an interval of some forty years. This lack of unity, how 
 ever, became an attraction in the play as it enforced the dra 
 matic presentation of these two periods, so widely different in 
 habit of thought, point of view, speech, and custom. The first 
 two acts deal with the early period of the Civil War, Lincoln s 
 call for volunteers, and the exciting events that followed the 
 beginning of the conflict. The second period is very near our 
 own time and deals entirely with the consequences of those 
 events upon the circumstances of the third generation. In Mr. 
 Landis s story, the old man Shanks dies as he imparts his life 
 long secret to his friends and enemies. In the play, for reasons 
 which will be evident, the author has him live and makes the 
 satisfactory conclusion of the drama depend upon this." At 
 a time when the fortunes of America in the Great War still 
 hung in the balance, the appeal of this play, the theme of which 
 is silent and self-sacrificing patriotism, was instant and ef 
 fective. 
 
 Mr. Lionel Barrymore created the part of Milton Shanks 
 when the play opened in Hartford, Connecticut. It came to 
 New York, to the Shubert Theatre, on February 18, 1918, 
 and played until the arrival of the warm weather. It 
 then made a tour of the country, which was only interrupted 
 by Mr. Barrymore s engagement to come to New York to 
 play with his brother John in The Jest. In the opinion of 
 Mr. Thomas, there is no other American actor so well able 
 
 87 
 
88 THE COPPERHEAD 
 
 to suggest both the youth of the early period and the character 
 of the old man in his eighties as Mr. Lionel Barrymore. 
 
 The Copperhead reflects several circumstances of the 
 playwright s own life. In Mr. Thomas s autobiography, which 
 he calls The Print of My Remembrance, he recounts his very- 
 earliest recollections: "Another happening of that Homeric 
 day is a fair where my mother holds me high in the crowd 
 that I may see a child impersonating the old woman who lived 
 in a shoe, and had so many children she didn t know what to 
 do. That little girl with the cap and spectacles is Nellie 
 Grant, selling her dolls to buy clothes for soldiers." In The 
 Copperhead, Sue Perley and Mrs. Bates describe the booths 
 that are to be set up at the church fair: 
 
 " SUE. If we can get dolls enough by to-morrow we are going 
 to have the old woman that lived in a shoe. 
 
 GRANDMA. Have what? 
 
 MRS. BATES. The S Louis papers say at their fair Nellie Grant, the 
 Gineral s little dotter, was the old woman a shoe as big as Elsie s 
 bed for her house and dozens of dolls all over it." 
 
 In Act I, Ma says, " I stud here by this well with my 
 arms round yer neck, Milt, when Joey was only three holdin 
 yer back that time from Mexico." Mr. Thomas s own father 
 had gone to the Mexican War and had participated in the 
 Doniphan Expedition. 
 
 In Mr. Thomas s study in New York at the present time, 
 hangs the copy of the Lincoln life mask which plays so im 
 portant a part in the last act of The Copperhead. Mr. 
 Thomas received this mask from the son of the sculptor who 
 made it. In this same last act, Shanks is made to say : " Colo 
 nel Hardy and me was boys together. Our Congressman give 
 me an appointment to go to West Point, but Tom Hardy 
 ought o had it. Besides, twasn t convenient for me to go to 
 West Point jest then, so I resigned it fur him." It is a fact 
 that Mr. Thomas as a boy was tutored by the local Methodist 
 minister and won an appointment to West Point which he had 
 to decline for domestic reasons. 
 
 Mr. Thomas s interest in Lincoln dates back, of course, to 
 the days of the Civil War. In The Print of My Remem 
 brance? he writes : 
 
 1 Augustus Thomas s The Print of My Remembrance is now run- 
 
THE COPPERHEAD 89 
 
 " Before the war my father was associated with Mr. W. N. Wells, 
 among others, in the formation of the Republican Party in the St. 
 Louis district. They were in occasional correspondence with Mr. 
 Lincoln at Springfield, not yet the great emancipator, but just a 
 clever debater who was attracting attention in the West. One of 
 those original letters, addressed to Mr. Wells, not to my father, is 
 between two panes of glass in a frame and a folder in my library. 
 It does not add much to the volume of Lincoln s product, but as it 
 has been in print only in connection with my play, The Copperhead, 
 this extract may have for many a genuine interest: 
 
 All dallying with Douglas by Republicans, who are such at hearty 
 is at the very least, time and labor lost; and all such, who so dally 
 with him, will yet bite their lips in vexation for their own folly. 
 His policy which rigourously excludes all idea of there being any 
 wrong in slavery, does lead inevitably to the denationalization of 
 the Constitution; and all who deprecate that consummation and yet 
 are seduced into his support, do but cut their own throats. True, 
 Douglas has opposed the administration on one measure, and yet 
 may on some other; but while he upholds the Dred Scott decision, 
 declares that he cares not whether slavery be voted down or voted 
 up; that it is simply a question of dollars and cents, and that the 
 Almighty has drawn a line on one side of which labor must be per 
 formed by slaves, to support him or Buchanan is simply to reach 
 the same goal by only slightly different roads. 
 
 Very respectfully, 
 
 A. LINCOLN. " 
 
 The character of Grandma in The Copperhead suggests to 
 a reader of the autobiography Mr. Thomas s own grandmother. 
 Mr. Thomas sketches her thus: "Grandmother s opinion was 
 the most decisive in our family. I had no way of knowing 
 it wasn t so in the nation. Her impatience with McClellan 
 and Grant and even Lincoln seemed to have an effect. At 
 any rate, things happened when she got mad enough. She 
 permanently affected my early admirations." 
 
 There must, indeed, be many reflections of Mr. Thomas s 
 early years in this historical play. His earliest year was 1857; 
 his birthday, January 8; the place of his birth, a little house 
 in the outskirts of St. Louis, Missouri. He was the son of 
 Elihu Baldwin Thomas and Imogene Garrettson Thomas. 
 The little boy, Augustus, went to the public schools for six 
 years, between the ages of six and twelve. He writes of this 
 
 ning in The Saturday Evening Post. It is to be published in book 
 form in the fall of 1922. It is one of the most interesting and im 
 portant texts for the study of American drama. 
 
90 THE COPPERHEAD 
 
 period himself : " I had an almost uninterrupted attendance at 
 regular sessions of the St. Louis grammar schools. . . . When 
 I finished I had a card publicly given me for my recitation of 
 Marco Bozzaris. The scene is indelible. ... I can see my 
 teacher now, the bunch of lilacs on her desk and just behind 
 her the Tropic of Capricorn. It had been there all winter, but 
 never so plain as on that fragrant morning in the spring of 
 1868, with the girls in white and ribbons, and through the 
 open windows trees and grass and cowbells, and beyond the 
 sky line of a great round world turning upon its own axis once 
 in every twenty-four hours, except in February, which has 
 twenty-nine. The safety of our republic rests upon our public 
 schools." 
 
 Part of the lad s education was carried on in legislative 
 bodies. After leaving school, he was first a page in the Missouri 
 Legislature, and, after that, page in the Reconstruction Con 
 gress of 1870, the Forty-First. During his winter in Wash 
 ington, he did his first dramatic writing, condensing from mem 
 ory the Rip Van Winkle that he had seen Joseph Jefferson act. 
 His play was performed in a stable converted to the uses of a 
 little playhouse. On this amateur stage the boy also acted in 
 his own versions of The Lady of the Lake. 
 
 On his return to St. Louis, Augustus Thomas went to high 
 school, and with another boy began the publication of a maga 
 zine called Scratches and Sketches, which for various rea 
 sons lasted for just five weeks. He also joined a dramatic 
 club, for which he wrote his first full-length play called 
 Alone. At about this same period he wrote another play 
 for amateurs called A Big Rise. Speaking of these and 
 other outlets for his energy in the days of his youth, Mr. 
 Thomas writes in The Print of My Remembrance: " My 
 youngish readers . . . may infer . . . that the big value is the 
 self-expression obtained ; that the debating society, the dramatic 
 club, the singing school, the art class, the pursuits that invite 
 brain to the finger tips, and to become articulate, are the 
 interests that make life eloquent. They may even come to 
 have opinions and to believe that the amount of self-expression 
 encouraged and protected in any country is the measure of 
 liberty in that country." 
 
 In remembering his boyhood, Mr. Thomas records how 
 permanently reading and learning poetry by heart influenced 
 
THE COPPERHEAD 91 
 
 his development. His father said to him, " What you fill 
 your head with in that fashion now will stay with you for a 
 long while. It is a good plan to select the best." Mr. Thomas 
 recalls with gratitude the well-chosen selections of the old 
 McGuffey School Readers that, as the oldsters will testify, 
 contained a wide range of selections from the best in literature. 
 
 As he grew to manhood, Mr. Thomas s interest in amateur 
 theatricals became more and more active. They proved the 
 point of departure. Presently he was earning his living, first 
 as the assistant treasurer in a theatre in St. Louis, then with a 
 company on the road. To that theatre in St. Louis where he 
 was employed came some of the greatest actors of the day, who 
 helped on his education in things connected with the stage. 
 
 Mr. Thomas s experiences outside of the theatre have in 
 cluded six years in the freight department of a railroad, two 
 years at the study of law, and work as a writer and illus 
 trator for the St. Louis Post Dispatch, the St. Louis Republic, 
 the Kansas City Times, the Kansas City Mirror, the North 
 western Miller, and the New York World. 
 
 Edithas Burglar, dramatized in 1887, from a copy of St. 
 Nicholas in which Mrs. Burnett s story had appeared, was the 
 first of Mr. Thomas s plays to be produced professionally and 
 to be shown in New York. Mr. Thomas s first permanent 
 work in New York was at the Madison Square Theatre with 
 A. M. Palmer, the well-known manager, who engaged him to 
 take the place of Mr. Dion Boucicault as play-doctor. Bouci- 
 cault, an Irishman, had for many years written or adapted 
 plays for the American stage. 
 
 For many years Mr. Thomas has been a prominent figure 
 in Democratic politics. He it was who in 1908 seconded the 
 nomination of William Jennings Bryan under circumstances 
 which have been thus described: 
 
 " Guessing the probable source of the great American play is a 
 game which each may play to his taste genius comes when it comes 
 and blows where it listeth. In the small hours of that night at 
 Denver in 1908, when the Democrats nominated Bryan for the third 
 time, somewhere in that delirium of band music, howling, and ora 
 tory which dragged on until the dawn came up out of the prairies, 
 Mr. Augustus Thomas arose as a delegate from New York to 
 address the convention. I well remember ... the cheery sound, after 
 the strange aeolian noises that had preceded them of those terse 
 authoritative words. The author of Arizona fulfilled at that mo- 
 
THE COPPERHEAD 
 
 ment, better perhaps than any of our other play-writers could have 
 done, the American notion that the artist should also be a good 
 citizen. And the great American play, one suspects, is likely to 
 come from some such type of man not from the Ivory Tower nor 
 Broadway, but closer to the firing line." 1 
 
 At the present time Mr. Thomas is perhaps the most sought- 
 after toastmaster in America. His talents are not confined to 
 forensic oratory. 
 
 An interesting appraisal of his work as a playwright is this 
 statement of William Winter s, written some time ago: 
 
 "The genius that is manifest in the plays [the best plays of 
 Augustus Thomas] is that which intuitively comprehends human 
 nature, its strength and its weakness, its temptations and its trials; 
 which sees the whole vast current of humanity, the diversified char 
 acters, pathetic or antipathetic; the blessings and the cruelties of 
 condition; which discriminates between good and evil, being aware 
 that those elements are strangely commingled in every human crea 
 ture; and which can seize and reproduce the points and moments 
 when circumstances long fluent in a hidden drift and feelings long 
 intensifying themselves in concealment break suddenly into view and 
 become motives and vehicles of action that being the one abso 
 lutely and imperatively essential constituent of drama." 2 
 
 The following is a complete list of Mr. Thomas s plays : 
 
 Alone 
 
 The Big Rise 
 
 Combustion 
 
 The Burglar (1889) 
 
 Editha s Burglar (1887) 
 
 A Night s Frolic (1890) 
 
 Reckless Temple (1890) 
 
 A Woman of the World (1890) 
 
 A New Year s Call (1891) 
 
 Surrender (1893) 
 
 Alabama (1891) 
 
 For Money (1892) 
 
 A Man of the World (1889) 
 
 After Thoughts (1890) 
 
 Colonel Carter of Cartersville 
 
 (1892) 
 
 The Capitol (1894) 
 In Mizzoura (1893) 
 
 New Blood (1894) 
 
 A Proper Impropriety (1893) 
 
 The Music Box (1894) 
 
 The Hoosier Doctor 
 
 The Man Upstairs 
 
 The Meddler 
 
 Matinee Idol 
 
 Chimmie Fadden 
 
 Soldiers of Fortune (1900) 
 
 On the Quiet 
 
 The Jucklins 
 
 Arizona (1898) 
 
 Oliver Goldsmith 
 
 Colorado 
 
 That Overcoat 
 
 The Earl of Pawtucket (1903) 
 
 The Other Girl (1902) 
 
 Mrs. Leffingwell s Boots (1903) 
 
 1 Arthur Ruhl, Second Nights, New York, 1914, p. 321. 
 
 2 William Winter, The Wallet of Time, New York, 1913, Vol. II, 
 p. 529. 
 
THE COPPERHEAD 93 
 
 De Lancey At Bay 
 
 The Education of Mr. Pipp (1903) Indian Summer 
 
 The Embassy Ball The Battle Cry (1914) 
 
 The Ranger The Nightingale 
 
 The Witching Hour (1907) Rio Grande (1914) 
 
 The Harvest Moon (1913) The Copperhead (1917) 
 
 The Member from Ozark Nemesis (1921) 
 
 Champagne Charley (1901) Palmy Days (1920) 
 
 As a Man Thinks (1911) The Tent of Pompey 
 
 The Model Colonel George of ML Vernon 
 
 Mere Man The Vanishing Lady (1922) 
 
 No playwright since Bronson Howard has analyzed his own 
 practices as a dramatist so carefully as has Augustus Thomas. 
 Six of his plays have been printed with prefaces explaining in 
 every case how the particular play came to be written and 
 what circumstances developed the course of character and 
 action. These prefaces show how a play like In Mizzoura 
 was written to provide Nat Goodwin with an opportunity to 
 star; how the action of Oliver Goldsmith is a tissue of 
 eighteenth century relations and circumstances, the fabrication 
 of which was suggested by Stuart Robson s resemblance to 
 Noll ; how The Earl of Pawtucket grew out of an attempt to 
 fit the amusing mannerisms of Lawrance D Orsay into a 
 comedy; how The Other Girl was intended in the first place 
 especially to exercise the talents of John Drew and Lionel 
 Barrymore; how Mrs. LeffingwelFs Boots, a very light comedy 
 of manners, owed its origin to a dinner party balked by a bliz 
 zard and to a table fountain that once sprayed itself inoppor 
 tunely in the direction of Francis Wilson, a guest at Mr. 
 Thomas s board; and, finally, how The Witching Hour was 
 " built to carry a theory." These six prefaces are illuminating 
 documents for the student of American drama. 
 
 Mr. Thomas considers the creative processes connected with 
 plays like The Copperhead or Oliver Goldsmith less interesting, 
 if we interpret him rightly, than the creative processes involved 
 in writing other kinds of plays. In discussing his work on 
 Oliver Goldsmith, Mr. Thomas expresses himself thus: " It is 
 largely a * scissors and paste-pot * undertaking, and is the least 
 difficult and least commendable of a playwright s perform 
 ances, excepting, perhaps, the dramatizing of a novel, which it 
 strongly resembles. The finished product, dependent as it is 
 upon research, can never have the value of a play written by 
 
94 THE COPPERHEAD 
 
 equal experience and based on observation, but dramatic litera 
 ture would nevertheless be the loser if we eliminated such 
 plays as Richelieu, David Garrick, Edmund Kean, Amy 
 Robsart, Beau Brummell, Nathan Hale, Tom Moore, Disraeli 
 and the like, all made after much the same fashion." 
 
 An interviewer once put the following questions and re 
 ceived the following answers from Mr. Thomas: 
 
 "What would you say are the elements that go to make up a dis 
 tinctively American play?" 
 
 "An American play might be thoroughly American and at the 
 same time universal. I believe that a pl~y could be written with 
 such a sure seizure of primal and eternal relationship as to make it 
 go in Japan as well as in America. The things that so distinguish 
 American plays as a class from the plays of other countries are the 
 absence of the morbid consideration of the sex question and the 
 absence of recognition and admission of stratified social ranks. ..." 
 
 " What should you say is the one quality that makes a play 
 popular in this country?" 
 
 " There is no particular quality that has the field to itself. Any 
 play will succeed in America which hopefully entertains; ^ and, if I 
 were to be called upon to name the most valuable quality in a play, 
 I should say its expression of an ideal sufficiently above the level of 
 its audience to attract them and not so far above that level as to 
 be considered apocryphal or discouraging." l 
 
 In the autumn of 1915, following Charles Frohman s loss on 
 the Lusitanta, Mr. Thomas was made Art Director of this 
 manager s reorganized companies. He carried the burden of 
 this work for two years. Mr. Thomas was at one time presi 
 dent of the Society of American Dramatists. He is a member 
 of the American Academy of Arts and Letters. 
 
 5-Van Wyck Brooks, Augustus Thomas, The World s Work, New 
 York, 1909, Vol. 18, page 11885. 
 
THE COPPERHEAD 
 
 CAST OF CHARACTERS 
 
 (In the order of their appearance) 
 
 FIRST EPOCH 
 
 JOEY SHANKS Raymond Hackett 
 
 GRANDMA PERLEY < . . . Eugenie Woodward 
 
 MA SHANKS Doris Rankin 
 
 CAPTAIN HARDY Albert Phillips 
 
 MILT SHANKS Lionel Barrymore 
 
 MRS. BATES Evelyn Archer 
 
 SUE PERLEY Gladys Burgette 
 
 LEM TOLLARD Ethelbert Hales 
 
 NEWT GILLESPIE William C. Norton 
 
 ANDREWS Harry Hadfield 
 
 SAM CARTER Chester Morris 
 
 ADDITIONAL CHARACTERS IN SECOND EPOCH 
 
 MADELINE KING .Doris Rankin 
 
 PHILIP MANNING Thomas Corrigan 
 
 MRS. MANNING Grace Reals 
 
 DR. RANDALL Hayden Stevenson 
 
SYNOPSIS 
 
 FIRST EPOCH 1861-63. 
 
 ACT I. The door yard of Milton Shanks. 
 ACT II. The Same. Two years later. 
 
 SECOND EPOCH Forty years later. 
 
 ACT III. The dooryard of Milton Shanks. 
 ACT IV. The living room. 
 
 Scene laid in southern Illinois. 
 
CHARACTERS IN PART ONE 
 
 JOEY SHANKS Aged 16 
 
 GRANDMA PERLEY , < 76 
 
 MA (MRS. SHANKS) . ." , 
 
 CAPTAIN HARDY 
 
 MILT SHANKS 
 
 MRS. BATES * . [ 
 
 SUE PERLEY " \A 
 
 LEM TOLLARD ^o 
 
 NEWT GILLESPIE " 30 
 
 ANDREWS, a minister ,. . g o 
 
 SAM CARTER . . . . .*. , " 24. 
 
PART I 
 ACT I 
 
 SCENE 
 
 The dooryard on the Illinois farm of MILTON SHANKS. 
 
 At the stage, right, is a porch raised six inches from ground 
 attached to the lean-to kitchen of SHANKS house , the roof 
 of which disappears to the right. Under the porch down 
 si-age is a window with a door in second entrance. Behind 
 the porch a rail or other rough fence straggles across 
 stage. The back drop shows a half hilly country with the 
 wet stubbly earth of early spring. Painted on the center 
 of this drop is a sycamore tree sufficiently distinctive to 
 help identify the same drop under July color and vegeta 
 tion in Act Two. 
 
 On the stage at the corner of the house up right is a small 
 lilac bush which shows three years advance in Act Two, 
 and is a good lilac tree of forty odd years of age in the 
 last two acts. To the left of stage in second plane is 
 rough log curb to well fitted with bucket on a long sweep 
 with a fulcrum at the side of well and tail of sweep 
 running off to the left. Above this well is a young apple 
 tree, bare, to be in foliage and fruit in Act Two, and to 
 be a stalwart, old, gnarly apple tree in the last two acts. 
 The wings at the left are bushes. The whole dooryard 
 is filled with a litter of neglected farm material, such as 
 grindstones, plow, bits of harness, a broken wheel t the 
 running gear of a wagon, and the like. 
 
 DISCOVERED 
 
 JOEY, a boy of sixteen. He is dressed like the son of a poor 
 farmer of 1861. Joey is molding minnie balls viw a chfir- 
 
 98 
 
THE COPPERHEAD 99 
 
 coal fire, using one mold as a second one cools, and drop 
 ping the finished product into a bucket. He is impatient 
 and fretful. 
 
 After a mold or two, GRANDMA PERLEY enters from the road. 
 GRANDMA is seventy-six a farmer s woman of the time. 
 She smokes a crock pipe with a reed stem. 
 
 GRANDMA. Is that you, Joey? 
 
 JOEY. Yes m. 
 
 GRANDMA. Where s your ma? 
 
 JOEY. Sewing inside. 
 
 GRANDMA. You seem cross about sumpin . 
 
 JOEY. I want to be drillin and they detailed me doin this. 
 
 GRANDMA. Drillin ! 
 
 JOEY. Yes. 
 
 GRANDMA. "Detailed" ye. Have you volunteered? 
 
 JOEY. You bet I ve volunteered. 
 
 GRANDMA [in approval]. Well, then, you go drill I ll 
 do that for you. 
 
 JOEY. Maybe you wouldn t know how, Mrs. Perley. 
 
 GRANDMA. Yes, I would. 
 
 JOEY [explaining ]. This is hot lead. A drop of it ll burn 
 right thro yer shoe before you kin kick it off. 
 
 GRANDMA. 1 know. 
 
 JOEY. You pour it in these holes with this iron spoon. 
 
 GRANDMA. Lord, boy, don t teach yer gran mother how to 
 suck aigs! I molded bullets fer Andrew Jackson. WTiere s 
 yer knife to trim em? 
 
 JOEY. This is it. 
 
 GRANDMA. All right. Run along and drill. 
 
 JOEY [with sample]. But these ain t exactly bullets. 
 They re minnie balls. That ring around em is to fasten the 
 paper cottridge onto. Here s one with the cottridge on it 
 
 GRANDMA. I know all about it. And the ring holds mut 
 ton taller that turns into verdy grease an* you can t volun 
 teer unless ye got front teeth ter tear the cottridge paper to 
 let the powder out when you ram the cottridge home. 
 
 JOEY. That s right, grandma. 
 
 GRANDMA. In 1812 every man had a powder-horn. This 
 idear of the powder fastened right on the bullet is twice as 
 quick. 
 
loo THE COPPERHEAD 
 
 JOEY. And the sharp nose on the bullet makes ent go 
 further. 
 
 GRANDMA. Let a Yankee alone for inventions. Go on and 
 drill, my boy. 
 
 JOEY. Thank you, grandma. [Enter MA. She is a beauti 
 ful, dark-haired drudge, aged thirty-four. She carries a coat.] 
 
 MA. Where you goin , Joey? 
 
 JOEY. Ter drill. 
 
 MA. I want you. 
 
 JOEY [going}. They ain t time, ma, now honest they ain t. 
 [Exit. He runs off behind the house.} 
 
 GRANDMA. Let him alone, Mrs. Shanks. I told him I d 
 spell him at these molds. It s wimmen s work, anyhow, at 
 war times. 
 
 MA. You re spoilin him. 
 
 GRANDMA. A boy at wants ter volunteer has a right ter 
 be spoiled some. 
 
 MA [hesitating}. I wanted to match these button-holes 
 but I spose I kin measure em from the bottom. 
 
 GRANDMA [rising}. Why, I ll try it on fur yer. 
 
 MA. Will that do it? 
 
 GRANDMA. Why not? Kain t tell from my shoulders 
 whether I m wearin breeches or not, kin you? An* anyhow, 
 I m smokin a pipe man fashion. [They try on the coat.} 
 
 MA. I hate ter see a coat pucker when it s buttoned. 
 
 GRANDMA. No need to have it pucker. 
 
 MA [kneeling}. I ll jest put a pin at each place. [Does 
 so.} Joey bed no right to unload that work onto you. 
 
 GRANDMA. I molded bullets before they ever invented a 
 shot-tower. I was only twenty-five years old at Fort Dear 
 born and we wimmen all molded em big and little. Jim 
 Madison had let the English set the red-skins onto us and 
 thet meant more to the wimmen I tell ye than it did to any 
 man. 
 
 MA [finishing}. Thank you, grandma. 
 
 GRANDMA [resuming work with the bullet-mold}. Any 
 war will always mean more to the wimmen. It s easy enough 
 to fight, and easy enough to die. Stayin behind with yer stum- 
 mick empty an yer hands tied an yer hearts a-breakin , is 
 the perfect torment. 
 
 MA. We kin hope and pray this won t be a real war. 
 
, THE COPPERHEAD ! : ;; ior 
 
 GRANDMA [shakes head]. No fool s paradise, Martha. 
 Men that own niggers ain t a gonta git skeered cause Mr. 
 Lincoln jumps at em and hollers " Boo." He s got a bigger 
 job than Jim Madison hed, and thet lasted two years. These 
 hellions are right on the ground in the very midst of us 
 some of em s livin right here in our own state, an to git em 
 out ll be like bugs in a rope bedstid. 
 
 MA [going toward house]. Two years! Joey ll be eighteen 
 before then. 
 
 GRANDMA. Yes if he lives. 
 
 MA {turning, alarmed]. If he lives! Why, Grandma 
 Perley! 
 
 GRANDMA. An I ll be sevinty-six if / live. 
 
 MA [on porch]. Come in and hev some tea, won t 
 you? 
 
 GRANDMA. No, thank you. I ve got my pipe and this hot 
 lead brings back old times a bit. [Enter HARDY, in captain s 
 uniform. A soldier follows, without uniform.] 
 
 HARDY. Good-afternoon. Is Milt at home? 
 
 MA. Good-afternoon, Captain. He s inside. [Calls.] 
 Milt here s Captain Hardy. 
 
 HARDY. Good-afternoon, Mrs. Perley. 
 
 GRANDMA. How de do, Captain. 
 
 HARDY [goes to the well curb]. Doing your share, I see. 
 
 GRANDMA. Tryin to, Captain an I ll keep the wimmen 
 o this neighborhood at sumpin as long as the trouble lasts. 
 [Enter SHANKS, with baby, which MA takes. SHANKS is a 
 farmer of thirty-six.] 
 
 SHANKS. Afternoon, Captain Tom. 
 
 HARDY. You ve got a wagon and two horses, Milt? 
 
 SHANKS. I hev yes. 
 
 HARDY. My company s got orders to move. The ammuni 
 tion and supplies will need four wagons to carry them. 
 
 SHANKS. Well, I kain t stop yer takin mine, if you mean 
 that. 
 
 HARDY. I don t want to take it. We ll hire it and we ll 
 pay you for your time, too. 
 
 SHANKS [shakes head]. I couldn t go myself. 
 
 MA. Why not, Milt? 
 
 SHANKS. I don t hold fur this coercin of the Southern 
 people I don t. 
 
10* -" ; ! -T:HE .COPPERHEAD 
 
 HARDY. You hold for the North defending itself when the 
 South begins shooting, don t you? 
 
 SHANKS. I don t really know as I do. They haven t come 
 into our territory any yit! 
 
 HARDY. They re threatening the arsenal at St. Louis. 
 
 SHANKS. Well, Missouri s a slave State, ain t it? 
 
 HARDY [impatient}. I can t do your thinking for you now. 
 I want your team. 
 
 SHANKS [hands up]. Well, youVe got the power. 
 
 HARDY. Can t you persuade him, Mrs. Shanks? 
 
 MA. I m afraid, Captain, that his head s turned with these 
 secession sympathizers. He s wearin one of their copper 
 buttons. 
 
 GRANDMA. The Tories tried that " sympathizin " business 
 in 1812. We burnt one o their newspaper offices and run 
 some o them theirselves over the line ter Canada. 
 
 HARDY [writing]. I ll take your team, Milt but I ll give 
 you a Government warrant that ll get you the money for it. 
 
 SHANKS. Make it in ma s name, Captain. In my eyes, 
 it d be blood money. 
 
 MA. Will you eat the provisions I buy with the blood 
 money ? 
 
 SHANKS. Not if you keep em separated from what I bring 
 in, I won t. 
 
 HARDY. There, Mrs. Shanks. Tisn t their value, per 
 haps, but that s the Government rate. 
 
 MA. Thank you. 
 
 HARDY [to SHANKS]. Show us your team. 
 
 MA. Oh, Captain, these buttons does it matter if I sew 
 clear through the facin s? I kain t pick up one piece, tailor- 
 fashion. 
 
 HARDY. Not a bit. Tie them on, if you want to. Cc. e, 
 Milt? [Exit with SHANKS and soldier. ] 
 
 GRANDMA. Hardy s more tender with Milt than Nathan 
 Heald would a been. 
 
 MA. Who? 
 
 GRANDMA. Captain Nathan Heald commanded at Dear 
 born. A militia man talked meal-mouthed like Milt done 
 jest now, and Nathan Heald took his sword hilt butt end and 
 knocked out all his teeth. [Enter MRS. BATES from road 
 back of house, carrying a blue coat she ^uorks on.] 
 
THE COPPERHEAD 103 
 
 MRS. BATES. Ain t that Captain Hardy? 
 
 MA. Yes. What s the matter? 
 
 MRS. BATES. I forget which side of a man s coat the but 
 ton-holes go on. 
 
 MA. Why, the left side. 
 
 MRS. BATES. Air you sure? 
 
 GRANDMA. Ain t you never made no clothes fur yer own 
 men folks? 
 
 MRS. BATES. Not soldier clothes, I ain t. 
 
 GRANDMA. Well, the left side fur button-holes right side 
 fur buttons. Men are all one-handed. Wimmen s clothes 
 button with the left hand so they can have their right arm 
 to carry a baby. 
 
 MRS. BATES. Jim said I was wrong. I ve sewed this but 
 ton-hole slip the tailor gave us, on the wrong side. 
 
 GRANDMA. Rip it off. 
 
 MRS. BATES. I ve cut thro the cloth that s over it. 
 
 GRANDMA. Never mind. They ll find some left-handed 
 man. [Enter SUE, a girl of fourteen. ] 
 
 SUE. Oh, Mrs. Shanks! 
 
 MA. What is it, Sue? 
 
 SUE. The men are going away. 
 
 GRANDMA. W"hy ain t you at the church pickin lint? 
 
 SUE. My bundle s all done. They re going right away. 
 
 MRS. BATES. They ll have to wait for this coat, I reckon. 
 
 GRANDMA [rising]. You sure? [To SUE.] 
 
 SUE. Yes, grandma. 
 
 GRANDMA. Then they better have what s done of these. 
 [Begins to trim the bullets and collect them.] 
 
 SUE. Oh, grandma! Bullets! [Reenter SHANKS.] 
 T GRANDMA. Yes, bullets. 
 
 SUE. That don t seem like woman s work. 
 
 GRANDMA. In a real war, everything s woman s work, 
 from bringin em into the world right up to closin their 
 eyes. 
 
 MA [shocked]. Oh, Mrs. Perley! [MRS. BATES also 
 shrinks and exclaims.] 
 
 GRANDMA. Oh, you wimmen with yer " faint an fall in 
 it " high falutin s are what s makin the fool peace talk amongst 
 the men. [Goes to gate with bucket.] " Close their eyes " 
 yes. A man plows and threshes and grinds hisself to death in 
 
104 THE COPPERHEAD 
 
 sixty years and ye call it the Lord s will. I don t. It s what 
 he dies fur that tells the tale. I lost a husband at Fort Dear 
 born, and a father at Detroit, and a brother on Lake Erie 
 different ages then, but equal now, cause they died fur Free 
 dom fur Liberty. [Exit.] 
 
 SUE. Gramma ought a been a man. [Exit.] 
 
 MA. Take this child; I gotta finish these buttons. 
 [SHANKS takes baby to house.] 
 
 MRS. BATES. What s Milt so downcast about? 
 
 MA. The army has took our team. [Points off left.] 
 
 MRS. BATES. Oh there comes Lem Tollard. 
 
 MA [going ]. Yes. Another rebel sympathizer. Will you 
 come inside? 
 
 MRS. BATES. No; I ll go home and fix this coat if I kin. 
 [Exit MA left in house. LEM TOLLARD enters left at back. 
 He is a tough Illinois farmer of 1861, with scowl and under- 
 ]aw, easily dressed and about thirty-eight years old. MRS. 
 BATES, going, looks at him. He touches his hat. MRS. 
 BATES exits. LEM looks cautiously over fence and comes into 
 yard; reconnoiters house and whistles signal toward porch. 
 Evidently gets attention inside and beckons. SHANKS comes 
 from house, sees LEM, looks back into house, meets LEM left 
 center.] 
 
 SHANKS. What d you find out? 
 
 LEM. These fellers air gonta march in a day or two, from 
 the looks o things! 
 
 SHANKS. Where to? 
 
 LEM. Missouri, I d say. That visitin member of our 
 Lodge that s here from Indiana understands telegraphin kin 
 read it by ear. 
 
 SHANKS. By ear? 
 
 LEM. You bet! He kin jest lean against a depot an tell 
 nearly every word the machine s a sayin*. He picked up 
 " Camp Jackson " and " St. Louis " and " Government 
 troops from Quincy " goin to the Arsenal there. in St. Louis. 
 Company from here is goin to Quincy. Now, what s our 
 
 move 
 
 SHANKS. Why do we have to do anything? 
 LEM. Why, Camp Jackson s our people. 
 SHANKS. Air they? 
 LEM. Yes, at St. Louis. 
 
THE COPPERHEAD 105 
 
 SHANKS. Why, then, we oughta git word to em, I sup 
 pose but, jeemunently how? 
 
 LEM. I ve been to St. Louis in my time, with hides and 
 taller. 
 
 SHANKS. Then you re the man to go, I d say. 
 
 LEM. I m ready to go, but it entitles me to railroad tickets 
 and my keep while I m away. 
 
 SHANKS. Naturally. 
 
 LEM. An no use callin a meetin if you gimme your word 
 fur it that the circle makes it up to me when I git back. 
 
 SHANKS. I give you my word fur it, Lem. 
 
 LEM. All right. [Starts off; stops; returns. ] An see 
 here, Milt, your boy Joe 
 
 SHANKS. What about him? 
 
 LEM. He s still drillin with Newt Gillespie s outfit like 
 I said he was. 
 
 SHANKS. Why not, if it amuses him? No guns, and 
 Joe s only sixteen and a little over. 
 
 LEM. Every man or boy we keep out of it, the better. 
 
 SHANKS. Besides, Joe s drillin and cheerin keeps suspicion 
 off o me. Lord, his mother s sewin uniforms for Hardy s 
 Company! What do we care? 
 
 LEM [not convinced]. You may be right. [Pause.] An 
 if any suspicion falls on me fur this St. Louis trip, you re 
 my witness that I went there on business o some kind fur 
 you. 
 
 SHANKS. You did. There s a mule auction there, I ve 
 heard. 
 
 LEM. There is Tenth and Biddle Street. 
 
 SHANKS. Well, how s this? These troops has took my 
 team, and you went there to buy another team fur me? 
 
 LEM. Why didn t I get em? 
 
 SHANKS. The army s buyin em. That s a good reason. 
 Price went up. Everything is goin up, ain t it? 
 
 LEM [pause]. I ll write you a letter about em through 
 the post-office savin that, and you keep it. 
 
 SHANKS. Nuf said. [Enter MA.] 
 
 MA [on porch}. Well, Lem, what is it? 
 
 LEM. Good-mornin . 
 
 MA. The President s called fur seventy-five thousand vol 
 unteers. Did you see it? 
 
io6 THE COPPERHEAD 
 
 LEM. I m thirty-eight years old. 
 
 MA. So s Captain Hardy. 
 
 LEM [fishing]. And my insteps ain t strong. 
 
 MA. Your insteps air all right, ain t they, Milt? 
 
 SHANKS. They air, thank Gawd, but not fur any wwholy 
 cause like an army against our own countrymen. 
 
 MA [to LEM]. I see you re wearin one o them copper 
 heads in yer button-hole, too. 
 
 LEM [regarding button]. The Goddess of Liberty 
 yes. 
 
 MA. Liberty, is it? I notice that every brute that s ever 
 turned a dog loose after a poor black slave runnin past here 
 from the Ohio River, is wearin one of em. 
 
 SHANKS. Oh, politics ain t fur women, ma! 
 
 MA. They always have been in this house until Fort Sum- 
 ter was fired on an I never looked for you to eat yer own 
 words, Milt Shanks. 
 
 SHANKS. I ain t eatin my words. I m fur peace, that s 
 all peace. I ve got two children ter support. 
 
 MA. Ye hed one when the Mexican War broke out, an 
 yer was devil bent to go to that. 
 
 SHANKS. Mexicans is different but not our own coun 
 trymen. [Turns.] Don t mind her, Lem. 
 
 MA. An as fur protectin yer children, that s what I m 
 askin yer ter do. It s the shame of it that s drivin Joey into 
 the volunteers the shame of it. 
 
 LEM [contradicting]. No, no. Just boys ways, Mrs. 
 Shanks. 
 
 SHANKS. They don t want men as old as us. 
 
 MA. Then why don t you say jes that, and stop yer peace 
 hypocrisy and throw away that copperhead off o yer button 
 hole? 
 
 LEM. That shows we re united, too, Mrs. Shanks. The 
 lovers of liberty air united. 
 
 MA. We understand round here that you owned a nigger 
 yerself fore you left Kentucky. 
 
 LEM. In Kentucky everybody owned em at could afford 
 it. 
 
 MA. That s a lie, Lem Tollard. 
 
 SHANKS. Ma, how kin you know? 
 
 MA. I ve heard Abraham Lincoln say it was. [To LEM.] 
 
THE COPPERHEAD 107 
 
 An I call you mighty poor company, even fur Milt Shanks. 
 [Enter GILLESPIE and ANDREWS, a preacher. Both carry 
 some new uniforms.] 
 
 GILLESPIE. Sorry to rush you, Mrs. Shanks 
 
 MA. What is it, Mr. Gillespie? Good afternoon, Brother 
 Andrews. 
 
 ANDREWS. Sister Shanks. 
 
 GILLESPIE. Got to have everything that s finished. 
 
 ANDREWS. The Company has orders to march. 
 
 MA. Thank God that temptation s goin away from Joey 
 at last. They re done, Newt. Only bastin threads to take 
 out. [Exit. ] 
 
 GILLESPIE. Don t stop fur that. Any feller they fit kin 
 pick out the threads. 
 
 SHANKS. Where air you goin ? 
 
 GILLESPIE. What the hell s that to you? Excuse me, 
 Brother Andrews. [To SHANKS.] Git a gun an fall in, 
 like you oughta, and you ll find out. 
 
 LEM. Don t answer him, Milt. [Exit.] 
 
 ANDREWS. The military men are not permitted to give 
 information of that character, Mr. Shanks. 
 
 GILLESPIE. He knows that well enough and we wouldn t 
 give it to the enemy if we did. [Reenter MA with two suits 
 of blue.] 
 
 MA [handing clothes]. Nothin to brag on, Newt, fur 
 looks but they won t blow apart. 
 
 GILLESPIE. You oughta have a right ter wear em yerself, 
 stead o sech as him. 
 
 MA. That spot ll wash out. It s only a little curdled 
 milk stummick teeth. I had to take her up a while when I 
 was sewin last night. 
 
 GILLESPIE. Fur stummick teeth and curdlin , my woman 
 gives em lime water. [Enter HARDY.] 
 
 HARDY. Make haste, Gillespie. 
 
 GILLESPIE [salutes]. Jest foldin em, Captain. Come on, 
 Brother Andrews. 
 
 ANDREWS [to HARDY]. I d go with you, Captain, if I 
 were young enough. 
 
 HARDY. I m sure you would, sir. [To GILLESPIE.] 
 Where s the rest of your squad? 
 
 GILLESPIE. All over town. 
 
io8 THE COPPERHEAD 
 
 ANDREWS. Twenty ladies been sewiri . [GILLESPIE sa 
 lutes. Exit with clothes, on run. ANDREWS follows.] 
 
 HARDY. Thank you, Mrs. Shanks. 
 
 MA. God bless you, Tom Hardy! 
 
 HARDY [pauses and pleads]. Come on, Milt. 
 
 SHANKS. Tain t possible, Tom. [HARDY looks at MA.] 
 
 MA. I ve told him I d git on Joey s as good at sixteen 
 as a man twenty-one. [The baby cries off right. Exit MA.] 
 
 HARDY. You wanted to go with me in 47. 
 
 SHANKS. That was different, Tom. 
 
 HARDY. And you wanted to go to West Point when I 
 did. 
 
 SHANKS. Yes 
 
 HARDY. I wish you had gone. [Pause.] Did you hear 
 Colonel Grant muster in our Company last week? 
 
 SHANKS [shakes head]. I wasn t there. 
 
 HARDY. He said a dead rebel would be envied compared 
 to the man on the Northern side who stayed home and gave 
 comfort to the enemy. [Pause.] They tell me, Milt, you ve 
 been making that mistake yourself comfort to the enemy. 
 
 SHANKS. I don t know as I have. 
 
 HARDY. That button shows it. 
 
 SHANKS. It stands fur peace and the liberty our fathers 
 won. 
 
 HARDY. How did our fathers win their liberty? 
 
 SHANKS. Why fightin . 
 
 HARDY. Exactly! And the fight isn t over. Come on! 
 Remember who s calling our own candidate our own neigh 
 bor our own friend Lincoln. 
 
 SHANKS. Lincoln wasn t fur war when we elected him. 
 He s lettin em make him jest an instrument in the devil s 
 hands. [Enter MA ivith baby.] 
 
 HARDY [hand to SHANKS throat]. Stop! [Pause.] I d 
 shoot another man that said that. [MA exclaims. Pause.] 
 I m sorry, Mrs. Shanks sorry. 
 
 MA [pause]. I m sorry, Captain. [Enter JOEY.] 
 
 JOEY. Mother mother 
 
 MA. Well, Joey? 
 
 JOEY. You gave Newt Gillespie my uniform. 
 
 MA. Twasn t yours, dear. 
 
 JOEY. Why, you made it to fit me didn t you? 
 
THE COPPERHEAD 109 
 
 MA. I tried it on you, boy, to get it straight; that s all. 
 
 JOEY. Captain Hardy, tain t fair! I m as good in the drill 
 as any man in your company. 
 
 HARDY. You re only sixteen, Joe. 
 
 JOEY. Coin on seventeen. I m in the same class at school 
 with Sam Perley and Jim Evers and Henry Bates. They re 
 goin . / cut wood and swing a scythe and lift a bag of oats 
 with any of em. 
 
 HARDY. Well, there ll still be wood to cut, Joey, and 
 farm work to do back here. 
 
 JOEY. And the uniform fits me my own mother made it. 
 
 MA. For the army, Joey not for you. 
 
 JOEY. Why, mother, you put yer hands on my face and 
 said: "Don t ever disgrace it, boy." 
 
 MA. Yes like I d say fur the flag. [HARDY starts.] 
 
 JOEY. Don t go, Captain. If she says yes? Say yes, 
 mother say yes! 
 
 MA. Why, Joey, me and Elsie needs somebody. I ain t 
 despaired yit of yer father goin . 
 
 JOEY. Why [Pause. ] Has he changed his mind? 
 [Pause.] Dad? 
 
 SHANKS [pause]. I can t go I can t knowin everything 
 as I do. 
 
 HARDY [to MA]. Good-by. [Goes quickly. JOEY throws 
 himself on the well curb in tears. After a pause MA walks 
 to him and puts her hand on his shoulder. JOEY turns at her 
 touch and buries his face in her lap as he kneels. With the 
 baby in her arms f the three make an effective group] 
 
 MA [pause]. Joey Joey [The boy looks up] I used 
 ter carry you this way, dearie. 
 
 JOEY [rising]. Well, I kud carry you, now. [Reenter 
 GRANDMA, without her pipe] 
 
 MA. That s what I m askin you ter do, son. 
 
 JOEY. But not tied ter yer apron-strings, ma. All the 
 fellers that air goin air doin it fur their folks at home de- 
 fendin them. 
 
 GRANDMA. Gimme that child. Yer plumb tuckered out. 
 [Takes baby] 
 
 MA. Kain t you say nothin , Milt Shanks? 
 
 SHANKS. I m fur peace. I ve said that time and agin. 
 Joey s heere/. me. [Exit GRANDMA with baby to house.] 
 
no THE COPPERHEAD 
 
 JOEY. / ain t fur peace when they re shootin at the flag! 
 
 SHANKS. But I understand a boy s feelin s, too. When I 
 was sixteen, I d o felt jest the way Joey does. 
 
 MA. Yer urgin him to go? 
 
 SHANKS. No, by God, I ain t urgin him! He don t 
 seem ter need it. I only say it s natural, and as long as I 
 live [Pause.] I ll remember that my boy [Pause and 
 control. 1 I ll remember he was natural and manful. 
 
 JOEY. Kain t yer see / got ter do it? 
 
 MA. Yer only sixteen, Joey. 
 
 JOEY. I m strong as twenty an a blamed sight quicker. 
 
 MA. Yer might git wounded. 
 
 JOEY. I been wounded by a pitchfork and Perley s dog bit 
 me. I ff heal up " quicker n a feller o twenty ! 
 
 MA. Some boys will git killed, Joey. I kain t let you go 
 at sixteen. 
 
 JOEY. If I hang round till I m older, you ll only git fonder 
 of me, an* if a feller is gona be killed, what s the difference 
 sixteen or twenty? 
 
 MA [to SHANKS]. Yer see how he s a-strainin ter git away, 
 Milt. I ain t sendm either of yer [To JOEY.] But you 
 won t go, Joey, if yer father goes, will you? \Watches 
 SHANKS anxiously.] 
 
 JOEY. We couldn t both leave you and Elsie, of course. 
 
 MA. There, Milt. [SHANKS shakes head.] 
 
 JOEY [in a burst]. God A mighty, ma, let me have one par 
 ent I kin look up to! Quick! Please, cause some other fel- 
 ler ll git my uniform in a minute. 
 
 MA. It s big enough fer yer father. You git it and we ll 
 see about who goes with the Company. 
 
 JOEY. Aha! Bully! [Exit; runs off back of house. MA 
 watches him out of sight, her hand to her lips. Then turns.] 
 
 MA. I know Captain Hardy will send him back, an then 
 then you ll jest hev ter take his place, Milt. 
 
 SHANKS. God bless you, ma. Yer like the wonderful 
 women that put the stars in the flag, an I ain t worthy ter 
 undo the latchets o yer shoes but I kain t go inter this 
 army. 
 
 MA. " The stars in the flag! " [Pause.] I stud here by 
 this well with my arms round yer neck, Milt, when Joey was 
 only three holdin yer back that time from Mexu:o, and yer 
 
 \ 
 
THE COPPERHEAD in 
 
 talked about " the stars in the flag " then. I thought you 
 wuz the handsomest thing in the whole State of Illinois and 
 I prayed God to make our boy hev some of your spirit in 
 stead of mine when he growed up to be a man. 
 
 SHANKS. Sorry I talked about em agin but it s kind o 
 the same subject, after all. 
 
 MA. We ain t hed riches, and I ve hed some sickness, but 
 I ve kind o lived on my respect and trust in you, Milt. Don t 
 tell me that everything I loved you fur is dead in you. 
 
 SHANKS. I ve loved yer, too, Martha! 
 
 MA. I think you hev. 
 
 SHANKS. An I still do. 
 
 MA. Well, I m tryin , Milt. 
 
 SHANKS. I still do. Fur time and eternity [pause] an 
 without wantin ter harp on the same subject jest as sure 
 as the stars air in the flag, you ll look inter my face some time, 
 an admit I was right. 
 
 MA. Never never! [Exit to house. SHANKS lifts his 
 hands to Heaven in protest, pulls himself together and cleans 
 up the charcoal furnace outfit. Enter LEM quickly.] 
 
 LEM. Milt! 
 
 SHANKS. Hello! 
 
 LEM [excited]. They re gonta march to-day not to-mor 
 row. 
 
 SHANKS. Air they? 
 
 LEM. Yes. I got to git out on to-night s train fur St. 
 Louis. 
 
 SHANKS. I spose yer hev really. 
 
 LEM. No chance to see anybody. How much money you 
 got on you? 
 
 SHANKS [counting], I ll see. Six bits. 
 
 LEM. Great Scott! Well, give it to me. If you can 
 scrape up any more, bring it to me at the depot. [Starts; 
 stops.] An remember yer obligation " a brother Knight s 
 wife, or parents, or any dependent on him." [Holds up right 
 hand as taking oath.] 
 
 SHANKS [with same sign] . " Or any dependent on him," 
 
 LEM. Look in at my place now and agin. 
 
 SHANKS. Yes I will. 
 
 LEM. Here s Gillespie, runnin . I told you! [Enter. 
 GILLESPIE 07i a run.] 
 
ii2 THE COPPERHEAD 
 
 GILLESPIE. Any ammunition here? 
 
 SHANKS. Ammunition? [Exit LEM significantly. ] 
 
 GILLESPIE. Minnie balls. Your Joey was moldin em. 
 [Enter ANDREWS, evidently following GILLESPIE.] 
 
 SHANKS. Oh, Mrs. Perley took them. [Calls.] Mrs. 
 Perley Mrs. Perley! 
 
 GILLESPIE. Where to? 
 
 SHANKS. She ll tell you. [Enter GRANDMA.] 
 
 GRANDMA. What is it? 
 
 GILLESPIE. Minnie balls Joe Shanks was makin . 
 
 GRANDMA. Why, you tarnation idiot I gave em to you 
 yerself ! 
 
 GILLESPIE. When ? 
 
 GRANDMA. In that horse bucket. 
 
 GILLESPIE [going]. Hell s bells! I packed em with the 
 harness. [Exit.~\ 
 
 GRANDMA [calling after]. Two bullet molds layin on top 
 of em. [Going.] Ye d think the rebels was ambushin em. 
 [Exit after GILLESPIE.] 
 
 SHANKS. They re gettin ready. 
 
 ANDREWS. Yes. 
 
 SHANKS. Brother Andrews see here. [Comes down ex 
 citedly and with caution.] You brought me a letter in March. 
 
 ANDREWS. Yes, Milt. 
 
 SHANKS [looks off after LEM]. Callin me East I [AN 
 DREWS nods] I don t know if you guessed what was wanted 
 of me, and my wife ain t nur Joey, nur anybody. Yer 
 mustn t hint it if you do not even to me. [Pause. AN 
 DREWS nods] But I was told down there that, in a pinch, I 
 could turn ter you, and you d take orders from me. [AN 
 DREWS nods] Lem Tollard s gittin the evenin train fur St. 
 Louis ter give warnin ter rebel troops there in Camp Jackson, 
 that Union reinforcements is comin . You kin beat him by 
 buggy or horseback to Mattoon and the regular Express from 
 there on. 
 
 ANDREWS. I understand. 
 
 SHANKS. At the St. Louis Arsenal, the Union troops air 
 under Captain Lyon L-y-o-n. Git ter him personal. _ He ll 
 know what ter do whether ter move faster hisself or jes ter 
 head off Lem. 
 
 ANDREWS. So I say you told me? 
 
THE COPPERHEAD 113 
 
 SHANKS [nods]. A farmer by the name of Shanks. [Im- 
 pressively. A bugle blows assembly .] 
 
 ANDREWS. I ll follow instructions minutely. [Reenter 
 SUE.] 
 
 SUE. Mr. Shanks Mr. Shanks! 
 
 SHANKS [turning]. Yes, Sue. 
 
 SUE. Joey wants his other shirt and a pair of sox. 
 
 SHANKS. What s the matter? 
 
 SUE. The Company s going. He s going with em. 
 [ANDREWS exits. } 
 
 SHANKS. His shirt and sox. Ma ma! [Anxiously 
 toward house. Reenter GRANDMA. A drum heard in dis 
 tance. SHANKS stops and listens. ] 
 
 SUE. That s them. 
 
 GRANDMA [heroically]. We re comin , Father Abraham, 
 a hundred thousand strong. 
 
 SHANKS. God A mighty! [Exit. SUE runs to fence. 
 Enter MRS. BATES.] 
 
 MRS. BATES. Where s Mrs. Shanks? 
 
 SUE. Inside. I ve told em, Mrs. Bates. 
 
 MRS. BATES. My Henry s in the Company, and they re 
 goin without supper. [Enter MA.] 
 
 MA. They re just drillin , ain t they? 
 
 SUE. No m, they re really going, Mrs. Shanks. Joey sent 
 me. [Enter SHANKS with small bundle.] 
 
 MRS. BATES. Here they come. [Fife and drum effect, 
 increasing with scene until it finishes in sonff.] 
 
 MA. Where s Joey? He can t be with em! 
 
 SUE. I can see him, Mrs. Shanks. I see Joey. He s with 
 em. [SHANKS goes into road and looks. MA comes down 
 right f excitedly.] 
 
 MA. God! Dear God! [Raises her hands.] 
 
 GRANDMA [with her]. Yer his mother. Don t fergit that. 
 Let him see you givin courage to him as he goes by. 
 [SHANKS comes down from road and gives SUE the bundle for 
 JOEY; then exit left rather haunted. Chorus of approaching 
 Company breaks into "John Brown s Body/ ] You nursed 
 him an you brought him into the world. Come, keep up his 
 heart! [Takes MA up. GRANDMA goes into road and meets 
 Company. The women and SUE indicate approach of Com 
 pany. The Company, in rather irregular uniforms, swings by, 
 
ii 4 THE COPPERHEAD 
 
 singing; GRANDMA waves her apron, leading them In an in 
 spired and symbolic manner. SHANKS sneaks on above well 
 and hides in bushes. Presently JOEY passes; he slips from line 
 a moment and kisses MA, then runs and catches up his place. 
 MA leans against the fence and the women fan her. The scene 
 may be enlivened by old men and children trailers.] 
 
 [CURTAIN ON SONG.] 
 
ACT II 
 
 SCENE 
 
 Same set as Act One, but over two years later. A lilac bush 
 at upper corner of house is two years larger but with 
 out bloom. The month is July. The back drop shows 
 same topography as Act One but the field is of ripening 
 corn. On the post of the porch a cardboard shield of the 
 17. S. Arms is tacked in lieu of a flag. 
 
 TIME 
 Twilight, fading into moonlight; Friday, July 3, 1863. 
 
 DISCOVERED 
 
 MA ironing by the charcoal furnace. Her ironing board is 
 laid on the backs of two kitchen chairs. There is a basket 
 of damp linen and a pile of ironed nearly dry. The baby 
 ELSIE, now some three years old, is on an improvised bed 
 of chairs, on porch, with a piece of " quadrille " mosquito 
 net over her. GRANDMA sits by knitting sox. 
 
 MA. About time fur her medicine, ain t it? 
 
 GRANDMA. I ll see. 
 
 MA. You set still; I ll see. [Steps to door.] Yes after 
 time. 
 
 GRANDMA. I ll give it to her. [Takes up from floor a 
 tumbler covered with a plate, holding a spoon.] 
 
 MA [bending over bed]. How is mammy s precious now? 
 Don t wake up, darling Grandma Perley s just gonta give 
 it a nice spoonful of the cool water 
 
 GRANDMA. Open mouggy [Gives medicine] The an 
 gel! 
 
 "5 
 
ii6 THE COPPERHEAD 
 
 MA. Now, lay down, dear, and mammy ll make the beau 
 tiful house again. Keep out the nasty flies and skeeters. 
 [Fixes net.] 
 
 GRANDMA. Seems easier. 
 
 MA [resuming work]. Yes. 
 
 GRANDMA. Beats me; six little sugar pills melted in a 
 tumbler o water [Shakes head.] 
 
 MA. There s sumpin about em. 
 
 GRANDMA. Don t allow em in the army. 
 
 MA. Might be better if they did. I hear they re dyin 
 like flies in the hospitals, 
 
 GRANDMA. Kain t believe all we hear, Martha. They said 
 Stonewall Jackson was killed early in May. 
 
 MA. Well, wasn t he? 
 
 GRANDMA. I doubt it. Six weeks has gone by and Joe 
 Hooker has bed to fall back; looks to me like that yarn about 
 Jackson was jest to throw our folks off their guard and 
 " shot by his own men." 
 
 MA. May be 
 
 GRANDMA. Sounds fishy. An* where s all the help we was 
 gonta git from the four million niggers? mancipation s been 
 out six months. 
 
 MA. Maybe the niggers didn t git it most of em. Kain t 
 read, an the Rebs wouldn t tell em, would they ? 
 
 GRANDMA. P raps not [pause] and Grant! Why ain t 
 he stirrin hisself? Sometimes I think them yarns about his 
 drinkin s more truth than poetry. Lord if I d only been a 
 man! 
 
 MA. Well, it s a siege, Joey says in his letters if a man s 
 ever been a drinkin man, seems ter me that d drive him to it 
 agin jest settin an* settin outside the city waitin an waitin 
 day in day out even hotter n this place, too. 
 
 GRANDMA. Lord pity em! 
 
 MA. Cause that s the real South Vicksburg is. 
 
 GRANDMA. Oughta be some breeze from the river, I d 
 think. 
 
 MA. Joey don t speak of it. 
 
 GRANDMA. How long s it been fur Joey? 
 
 MA. Two years and two months since he marched past 
 that gate. 
 
 GRANDMA. I mean at Vicksburg? 
 
THE COPPERHEAD 117 
 
 MA. Oh! Bout six weeks now since the siege begun. 
 [Pause; going. ] I kin tell exactly by his letters. [Exit] 
 
 GRANDMA. Six weeks is near enough. [Calls.] Lord! 
 I ain t timin bread in the oven by it. [MA returns with 
 bunch of letters from the house.] 
 
 MA. I think this is the one. [Opens letter. Reads in 
 bitter silence a moment.] 
 
 GRANDMA [pause]. What s the matter now? 
 
 MA [pause; shakes head]. Bout his father. 
 
 GRANDMA. Well, don t let s git on that subject agin. 
 
 MA [studying letter and biting lip]. When the news of it 
 got into the army some o the men from here had papers with 
 the trial in em [Looks up in agony] Joey s father! My 
 baby s father 
 
 GRANDMA. Evil company kin bring any man down, but 
 I ll stake my hope o salvation that Milt Shanks didn t do the 
 murder. 
 
 MA. Not his fault if he didn t. He d fired two shots 
 his revolver showed that at the trial. 
 
 GRANDMA. I don t know. They didn t hang him at any 
 rate. 
 
 MA. What comfort kin Joey git from that? The verdict 
 was hangin , and they d a hung him only the governor com 
 mitted all o their sentences ter life in the penitentiary life 
 life in the penitentiary. He knowed about it comin from 
 day to day but it was a thunderbolt to Joey. He says 
 [Reads] "If I could jes put my arms around you, 
 
 mammy." 
 
 GRANDMA [going to her]. Now, quit that, Martha. You 
 started to find out when Vicksburg commenced. Lord, we ve 
 all got troubles. 
 
 MA [bracing up]. I know [With other letter] It s a 
 lead pencil, and I can t make out the writin now it s gittin* 
 so dark, besides. 
 
 GRANDMA. An yer tuckered out with yer ironin . 
 
 MA. Only my back it ll ease up when I lay down. 
 [Enter MRS. BATES and SUE to back of fence] 
 
 MRS. BATES [calling]. Good evening. [MA runs to bed 
 and sings lullaby " Old Dog Tray! ] 
 
 GRANDMA [signals silence]. The child s asleep. 
 
 MRS. BATES. Sorry. 
 
n8 THE COPPERHEAD 
 
 GRANDMA. All right, I guess. {Enter MRS. BATES to 
 yard. Enter SUE; she carries a tin lantern, unlighted.] 
 
 MRS. BATES. I brought some rennet fur her. [MA nods 
 thanks.] 
 
 GRANDMA. That s good. 
 
 SUE. We re goin down to the church. 
 
 GRANDMA. Why ? 
 
 MRS. BATES. Fixin the booths fur to-morrow. 
 
 MA [joining them]. I m so sorry I can t go along and 
 help. 
 
 MRS. BATES. Lord knows you got yer hands full. 
 
 GRANDMA. Ain t hed her supper. 
 
 MRS. BATES. What! 
 
 MA. It s too hot fur supper. 
 
 GRANDMA [to MA], Where s yer tea kettle? 
 
 MA. I ve got cold tea. 
 
 SUE. Let me git it, Mrs. Shanks. 
 
 MA. It s in the well I ll get some glasses. [Starts.] 
 
 GRANDMA. You ll set still. I ll git the glasses. [Puts 
 her in chair. Exit. SUE goes to well. A little cry from the 
 bed.] 
 
 MA [resigned]. I guess she s waking. [Gets ELSIE.] 
 
 SUE. Did we wake her, do you spose? 
 
 MA. She s slept a good while, anyway. [Reenter GRAND 
 MA with glasses, glass sugar bowl, brown sugar and spoons.] 
 
 MA. Come, dearie, Auntie Bates brought Elsie, oh, 
 such good supper. Mother ll hold her little girl on her lap 
 while she eats it. [MA sits at ironing board and feeds ELSIE. 
 MRS. BATES stands. SUE brings tea from well.] 
 
 GRANDMA [slyly indicating ELSIE]. It s a good plan to 
 change the subject now we git on better when you don t 
 notice us How many booths you got? [Pours tea.] 
 
 MRS. BATES. Oh, a dozen, I should think. 
 
 SUE. If we can get dolls enough by to-morrow we re going 
 to have the old woman that lived in a shoe. 
 
 GRANDMA. Have what? 
 
 MRS. BATES The S Louis papers say at their fair Nellie 
 Grant, the Gineral s little dotter was the old woman a shoe 
 as big as Elsie s bed for her house and dozens of dolls all over 
 it. 
 
 GRANDMA. How old s Grant s dotter? 
 
THE COPPERHEAD 119 
 
 MRS. BATES. Only three or four. 
 
 GRANDMA. Well, don t that beat the Dutch. I ll bet it 
 took like hot cakes. 
 
 MA [coaxingly]. Not here, dearie that s way off where 
 the sun goes to bed and hot cakes ain t near so nice as Auntie 
 Bates custard. 
 
 GRANDMA. Little pitchers have big ears. [Enter ANDREWS 
 from left at back.] 
 
 MA. There s Brother Andrews. 
 
 GRANDMA. A minute later n he d a caught me smokin . 
 
 MRS. BATES. Good evening. 
 
 ANDREWS. Good evening may I come in? 
 
 MA. Of course yer always welcome, Mr. Andrews. 
 [ANDREWS enters yard. He shows elation.] 
 
 ANDREWS. There s some wonderful news on the telegraph 
 wires. 
 
 GRANDMA. What is it? [MA and MRS. BATES chorus 
 
 Tell us " and " Good news? "] 
 
 ANDREWS. Vicksburg s surrendered. 
 1 f Hooray! 
 
 I ,. ,, , J Thank God! 
 
 BAXBS. \ [t ffether] } <*}. Mr- Andrews! [T*. 
 J \^twitight goes into moonlight.] 
 
 GRANDMA. God bless ole Grant. 
 
 ANDREWS [fervently]. Amen amen, Sister Perley. 
 
 MA [pause]. And Joey, too 
 
 ANDREWS. Yes, Joey, too, and all our brave boys in blue. 
 The news comes pretty direct altho it hasn t been officially 
 confirmed. 
 
 GRANDMA. Then hold on, don t count your chickens too 
 soon. 
 
 ANDREWS. Oh, I believe it s true true. 
 
 MRS. BATES. Why, Brother Andrews? 
 
 ANDREWS. I ve expected it right along. The prisoners that 
 have been passing through here give awful reports of their 
 starvation in Vicksburg eating dogs anything and just to 
 think of the glorious way it comes to-morrow will be the 
 Fourth of July and, praise be to God, we ve our bell for the 
 meeting house. 
 
 GRANDMA. The bell s come? 
 
 ANDREWS. Come? Why, it s up in the belfry, Sister 
 
120 THE COPPERHEAD 
 
 Perley. Some folks want us to ring it every day for twelve 
 o clock, but we ll begin with the Sunday service and the 
 Wednesday prayer meetings, except, of course, if this sur 
 render s true well ring in the glorious Fourth. 
 
 MA. And maybe Joey kin git a furlough now. 
 
 ANDREWS. Of course he ll git a furlough. 
 
 MA [to ELSIE]. Buvver Joey comin home to Elsie and 
 Muzzer. 
 
 GRANDMA. The news maVes us all fergit our manners 
 will you hev some cold tea, Brother Andrews? 
 
 ANDREWS [hesitates]. Why 
 
 SUE. Right out of the well awfully good. 
 
 ANDREWS. Thank you yes. 
 
 MA. You re sure they ll let him come? 
 
 ANDREWS. Positive. After that splendid bravery in re 
 covering the flag. 
 
 GRANDMA. What was that, Brother Andrews? 
 
 ANDREWS. In one of the Rebels attempts to break through 
 a Union color bearer was struck Joey not only supported the 
 man but kept the flag flying, too Didn t you know of it? 
 
 MA. Well, not so fine as that one o Joey s letters said 
 " Jim Evers was hit with a bay net while he was carryin our 
 flag and I was so close to him that I caught him when he fell 
 over " That jes seemed natural kindness. 
 
 ANDREWS. Caught him! Why, Joe fought like a wildcat. 
 
 SUE. Joey! 
 
 MRS. BATES. Well! Well! 
 
 GRANDMA. I m ready to believe it, cause at Fort Dear 
 born the dare devils was always the boys. 
 
 MA. Who told you about it, Brother Andrews? 
 
 ANDREWS. Why well it s a little embarrassing but 
 Joey s father told me. 
 
 MA. His father? 
 
 GRANDMA [discounting it]. Oh! [MRS. BATES and SUE 
 relax also.] 
 
 MA [pause], I thought maybe you d got it straighter n 
 that. I guess Joey s letter s about right. 
 
 ANDREWS. And then again when General Grant was hold 
 ing a council of war with Admiral Porter on a gunboat in the 
 river the Rebels knew it somehow and made a sally Joey 
 swam out to the boat and carried the news to Grant* -Grant 
 
THE COPPERHEAD 121 
 
 hustled back in his skiff and rallied our men, who were re 
 treating. Grant sent for Joey the next day and made a world 
 of fuss over him Yes, indeed. 
 
 MA. Did you git all that from his father, too? 
 
 ANDREWS. Well yes. 
 
 GRANDMA. M. [The women again go cold.} 
 
 SUE [pause}. Well, Joey s spunky , jest the same. 
 
 MRS. BATES [pause}. Sue and I were just goin down to 
 the church are there many there? 
 
 ANDREWS. Oh, yes. 
 
 SUE [suddenly}. Oh we ve settled about the rebel states, 
 Mrs. Shanks. 
 
 GRANDMA. How ! 
 
 SUE. Well, you see, I m on the platform as the Goddess 
 of Liberty and I say like this: [Recites} 
 
 " Within the field of blue a cloud I see, 
 The lightnings threaten over Liberty, 
 My daughters, come! Ye thirteen brave I bore 
 And come, ye younger, making thirty-four." [Breaks.} 
 
 Cause there s thirty-four states altogether then these dear 
 little girls thirteen walkin two and two six couples an 
 then single that cute baby of Mrs. Ransom s, hardly bigger n 
 Elsie she s Rhode Island. Then the other states accordin to 
 their dates of admission, all with blue sashes, except the rebel 
 states, wherever they are, have red sashes and don t you think 
 this is too beautiful? heavy bands of smoke-colored tulle 
 blindfoldin their eyes, meanin error. These darlin s! None 
 of em over ten ! Why, I jest cried at rehearsal. 
 
 GRANDMA. Well I m comin to see you if I m able to 
 walk. You git me a ticket What are they, Mrs. Bates? 
 
 MRS. BATES. Two bits. [GRANDMA gets shin plaster 
 pocketbook and produces twenty-five cents.} Thank you. 
 [Stows the paper in similar book.} Come, Sue, we re awfully 
 late now. 
 
 MA. Elsie thanks you for her supper, Auntie Bates. 
 
 MRS. BATES. She shall have more to-morrow Good-by. 
 [Exits with SUE.] 
 
 GRANDMA. Good-night 
 
122 THE COPPERHEAD 
 
 MA. Why do yo spose Milt wanted ter make up that 
 ridiculous stuff about Joey? 
 
 ANDREWS. It s true every word of it. Grant wanted to 
 know what he could do for Joey well, one way and another 
 the dear boy told him everything and on Joey s account Milt 
 has been pardoned, Mrs. Shanks. 
 
 MA [pause]. Pardoned! 
 
 ANDREWS. Pardoned 
 
 MA [prompting]. You mean from hangin to penitentiary 
 for life. 
 
 ANDREWS [shakes head]. That was done at the time of 
 their conviction for the whole band but Milt has been set 
 free. 
 
 MA. How do you know who told you? 
 
 ANDREWS. Milt told me. 
 
 MA. In the prison? 
 
 ANDREWS. Here Milt s back in town. 
 
 MA. He s foolin you. He s broke out, ain t he? 
 
 ANDREWS. Pardoned by the Governor I ve seen his pa 
 pers. [MA gives ELSIE to GRANDMA.] 
 
 MA. In town? [ANDREWS nods. MA gets up walks 
 nervously stops. Pause.] It s time Elsie was in bed will 
 you undress her, Mrs. Perley I ve got to talk to Brother 
 Andrews alone. 
 
 GRANDMA. Come with grandma, darlin , an she ll tell you 
 about the fairies. [Takes ELSIE to porch.] 
 
 MA. I ll bring her medicine when it s time. [Exit 
 GRANDMA with ELSIE. Pause.] Where is he now? 
 
 ANDREWS. Waiting for me. 
 
 MA. Why? 
 
 ANDREWS. For some message from his wife. 
 
 MA. Am I his wife in the eyes o Gawd? 
 
 ANDREWS. Aren t you? For better for worse 
 
 MA. It s the law in Illinois when a man s convicted of 
 murder it sets his wife free. 
 
 ANDREWS. Do you ask to be free? 
 
 MA. I don t ask anything any more fur myself, Brother 
 Andrews. [A candle is lighted inside the house.] 
 
 ANDREWS. Well, it won t help Milt to cast him off, will 
 it? 
 
 MA. I m thinkin* about the children- and I ask you 
 
THE COPPERHEAD 123 
 
 ANDREWS. If you ask me you ll send word to your hus 
 band to come home. 
 
 MA [pause]. Home [Pause.] What if Joey s here on 
 his furlough? What then? 
 
 ANDREWS. I wish you might have seen Milt s face when 
 he told me of Joey s bravery. 
 
 MA. I m thinkin what Joey s face must a been when he 
 wrote me the letters after his father s trial reached the army 
 [Shakes head.] I know why Joey was willin to swim out to 
 a gunboat or foller Jim Evers and his flag in the front ranks 
 
 his letter says "Don t you never shed a tear fur me, mammy 
 
 if it comes to me." My Gawd ! Think of a boy of nine 
 teen writin that-a-way! 
 
 ANDREWS. He ll feel different, now, when he comes to 
 know that his heroism gives his father another chance at life 
 let me tell Milt to come home. 
 
 MA [pause]. I ll see him. 
 
 ANDREWS. Good. 
 
 MA. But I ll have to git used to the notion of it some 
 before I ll say jest what I will do one way or the other 
 [Pause.] I m gonna kneel down by my baby s bed an ask 
 Gawd. [Distant gun. MA sits on the ironing chair, with 
 her head bent to her knees, and buries her face in her hands. 
 A country band strikes up in the distance, "Rally Round the 
 
 
 ANDREWS [pause]. The news is confirmed, I guess. [Goes 
 to MA.] Come, Martha God s doing it all his way we 
 can t be downhearted about anything. [MA rises and, slowly 
 nodding, exits. ANDREWS watches her off, then wipes his fore 
 head and puts on his hat. He slowly turns to go. The village 
 band still plays. He stops at sight of somebody. It is 
 SHANKS. SHANKS enters, left, behind fence. SHANKS shows 
 more than three years added age his hair is perceptibly gray 
 and he is more worn in body.] 
 
 SHANKS. Well? 
 
 ANDREWS. She ll see you. [SHANKS crosses toward house. 
 Pause.] 
 
 SHANKS. She s kneelin by the bed. 
 
 ANDREWS. One minute. [Looks down the road cautiously. 
 Returns.] I ve a letter for you. 
 
 SHANKS. From her? 
 
124 THE COPPERHEAD 
 
 ANDREWS. From Washington I didn t even mention it 
 to you in the village because it didn t seem safe. [Hands 
 letter.] 
 
 SHANKS. You might jes stand at the gate. [ANDREWS 
 stands watch. SHANKS opens letter and reads by the light 
 from the door. He puts letter in pocket. ANDREWS returns.] 
 I m ordered to Pennsylvania. [Pause.] What s been going 
 on there? we didn t git much news in Joliet. 
 
 ANDREWS. Hooker has succeeded Rosecrans in command 
 but Lee s driven him back [Pause.] Harper s Ferry s 
 been taken by Lee things generally pretty gloomy. 
 
 SHANKS. My letter hints there s some underground leak 
 through this crowd I m with. [Hand goes to lapel.] They 
 took our buttons away from us in jail. 
 
 ANDREWS [ominously]. Twouldn t be safe to wear one 
 now. 
 
 SHANKS. I reckon not I didn t feel very safe even with 
 out mine down there to-night. 
 
 ANDREWS. The county is very bitter. 
 
 SHANKS. Whata they say about me bein pardoned and 
 Lem Tollard kept in for life? 
 
 ANDREWS. Very few of them know it yet. 
 
 SHANKS. It s gonna make it hard in Pennsylvania, I 
 cahilate. 
 
 ANDREWS. Joey s good work should explain it. 
 
 SHANKS. Maybe. [Pause.] Tollard ain t a murderer in 
 heart fact none of em jes wrong-headed an war s war 
 [Pause.] If anything happens to me Brother Andrews I 
 mean permanent 
 
 ANDREWS. I understand, Milt. 
 
 SHANKS. Why, then I d like her to really know [AN 
 DREWS nods.] She s fine. [Pause.] Mighty fine like the 
 wonderful women that [Pause chews wipes nose.] 
 An* the back wash of it when she knows why and every- 
 thing ll be twice as hard cause she s awful tender-hearted so 
 make her understand that I sensed all of it and was proud she 
 done her part this way 
 
 ANDREWS. I shall. 
 
 SHANKS. Show her that ef she hadn t suffered and suf 
 fered plenty my work wouldn t a looked gen-u-ine. 
 
 ANDREWS. She ll know. 
 
THE COPPERHEAD 125 
 
 SHANKS. And Joey [ANDREWS nods.] Tell her twas 
 really me that got word to Grant at Columbus, Kentucky, that 
 Van Dorn was behind him, an saved thousands o Union lives 
 like as not Joey s amongst the lot. [MA comes from house 
 peering into the lesser light.] 
 
 ANDREWS. Well, good-night. 
 
 MA. You, Brother Andrews? 
 
 ANDREWS. Yes, Martha. 
 
 SHANKS. An me. [General pause.] 
 
 ANDREWS. I m just going Good -night, Milt. {Affec 
 tionately pats his shoulder and goes. At intervals from now 
 on a small cannon fires salutes.] 
 
 MA [pause]. Yer pardoned? 
 
 SHANKS. Yes by the Governor. 
 
 MA [points after ANDREWS]. He says count o Joey. 
 
 SHANKS. Yes. 
 
 MA. Well Don t that mortify you completely? 
 
 SHANKS. Twould if I didn t believe Joey d understand my 
 side of it some day. 
 
 MA. Your side was Peace wasn t it? 
 
 SHANKS. As fur as I could make it yes. 
 
 MA. Yer empty revolver showed two of the shots was by 
 you. 
 
 SHANKS. I pinted over their heads besides, I know I 
 didn t hit anybody. 
 
 MA. You didn t tell that at yer trial, did ye? 
 
 SHANKS. W T hat use? And then I couldn t strive to throw 
 all the blame onto Lem and the others. 
 
 MA. Yer doin it now, ain t you? 
 
 SHANKS. I reckon I am come to think of it but 
 [Pause.] 
 
 MA [pause]. But what Ef you ve got anything to say 
 fur yerself fur Gawd s sake, Milt 
 
 SHANKS. I m doin it now cause I care more fur what 
 you think about my bein a murderer, Martha than what the 
 law court thought 
 
 MA. I d like ter believe ye, Milt. 
 
 SHANKS. If ye could it d be mighty fine. 
 
 MA. Ye ve been untruthful so often. 
 
 SHANKS. Ter you, Martha? 
 
 MA. Yes, to me about nearly every trip you made after 
 
126 THE COPPERHEAD 
 
 you turned copperhead somethin didn t gee. Where was you 
 and Lem Tollard an yer crowd takin them stolen horses? 
 
 SHANKS. Kentucky. 
 
 MA. For rebel guerrillas, if the truth s known, wasn t it? 
 
 SHANKS [nods]. Confederate cavalry yes. 
 
 MA. And when the Sheriff s posse headed you off you 
 killed two of em. 
 
 SHANKS [shakes head]. Our crowd not me. 
 
 MA. Am I to try an make the neighbors believe that? 
 
 SHANKS. My God no no [Pause.] I ain t talkin fur 
 the neighbors besides, they won t be neighbors o mine. 
 
 MA. They won t 
 
 SHANKS. I cahilate ter go East in a day or so an git 
 work when the harvestin begins the war s made farm hands 
 scarce folks say. 
 
 MA. East? [SHANKS nods.] Fur good? 
 
 SHANKS. Well while the war s on, anyway. 
 
 MA. And after the war? 
 
 SHANKS. I hope ter be near you [pause] and the chil 
 dren ef I kin. 
 
 MA [pause]. Have you hed yer supper? 
 
 SHANKS. Yes, thank you I d like a drink, though 
 [Moves to well.] 
 
 MA. Here s tea and it s been cold. 
 
 SHANKS. Thank you. [Returns, takes tea.] How s 
 Elsie? 
 
 MA. Ailin some the heat and the flies but she made a 
 good supper and is sleepin . 
 
 SHANKS. Would it wake her if I looked at her? 
 
 MA. No talkin would an ye better wait till Grandma 
 Perley comes out. 
 
 SHANKS. What d ye hear from Joey? 
 
 MA. Here s his letters [Sorts them.] Twould do you 
 no good to read these [Lays them aside.] 
 
 SHANKS. Where s the last one? 
 
 MA [handing letter]. I ll get Grandma Perley out the 
 other way. [Exit. SHANKS watches her off drinks tea 
 from bucket opens a letter and reads. The village bell tolls 
 very distantly. SHANKS adjusts himself to its novelty and re 
 sumes reading. The sound of a cantering horse approaches 
 MILT moves from light to shadow. SAM CARTER, a soldier, 
 
THE COPPERHEAD 127 
 
 rides on and stops back of fence, pauses, dismounts and ties. 
 Soldier enters yard to light calls into house.] 
 
 SAM Icalls^ Hello! 
 
 SHANKS [speaks]. Good evening. 
 
 SAM {inquiring}. Shanks? 
 
 SHANKS [into light again]. Hello, Sam. IA distant 
 gun] 
 
 SAM Ipause nodding off]. That s fur Vicksburg s sur 
 render. 
 
 SHANKS. Yes. 
 
 SAM. What are you doin round here? 
 
 SHANKS. Well I have been away, but 
 
 SAM Ipause]. In trouble we heard, in the army. 
 
 SHANKS. Yes considerable but, somehow count Joey 
 doin so well I I was released 
 
 SAM. He did do well [Awkwardly.] Come up by the 
 gate. [They go up.] Whoa, boy Whoa! [Goes to horse.] 
 
 SHANKS. Where air you from now? 
 
 SAM. Vicksburg but I left there two days ago with some 
 prisoners and wounded steamer Forest Queen to Cairo 
 When did you hear from Joe? 
 
 SHANKS [down with letter to light]. Last week. 
 
 SAM. How was Joe? 
 
 SHANKS [reading ]. All right an* mighty hopeful about 
 Grant s winnin*. 
 
 SAM. Joe Joe s dead. 
 
 SHANKS. Dead ! [Looks slowly at letter and back.] 
 
 SAM. Yes awful sorry. 
 
 SHANKS. Who told you so? 
 
 SAM. I saw him. 
 
 SHANKS. Saw him killed? 
 
 SAM. No but afterwards in his coffin. 
 
 SHANKS. You mean they buried him? 
 
 SAM. We fetched his body home on our boat to Cairo 
 and box car over here. 
 
 SHANKS. Kain t be no mistake? Joseph Taylor Shanks? 
 
 SAM [nods]. Son o Milton Shanks. 
 
 SHANKS [nods helplessly]. That s right. [Re enter MA.] 
 
 MA. Yer kin come in now, but walk on yer toes. 
 
 SHANKS. Sam Carter s here 
 
 MA. Oh How are you, Sam? 
 
128 THE COPPERHEAD 
 
 SAM. Good evening. 
 
 SHANKS. with bad news, Martha. 
 
 MA [quickly]. Bad news! From Joey? 
 
 SHANKS. Yes. 
 
 MA. Give me the letter. [Takes letter quickly from 
 MILT.] 
 
 SHANKS. That s the one you gave me Joey couldn t 
 write hisseli My God, Martha, it s terrible [Cannon 
 bell. The village band plays " When Johnnie comes March 
 ing Home"] 
 
 MA. Terrible? Hurt bad? 
 
 SAM. He s dead, Mrs. Shanks. 
 
 MA. Oh, Gawd Oh, Gawd! [Crosses, in agony, 
 to corner of well falls, kneeling on it she sobs a bit, then, 
 realizing that JOEY had that place before he went away, she 
 caresses the curb and weeps.] 
 
 SAM [after pause]. Yer oughta say somethin to her 
 
 SHANKS. Joey wouldn t want ye ter do that, ma. [Bends 
 over her.] 
 
 MA [shrinking from him]. Fer Gawd s sake, Milt Shanks 
 don t tetch me yer unclean yer unclean [She rises. 
 She presses JOE S letter against her face and so, sobbing, crosses 
 to ironing board, gets other letters, and exits.] 
 
 SHANKS [pause]. You said in a box car. 
 
 SAM. Unloaded in the depot now. 
 
 SHANKS. I ll go there. [Starts.] 
 
 SAM [interposes]. I wouldn t, Milt. 
 
 SHANKS. Why not? 
 
 SAM. Newt Gillespie s with it he s wounded, himself, 
 slightly. 
 
 SHANKS. Well twon t hurt fur me to be there, too by 
 his coffin 
 
 SAM. Twon t be pleasant, cause that s one reason Newt 
 come along Fore he died Joe said, " Don t let my father 
 see me even in my coffin " Boy was kinda feverish but 
 Newt takes it serious and Newt wouldn t low you even if 
 you went there [He mounts.] My advice is to take it 
 comfortable as you kin [SAM rides off. SHANKS watches 
 him off looks at sky comes into light looks painfully into 
 house stands irresolute goes into road with intention of go- 
 
THE COPPERHEAD 129 
 
 ing to JOEY feels the pull of the stricken wife stops returns 
 into light and is looking into house. In distance, <e Johnny 
 Comes Marching Home."] 
 
 [CURTAIN.] 
 
CHARACTERS IN PART TWO 
 
 MILTON SHANKS Aged 78 
 
 MADELINE KING, his granddaughter 
 
 PHILIP MANNING 
 
 MRS. MANNING 
 
 COL. HARDY 
 
 DR. RANDALL 
 
 NEWT GILLESPIE 
 
 LEM TOLLARD 
 
 22 
 28 
 48 
 76 
 
 34 
 78 
 78 
 
PART II 
 
 ACT III 
 
 SCENE 
 
 Set same as preceding acts but showing lapse of forty years and 
 some improvement by money. The lilac bush is now tall 
 as the house and is in bloom spring flowers in beds. The 
 ground cloth has become a lawn. The well-sweep is re 
 placed by super-structure and pulley wheel. Small trees 
 are big. Vines cover the porch. The cornfield suggests 
 Villa acreage instead. There is a picket fence where the 
 rails were. Lawn furniture. 
 
 DISCOVERED 
 
 Empty stage. Piano heard. Enter SHANKS aged seventy-six 
 white-haired and bowed. He is in his shirt sleeves. He 
 crosses up to gate goes outside f and examines R.F.D. box. 
 Opens letter to himself, reads. Consults watch. The 
 song stops. 
 
 SHANKS [calls]. Some letters fur you, dearie. 
 
 MADELINE [off]. From Boston? 
 
 SHANKS. One is. [Enter MADELINE. This part is for 
 the same actress who does MA in Acts One and Two but with 
 complete change of character from drudge woman to bright 
 girl and from dark hair to blonde.] 
 
 MADELINE. Big envelope? 
 
 SHANKS [hands mail]. Yes. 
 
 MADELINE [showing contents of letter]. A copy of my 
 certificate, grandpa. 
 
 SHANKS [brightly]. From the Normal? 
 
 MADELINE. Yes. That ought to satisfy the board, hadn t 
 it? 
 
 SHANKS [smiles]. Some. 
 
i 3 2 THE COPPERHEAD 
 
 MADELINE. What s the best way to present it? 
 
 SHANKS. One way s ter send it or take it to their meetin 
 to-night other way is take it round this afternoon to the 
 separate members. 
 
 MADELINE. I could do both. 
 
 SHANKS. Course ye could. 
 
 MADELINE [in delight]. Oh! If I get it, grandpa 
 
 SHANKS. You ain t jes sayin that cause it tickles me 
 air ye? 
 
 MADELINE. No, indeed why, look around us no grain 
 elevators no noisy railroad yards no cobble stones and sixty 
 dollars a month, here, is as good as eighty in the city and 
 maybe I d get some singing, too. 
 
 SHANKS. Wouldn t count on that for money Lemme 
 see yer certificate [Takes it MADELINE opens other let 
 ters is earnest over one. Pause.] I ve got to go to the vil 
 lage I kin show this to some of em. 
 
 MADELINE. The village? Why? 
 
 SHANKS. There s a man I want ter see comin in on the 
 train or you could go along, too. 
 
 MADELINE [shakes head]. My doctor s coming. 
 
 SHANKS. Yer doctor? 
 
 MADELINE. The specialist that treated my throat last 
 winter. 
 
 SHANKS [frightened]. Why, darlin ye ain t ailin agin? 
 
 MADELINE [affectionately. Laughs and pets him]. No, 
 grandpa a friendly visit He s down this way on another 
 call, be says. 
 
 SHANKS. Doctors unsettle me. An I don t want any o 
 their blamed experiments on th only treasure God A mighty s 
 spared me no. 
 
 MADELINE. I don t need one I never will down here. 
 It s only the soft coal in the city! 
 
 SHANKS [with certificate]. I ll go in Philip Manning s of 
 fice with this and ask him to tell his mother about it. 
 
 MADELINE. We can wait until the meeting for Mrs. Man 
 ning she s for me, of course. 
 
 SHANKS. But maybe this ll give her a chance to pull some 
 wires this afternoon. 
 
 MADELINE. That s so. 
 
THE COPPERHEAD 133 
 
 SHANKS. And give Philip a chance. He ain t on the 
 board, but he s a power jest the same. 
 
 MADELINE. You bet. 
 
 SHANKS. You know, Maddy, I sicked Philip into politics. 
 
 MADELINE. Yes, I know. 
 
 SHANKS. D I ever tell you that? 
 
 MADELINE. Often, grandpa, yes. 
 
 SHANKS. Years ago, in a town meetin he stud up and 
 said sumpin I fergit what it was an I sent fur him Jest 
 a slip of a boy no older than yer Uncle Joey was. I said 
 "Young man, you take an ole feller s advice you ll go inter 
 politicks you got everything fur it voice and hair blue eyes" 
 an now, by Jim-min-nee, he s in the legislature I know 
 it [Enter PHILIP and MRS. MANNING, left, behind fence.} 
 
 PHILIP. Good afternoon. 
 
 MADELINE [very pleased}. Oh How-de-do. 
 
 SHANKS. Why, Philip jest talkin about you afternoon, 
 Mrs. Manning. 
 
 MRS. MANNING. Good afternoon, Miss Shanks. 
 
 MADELINE. My certificate has come from Boston. 
 
 MRS. MANNING. Good. 
 
 MADELINE. Come in. 
 
 PHILIP. We re on our way to Colonel Hardy s. 
 
 MADELINE. Just a minute your coat, grandpa. 
 
 PHILIP. Nonsense never mind your coat, Mr. Shanks. 
 
 SHANKS [on porch}. Got to go to the village, anyway. 
 [Exit. MRS. MANNING and PHILIP come through gate.} 
 
 MRS. MANNING [with certificate}. This completes our 
 hand. I ll make a motion that applicants for the position of 
 teacher must show a normal school certificate That will 
 dispose of Mrs. Simpson. 
 
 PHILIP. Yes, mother, if the motion passes but we want 
 to be sure. Hardy s our man to see. [Reenter SHANKS with 
 coat on.} 
 
 MRS. MANNING. Why Colonel Hardy so importantly? 
 He isn t on the board. 
 
 PHILIP. But as president of the village he appoints the 
 board and the majority will want to please him. Politics 
 every time. 
 
 SHANKS. Hardy Hardy s a stiff-necked feller allers was. 
 
134 THE COPPERHEAD 
 
 MRS. MANNING. Don t you like Colonel Hardy, Mr 
 Shanks ? 
 
 SHANKS. I do but Hardy ain t very friendly. 
 
 PHILIP. Then all the more reason for us to see him. 
 
 MRS. MANNING. Do you think he d favor Mrs. Simpson 
 for the place? 
 
 SHANKS. Well, you see she s a widder and her father s 
 a Grand Army man Hardy s a Grand Army man, too. 
 
 PHILIP. That s so. 
 
 MRS. MANNING. Her old father s one of my objections to 
 Mrs. Simpson. I m a great believer in heredity myself. 
 
 SHANKS. We got a little heredity ourselves. Madeline s 
 Uncle Joey was in Hardy s company. Ef he d a lived he d a 
 been a Gran Army hisself. 
 
 PHILIP. That s a good point for Hardy. 
 
 SHANKS. Oh, he ain t forgot it. Hardy ain t the forgettin 
 kind. [Consults watch. ] I hope you ll excuse me; I got ter 
 meet a man at the train. 
 
 MRS. MANNING. Certainly. 
 
 SHANKS [going]. Madeline kin make ye feel more at 
 home than I kin, anyway. [Exit.] 
 
 MADELINE. Please sit down. [They sit] 
 
 PHILIP. Now let s hold a council of war. We re going to 
 get you that teacher job if I have to set fire to the school house 
 What strings can we pull ? 
 
 MRS. MANNING. There ?re only five votes three men 
 and Mrs. Voorhees and myself One comfort, my dear, the 
 women are for you. 
 
 PHILIP. Tompkins is a regular crony of Gillespie s sure 
 for Mrs. Simpson. 
 
 MRS. MANNING. So s Wheeler. Our only hope is the 
 third man, Baumer. 
 
 PHILIP. What s his line of goods? 
 
 MRS. MANNING. He gives Swedish massage and tunes 
 pianos. 
 
 PHILIP. Tunes pianos Probably recommends some make 
 on commission, doesn t he? 
 
 MRS. MANNING. I think he does. 
 
 PHILIP [rising]. Good. I ll consult him about a piano 
 this afternoon. 
 
 MRS. MANNING [shakes head]. He knows I have one. 
 
THE COPPERHEAD 135 
 
 PHILIP. Not for you some friend of mine getting mar 
 ried. And then [indicates MADELINE] and let s see I won 
 der if he knows you sing? [MADELINE shrugs.] 
 
 MRS. MANNING. He must. The whole village is talking 
 of your singing last Sunday the first morning service I ve 
 missed in months. 
 
 PHILIP. Well, there s another drag brother artist and 
 I ll tell him if we can get you to live here there ll be regular 
 concerts you ll want a new piano the best he can find, and 
 for every concert it ll have to be freshly tuned and massaged 
 and everything Oh, I ll get Baumer. 
 
 MRS. MANNING. They re raving about your voice. 
 
 MADELINE. How lovely! 
 
 PHILIP. And they ve never really heard it. I was at 
 church Sunday morning. Come in and sing one of those lovely 
 ballads for mother, now, and we ll go on about our cam 
 paigning. 
 
 MRS. MANNING [rising]. Please. 
 
 MADELINE [as they start toward house]. It s pleasanter out 
 of doors, and you ll hear just as well. [Exit.] 
 
 PHILIP [on porch]. Personally, I enjoy seeing it done. 
 
 MRS. MANNING. Don t embarrass her, Philip. 
 
 PHILIP [returns]. Girls aren t embarrassed nowadays, 
 mother, because men like to look at them. [With lover s 
 fervor.] Isn t she adorable ? [Song begins.] 
 
 MRS. MANNING. Sh [After a few bars of song COLO 
 NEL HARDY enters, left, back of fence. He is the CAPTAIN 
 HARDY of the first part of play, and now about seventy-five 
 years old.] 
 
 PHILIP [seeing HARDY]. There s Colonel Hardy! [Calls. ] 
 Colonel! [HARDY, who has crossed, stops up right. MRS. 
 MANNING rises.] 
 
 PHILIP [in tone intended not to interrupt singer]. Mother 
 and I were just going to see you, Colonel. 
 
 HARDY [lifting hat]. Mrs. Manning [MRS. MANNING 
 gives hand.] 
 
 PHILIP [nodding to house]. That s Miss King singing. 
 Have you met her? 
 
 HARDY. No. 
 
 PHILIP [opening gate]. Come in. 
 
 HARDY. No, thank you. 
 
i 3 6 THE COPPERHEAD 
 
 PHILIP. Business Colonel for the village 
 
 MRS. MANNING [persuading]. Yes. 
 
 HARDY [indicates yard]. It s forty years, Mrs. Manning, 
 since I set foot on that ground. 
 
 PHILIP [playfully]. But Miss King s only about twenty 
 aren t visiting the third generation with the sins of others 
 are you, Colonel ? You know that s a divine prerogative. 
 
 HARDY. I refuse to speak to Mr. Milton Shank [Song 
 stops. MRS. MANNING turns back to porch.] 
 
 PHILIP. He s gone to the village. 
 
 HARDY. No? [Reenter MADELINE.] 
 
 MADELINE [laughing]. It s a very sentimental selection, 
 but [slows down as she sees the stranger] Philip is rather par 
 tial to it. 
 
 MRS. MANNING. Miss King I want Colonel Hardy, our 
 village president, to meet you. 
 
 MADELINE [coming on]. You re very good. 
 
 MRS. MANNING. Miss Madeline King, Colonel Hardy. 
 
 HARDY [lifting hat]. Miss King! 
 
 MADELINE. Won t you come in, Colonel? You re one of 
 my story book heroes 
 
 HARDY [reserved but pleased by her]. Indeed? 
 
 MADELINE. Colonel Hardy s a name as large as George 
 Washington in our household an uncle of mine was in your 
 regiment Do come in a moment [HARDY enters. Chairs 
 are readjusted.] 
 
 MRS. MANNING. Colonel Hardy heard some of your 
 song [To HARDY.] This is Miss King s certificate from 
 the Normal School Boston 
 
 HARDY. I won t sit down, thank you I m on my way 
 home. [With certificate.] Oh, yes Well, you ve evidently- 
 been very industrious, Miss King. 
 
 MADELINE. Very fortunate, Colonel ... so far. My am 
 bition now is to be allowed to stay here. 
 
 HARDY [attempting humor]. Well I ve some influence 
 with the police. 
 
 MADELINE. They haven t bothered me yet 
 
 PHILIP. They may ! 
 
 HARDY. Yes They re both young. 
 
 MADELINE [shakes head]. It s the shop-keepers I ve got 
 work in Chicago but I can t coax grandpa away from this 
 
THE COPPERHEAD 137 
 
 place and I d rather come to him I do know how to teach 
 school. 
 
 HARDY [musing, and studying her}. M. [Pause.] Your 
 grandfather likes it here? 
 
 MADELINE. Adores it I had an awful time getting that 
 picket fence the old rails had been there when Captain Tom 
 Hardy leaned on them Sam somebody tied his horse there, 
 when Vicksburg surrendered. 
 
 HARDY [pause]. The other candidate before the school 
 board has lived here always. 
 
 MRS. MANNING. Exactly she ll perpetuate every local 
 blemish. 
 
 HARDY. Her father has lived here 
 
 MADELINE. Well, my grandfather and grandmother 
 until Vicksburg " came along," as grandpa says 
 
 HARDY. I knew your grandmother, and it s a pleasure to 
 meet you The school board matter is mere gossip with me : 
 I m not a member. [Extends kand.~\ 
 
 MRS. MANNING. Philip and I will walk with you a ways 
 and elaborate the gossip. 
 
 HARDY. Delighted. 
 
 PHILIP. I ll follow, mother, and relieve you in a few min 
 utes. I m a terrible muff at gossip. 
 
 HARDY. He s boasting. 
 
 PHILIP. And the sidewalks in your man s town, Colonel, 
 aren t organized for three. . . . 
 
 HARDY [at gate]. My dear Philip that s what recom 
 mends them Come, Mrs. Manning. [Exeunt MRS. MAN 
 NING and COLONEL.] 
 
 PHILIP [easily]. No school like the old school. 
 
 MADELINE. I think your mother s wonderful. 
 
 PHILIP. Father was all right, too [pause and smile] and 
 the further back you go the better we get 
 
 MADELINE [smiling]. I wasn t thinking in that direction. 
 
 PHILIP. Fine! Let s talk about me. [Sits.] 
 
 MADELINE. You should hear grandpa. He thinks he put 
 you into the legislature. 
 
 PHILIP. I think so, too. 
 
 MADELINE. And in his mind and heart he s got you all 
 nominated next fall for Congress. 
 
 PHILIP [seriously]. Really! [MADELINE nods and smiles.] 
 
I3 8 THE COPPERHEAD 
 
 Funny, but Hardy s been putting that congressional bee into 
 my bonnet, too. 
 
 MADELINE. Why not? 
 
 PHILIP. Oh, I m in favor of it but I might get a glorious 
 licking and be assigned to go on in very private and depressing 
 obscurity here. 
 
 MADELINE [reproving]. One doesn t win by feeling that 
 way, Mr. Candidate. 
 
 PHILIP. I got in the legislature feeling that way. 
 
 MADELINE [pause]. You said " depressing obscurity !" 
 
 PHILIP. Well? 
 
 MADELINE. Do you mean the life in this place? 
 
 PHILIP. Principally. 
 
 MADELINE. I don t call it depressing. I think it s beauti 
 ful. I love every minute that I can stay here. 
 
 PHILIP. You re not a man with ambition. 
 
 MADELINE. Lincoln was. He lived only a few miles over 
 that way. 
 
 PHILIP. But Lincoln wanted to go to Washington. 
 
 MADELINE. I don t believe he did very much. Grandpa 
 says he didn t. And just a few miles further over that way 
 is Whitcomb Riley. " Long the banks of Deer Crick s good 
 enough for him." 
 
 PHILIP. I m not a poet. 
 
 MADELINE. Grandpa says you are. 
 
 PHILIP. Does he? 
 
 MADELINE. Yes. 
 
 PHILIP. Did he mean it for a knock or a boost ? 
 
 MADELINE. Boost, I hope. 
 
 PHILIP. Good [Pause. Earnestly] I ve got a notion 
 to tell you something, Madeline King. 
 
 MADELINE. Poetry ? 
 
 PHILIP [nods]. The first day I saw you after you came 
 back from Boston this same time two years ago I was to 
 make the Decoration Day speech at the soldiers monument next 
 day and I was scared blue I didn t have a single idea but I 
 drifted by here on the other side of the road You were 
 standing near the gate [MADELINE nods] that big lilac bush 
 behind you There d been a shower and " the sun had come 
 out with a flagon of amber and drenched the whole world in 
 ambrosial wine." 
 
THE COPPERHEAD 139 
 
 MADELINE [in real appreciation]. Oh, that s wonderful. 
 
 PHILIP. It seemed a vision. A symbol of the beauty that 
 must be eternal and I had my speech [Smiles re 
 laxes.] 
 
 MADELINE. We heard you make it. That s when grandpa 
 decided you were a poet. You said something about the sad 
 ness of the flowers fading, but the unbearable thing would be 
 if the Spirit of Spring itself should pass from the world 
 Then about those young people there growing old, but there 
 would always be on earth the spirit of youth and from that 
 to the soldiers dying but forever the spirit of Liberty living 
 and so on didn t you ? 
 
 PHILIP. Yes but all the time I was thinking of you and 
 that lilac and the golden sunlight over you and, dog-gone it, 
 Madeline, it s haunted me in committee rooms and courts and 
 railroad trains. Do you know, I jumped up to Chicago from 
 Springfield last session and went to church just to look at you 
 singing. 
 
 MADELINE. When ? 
 
 PHILIP. In February. 
 
 MADELINE. Why didn t you speak to me ? 
 
 PHILIP. When it was over the aisle was crowded and be 
 fore I could get to you you went out the stage entrance. 
 
 MADELINE [solemnly f shaking head]. That isn t what we 
 call the side door of a church. 
 
 PHILIP. I want you to get this teacher job if you want it 
 but whether you do or don t I ve just got to have you with 
 me, Madeline 
 
 MADELINE [pause]. Of course [Pause.] Any woman 
 would be complimented, Mr. Manning 
 
 PHILIP. Would she, Miss King? 
 
 MADELINE. Yes, Philip [PHILIP nods solemnly.] 
 Complimented by your your attention 
 
 PHILIP. I m asking you to marry me, you know. 
 
 MADELINE [pause]. I couldn t [pause] quite leave 
 grandpa now. 
 
 PHILIP. Don t leave him if the place is good enough for 
 Lincoln and Whitcomb Riley, I ll stand for it. Say yes. 
 
 MADELINE [regarding him]. You re a funny creature. 
 
 PHILIP. Well, I ll throw that in along with the poetry 
 but principally I want you to think about my law position and 
 
i 4 o THE COPPERHEAD 
 
 my general health. You re just playing the mischief with 
 both of em. . . . [Pause. He puts out his hand. MADELINE 
 studies him; then quietly lays her hand in his.] It s a bet, 
 is it? 
 
 MADELINE [hushed]. Yes it s a bet! [He kisses her 
 hand. Then with a better idea, goes to fence and looks right 
 and left returns. Rising.} No. 
 
 PHILIP. Not a God s soul in sight but one stranger, and 
 he s a block away. [Embraces and kisses her.] 
 
 MADELINE. Don t any more don t [breaks away] but 
 I m awfully happy. 
 
 PHILIP [pause]. I can think of about a million things in 
 my life I wish I hadn t done. 
 
 MADELINE. Stage doors? 
 
 PHILIP. No mostly stupid things, like thinking there 
 wasn t a God. [Laughs tenderly. Enter, from right back, 
 DOCTOR RANDALL. RANDALL looks over the fence as though 
 to identify the place sees MADELINE.] 
 
 RANDALL. Why! Miss King! [MADELINE goes to 
 gate.} 
 
 MADELINE. Doctor Randall this is wonderful. [Shakes 
 hands.] 
 
 RANDALL. Yes. [She brings him through the gate.} 
 
 MADELINE. Mr. Manning let me introduce Doctor Ran 
 dall, of Chicago. 
 
 PHILIP. Pleased to meet you, sir. 
 
 RANDALL. Mr. Manning. [Shaking hands. ,] Haven t we 
 met before? 
 
 MADELINE. Mr. Manning is our member of the legislature. 
 
 RANDALL. Judiciary Committee? 
 
 PHILIP. Yes. 
 
 RANDALL. That s it I m on the Pardon Board. 
 
 PHILIP. Of course. Stupid not to remember you. 
 
 MADELINE. Sit down. 
 
 PHILIP. I promised to follow mother, you know. [To 
 RANDALL.] Honoring our metropolis by any lengthy visit, 
 Doctor? 
 
 RANDALL. Leaving to-night. 
 
 PHILIP. Oh may see you later at that. [Smiles to MADE 
 LINE.] Good-by. [Exit right.] 
 
 MADELINE. Awfully good of you to think of me. 
 
THE COPPERHEAD 141 
 
 RANDALL. I had a professional call at Moline this forenoon 
 seemed a crime to be so near and not see you and this 
 amusing coincidence of your address. 
 
 MADELINE. What? 
 
 RANDALL. The name " care of Mr. Milton Shanks " 
 
 MADELINE. My grandfather. 
 
 RANDALL. I thought likely we re old acquaintances. 
 
 MADELINE. Grandpa and you? 
 
 RANDALL. Yes. Had half a dozen conferences at Spring 
 field since I ve been on the Pardon Board. 
 
 MADELINE. What about? 
 
 RANDALL. Some old fellow he s interested in. But isn t 
 it strange that in all our talks about him you never mentioned 
 his name? 
 
 MADELINE. I don t know. He s gone to the station now 
 to meet someone. 
 
 RANDALL. That s me, I fancy. I wrote him by the same 
 mail. 
 
 MADELINE. Yes? 
 
 RANDALL. I got off at the crossing. Brakeman said I d 
 save time. [Indicates baa.] Nothing to carry. 
 
 MADELINE. Then your visit isn t mine, after all? 
 
 RANDALL. Entirely yours grandfather is just an excuse. 
 
 MADELINE. Did you need an excuse? 
 
 RANDALL. A man s self-respect needs one, when a girl s 
 turned him down annually for years. 
 
 MADELINE [smiles]. I ve known you only two years, Doc 
 tor. 
 
 RANDALL [pause]. Really? [She nods.] Those refusals 
 seemed a year apart. 
 
 MADELINE. That s better. 
 
 RANDALL. How s the voice? 
 
 MADELINE. Fine, thank you. 
 
 RANDALL. You know, I don t want to talk physiology 
 to you, but even a great voice is sometimes improved by mar 
 riage. 
 
 MADELINE. That s the most expensive treatment you ve 
 ever recommended. 
 
 RANDALL. I offer it free. 
 
 MADELINE [shaking head]. Twouldn t be fair. 
 
 RANDALL. To you? 
 
i 4 2 THE COPPERHEAD 
 
 MADELINE. To either of us. 
 
 RANDALL. I wouldn t ask you to give up your work. 
 
 MADELINE. I can t do things by halves. 
 
 RANDALL. Not even better halves? 
 
 MADELINE. Not even better halves. I love the Church 
 work and the City now, but when I marry I ll want something 
 more like this [stretches out her arms] the sky to the 
 ground all about me. 
 
 RANDALL [in coaxing cadence]. Suburbs 
 
 MADELINE [shuddering]. Ugh! 
 
 RANDALL [pause]. The lake front would give us an hori 
 zon view half way round. 
 
 MADELINE [pause. Shakes head]. I m sorry. [Pause. 
 Maternally. ] Dear Doctor [puts hand on his arm] I haven t 
 told anyone about it not even grandpa but I m engaged to 
 be married now 
 
 RANDALL [pause]. Afraid to tell grandpa? 
 
 MADELINE. No. [Pause.] I haven t seen him since it 
 happened. [RANDALL looks at her looks off looks at her 
 pause nods off inquiringly after PHILIP MADELINE slowly 
 nods "yes."] 
 
 RANDALL. Ten minutes too late. 
 
 MADELINE. No, dear Doctor; I ve been in love with him 
 over a year. [A pause. RANDALL gets a railroad yellow time 
 table from his pocket and begins to consult it. MADELINE 
 covers the time-table.] Please wait and see grandpa. I do 
 want your opinion about him. 
 
 RANDALL. Tisn t my specialty but I get a bit of it. 
 
 MADELINE. It seems to be only the Civil War and that s 
 all right, too, except the siege of Vicksburg. 
 
 RANDALL. Was he at Vicksburg? 
 
 MADELINE [shakes head]. His boy my uncle on my 
 mother s side was killed there. 
 
 RANDALL. Union army? 
 
 MADELINE. Yes; and some of the explanation may be 
 there. Grandpa wasn t in the Confederate army but a sym 
 pathizer. Folks well, not so much now but they used to 
 blame him for it kinda cruelly. 
 
 RANDALL. I see. [Pause. Reenter SHANKS.] 
 
 MADELINE [going to him]. Grandpa, I m glad you re 
 back. This is my good friend, Doctor Randall, of Chicago. 
 
THE COPPERHEAD 143 
 
 SHANKS. When you had your sore throat? 
 
 MADELINE. Yes. 
 
 SHANKS. Madeline never told me the name, or I d known 
 it. How d I miss you? 
 
 RANDALL. I got off at the crossing. 
 
 SHANKS. Sit down, Doctor. How do you think Made 
 line s looking? 
 
 RANDALL. Looking? Why, heart-breakingly happy, sir. 
 
 SHANKS. Heart-breaking? 
 
 MADELINE. He s laughing at me, grandpa, because I ve 
 been foolish enough to tell him a secret but I ll not let him 
 laugh at you, too. I m engaged, grandpa. 
 
 SHANKS [unhappy at the idea that the man is RANDALL]. 
 Why 
 
 MADELINE. To Philip Manning. 
 
 SHANKS. To Philip well, I m happy, too. That [to 
 RANDALL] that ll keep her here [to MADELINE] unless you 
 go to Washington. [To RANDALL.] The young man s in 
 the legislature. Fact, you ve heard him talk at your com 
 mission. 
 
 RANDALL [nodding]. We met here to-day. 
 
 SHANKS. Engaged. So you don t care anything about the 
 teacher s position, then? 
 
 MADELINE. Oh, but I do all the more. I ve got to be 
 perfectly independent so that Philip shan t feel too sure 
 about it. [All laugh.] 
 
 SHANKS. I reckon you ve seen her more n her grandfather 
 has livin in Chicago. 
 
 MADELINE. Not quite, grandpa. 
 
 RANDALL. It must be fairly lonely by yourself. What do 
 you do here, Mr. Shanks, when she s away? 
 
 SHANKS. Well I read. [Pause.} An I think consid 
 erable an I cook some besides, a good deal of it s habit. 
 
 RANDALL. Yes; these machines of ours are very adjustable 
 things. 
 
 SHANKS. Machines? 
 
 RANDALL. Our bodies. 
 
 SHANKS. Yes, but I cahilate it s more a man s ideas 
 how he thinks. Automobiles go along that road now, but I ve 
 seen cavalry ridin by in the sixties an cannons four horses 
 to em. General Logan " Fightin John," they called him, 
 
i 4 4 THE COPPERHEAD 
 
 rested hisself in that chair yer sittin in Madeline s grand 
 mother give him a drink o water. [Conscious of the well.] 
 Automobiles go by here now, but sometimes I kin see Logan 
 and the cavalry plainer. How do you account for that? 
 
 RANDALL. Deeper impressions. 
 
 SHANKS. Madeline s mother played roun under them lilac 
 bushes Madeline played under em. Somehow I see the 
 mother cl arest an along in May, when the smell of em 
 comes in the winder bout sundown why, I can t say it 
 makes me downhearted xactly but if I was a woman, by 
 thunder, I d jes cry, I reckon. [Smiles. ] 
 
 MADELINE [going to him]. Dear grandpa I won t leave 
 you alone so much any more. 
 
 SHANKS. Nonsense why, she s spent years in Boston pre- 
 parin herself. [To MADELINE.] Don t you fret about 
 me. 
 
 RANDALL. You say Logan sat in this chair? 
 
 SHANKS. Yes; Fightin John. 
 
 RANDALL. Was your son with Logan? 
 
 SHANKS. With Grant. 
 
 RANDALL. Killed at Vicksburg. 
 
 SHANKS. You beared of Joey? [RANDALL looks at MAD 
 ELINE.] 
 
 MADELINE. Yes, grandpa. 
 
 SHANKS. Oh [Muses.] Yes, Vicksburg. [In low under 
 tone.] 
 
 RANDALL. A hard siege, I believe. 
 
 SHANKS [annoyed]. Grant didn t push it. 
 
 RANDALL. Didn t, eh? 
 
 SHANKS. No. 
 
 RANDALL. Tell me about it. 
 
 SHANKS. It s all as fresh as yesterday. You see, the coun- 
 try d been waitin for Grant ter do sumpin . [As the glint 
 of madness comes in SHANKS eyes MADELINE puts her hands 
 together in distress. RANDALL gestures silence.] 
 
 RANDALL. Waitipg for Grant 
 
 SHANKS. Yes. So I went down there myself. I sez to 
 him, "What s the delay, General?" I recollec he was settin 
 on a camp stool smokin , and 
 
 MADELINE [goes to him]. Grandpa. 
 
 SHANKS [feeling her touch]. Yes, dear. 
 
 . 
 
THE COPPERHEAD 145 
 
 MADELINE. You were here when they brought Uncle 
 Joey s body home, weren t you? Here with gramma. 
 
 SHANKS. Yes, here. 
 
 MADELINE. Then you couldn t have been at Vicksburg, 
 could you? [Brushes his hair back.] That * just the dream 
 again, grandpa the dream. 
 
 SHANKS [pause. To RANDALL]. Ever have a dream that 
 way? Takes hold o you perfect till sumpin brings you out 
 of it. 
 
 RANDALL. I know about them, a little. Yes. 
 
 SHANKS. It s all right, dearie. Excuse me ; I ll be all 
 right in a minute. [Goes up left fence.] 
 
 MADELINE. I had to interrupt him. It hurts me so when 
 that delusion comes over him. 
 
 RANDALL. Ever violent with it? 
 
 MADELINE. Never excited a little in telling it I used to 
 believe him when I was a child. 
 
 RANDALL. The son s death was a blow, of course, but 
 
 MADELINE. And his wife at the same time. 
 
 RANDALL. Wife died? [MADELINE nods.] Oh! 
 
 MADELINE. And neighbors hostile because of his politics. 
 
 RANDALL. I see. 
 
 MADELINE. Joey his son enlisted on the Union side and 
 wouldn t even speak to grandpa. 
 
 RANDALL. Well, that was pressure enough, God knows. 
 
 MADELINE. Take a walk with me. [SHANKS returns.] 
 
 RANDALL. Yes if you wish it. 
 
 MADELINE. I ll get a hat. [Exit to house.] 
 
 SHANKS. And yer letter, Doctor kind o excited me some 
 brought back old times. 
 
 RANDALL. Made you happy, I hope. 
 
 SHANKS. I can t tell you how much. The pore feller s 
 been in there thirty-eight long years and night and day I ve 
 thought about him been workin on his case thirty years 
 fifteen different legislatures. 
 
 RANDALL. Still his first sentence was death. 
 
 SHANKS. War times, Doctor and war-time hate. If he d 
 just had on a different suit of clothes when we got inter that 
 fight he d a been a prisoner o war and set free in two years 
 jist as Philip Manning said ter yer board. 
 
 RANDALL. Does Tollard find any of his old friends living? 
 
146 THE COPPERHEAD 
 
 SHANKS. He ain t been here, to my knowledge. 
 
 RANDALL. Hasn t? 
 
 SHANKS [shakes head]. Your letter was the first hint I 
 had he was free. 
 
 RANDALL. It must have startled you. 
 
 SHANKS. Don t tell her. 
 
 RANDALL. I won t. 
 
 SHANKS. She knows the folks here have been aginst me 
 purty hard but I ve kept all that prison talk and sentence o 
 death business out of her life and I m gonna see him first an 
 tell .him not ter talk, cause if he ain t got any place else to go, 
 I plan ter take him in here yes, sir. 
 
 RANDALL [gives hand]. You re a Christian gentleman, Mr. 
 Shanks. 
 
 SHANKS [shakes hand]. Some back-slidin I used horrible 
 language durin the war. [Enter GILLESPIE in Grand Army 
 uniform, back left.] 
 
 GILLESPIE. Shanks. 
 
 SHANKS [turns pauses]. Well, Newt? 
 
 GILLESPIE. Busy ? 
 
 SHANKS. I ve got a friend visitin here. [Enter MADE 
 LINE.] 
 
 MADELINE. I m going to walk up and meet Mrs. Man 
 ning, grandpa. [Sees GILLESPIE.] 
 
 GILLESPIE [pause]. That s her ain t it? 
 
 SHANKS. Madeline this is Mr. Newt Gillespie 
 
 MADELINE. How do you do, sir? 
 
 GILLESPIE [pause]. Elsie s daughter? 
 
 SHANKS. Yes. 
 
 GILLESPIE. I knowed yer grandmother, young woman. 
 
 MADELINE. I never saw her. 
 
 GILLESPIE. Well, anybody at ever did would a knowed she 
 was your grandmother. Don t lemme keep you because us 
 men has some business. 
 
 MADELINE. We ll go, then come, Doctor. [ DOCTOR 
 opens gate, exits with MADELINE.] 
 
 GILLESPIE. I don t call on you very of en, Milt. 
 
 SHANKS. No. 
 
 GILLESPIE. But I ain t like Hardy I ain t tongue-tied. 
 
 SHANKS. You said business, Newt 
 
 GILLESPIE. The school board votes to-night for a new 
 
THE COPPERHEAD 147 
 
 teacher my dotter has earned the place by years o primer 
 school work and she s substituted satisfactory in this job 
 the old settlers here ain t gonna be patient with any move to 
 cubflank her. 
 
 SHANKS. I think it s gone too far ter do anything but 
 leave it ter the board. 
 
 GILLESPIE. Tain t gone too far fur your girl ter withdraw. 
 
 SHANKS. I kain t ask her to do that. 
 
 GILLESPIE. Oh, yes, ye kin. 
 
 SHANKS. Well [Pause.] I won t. 
 
 GILLESPIE. You will, Milt. 
 
 SHANKS. Well, just remember, Newt I didn t gee and 
 haw about it. I tell you once for all flat-footed no. 
 
 GILLESPIE [pause]. Grover Cleveland s been president 
 twict an I ain t aimin ter dig up the bloody shirt agin, but 
 when little children air under a teacher s influence murder ain t 
 a nice subject to have in their minds. This ll be my argu 
 ment ter the school board to-night if you compel me. 
 
 SHANKS [pause]. I respect that coat ye got on, Newt, and 
 that cord round yer hat Them are naytional but it s a 
 mystery ter me sometimes how the war ever was won with souls 
 as little as yours is behind the guns. 
 
 GILLESPIE. I ll tell ye, Milt an yer welcome to repeat 
 it. It s cause the souls on the other side was the size o 
 yourn [Pause.] Now yer kin go ter yer church Sunday 
 and sing " Fur sech a worm as I " but Elsie s daughter with 
 draws. 
 
 SHANKS [pause]. Twasn t murder, and you know it. 
 They wair shootin on both sides fast as any pitched battle. 
 
 GILLESPIE. That s all been adjudicated by the courts an* 
 one of yer gang is still servin a life sentence fur it at Jolliet. 
 
 SHANKS. No he s pardoned now. 
 
 GILLESPIE. Lem Tollard? 
 
 SHANKS. Yes. 
 
 GILLESPIE. Who contrived that? 
 
 SHANKS. The unanimous pardon board that gentleman 
 walkin with Madeline is a member of it. 
 
 GILLESPIE. Pardoned? [SHANKS nods.] Well that don t 
 hurt my argument [Chews excitedly.] On the contrary 
 [Pause.] An it ll jes set tongues a waggin I don t hev to 
 be personal at all it ll be only foresighted fur the board to 
 
148 THE COPPERHEAD 
 
 shun it in the school house Ye ve jist histed yerself with 
 yer own pattard I told you you d withdraw. [Enter LEM, 
 right. He is seventy-eight but a fierce and burning seventy- 
 eight sullen and patient. ] 
 
 LEM [inquiring}. Gillespie! 
 
 GILLESPIE [pause]. That s my name. 
 
 LEM. ~You know me, don t you? [To SHANKS.] 
 
 SHANKS. Yes cause I been expectin you but we re both 
 changed a heap come in. [Extends hand.] 
 
 LEM [refuses hand but enters]. Expectin me? 
 
 SHANKS. Yes. 
 
 LEM. Why? 
 
 SHANKS. Well you lived here 
 
 LEM. Not for thirty-eight years I ain t by God ! 
 
 SHANKS. I ve kept count of em and I went before every 
 legislature we ve had an ter every governor up to this time. 
 
 LEM. I knew some bastard must a been at work ter keep 
 me there. [Pause.] Ye didn t stay inside there long yourself, 
 did you? 
 
 SHANKS. Sorry yer bitter about it, Lem but I ain t found 
 much to choose between outside or in except the last year 
 or so 
 
 LEM. You expected me cause I lived here. 
 
 SHANKS. Yes. 
 
 LEM. Listen ter this, Gillespie cause it s gonna be im 
 portant and short [Pause.] I ve come cause you live 
 here cause I ve figured out who fixed it so the cavalry was in 
 them especial bushes waitin for us I ve figured why I was 
 invited ter the arsenal in St. Louis and shet up till Camp 
 Jackson was captured I ve figured why several plans of ours 
 come out the little end o the horn figured it Listenin , 
 Gillespie? 
 
 GILLESPIE. I am. 
 
 LEM. Now listen and watch, too when I hand you what s 
 comin to you, Milt it s gonna be in the guts. [Enter PHILIP 
 and MAINLINE.] Why? Because there it ain t immediate 
 and you have time, God damn you, to suffer and be sorry. 
 [Draws gun. PHILIP has been ready from word ee guts " and 
 grabs LEM from back] 
 
 MADELINE. Grandpa [Runs to SHANKS.] 
 
 PHILIP. Give that to me! [Quickly gets gun and throws 
 
THE COPPERHEAD 149 
 
 LEM from him to ground. Enter RANDALL and MRS. MAN 
 NING.] 
 
 MRS. MANNING. Philip Philip what s the matter? 
 
 RANDALL. Tollard what s this mean your pardon s con 
 ditional on good behavior. Now go. [TOLLARD goes out gate; 
 waits for GILLESPIE.] 
 
 GILLESPIE. I ve heard his case [to SHANKS] and he ought 
 a killed you by God! You re more a murderer than he is 
 you was sentenced to be hung and they ought a hung you forty 
 years ago [To MRS. MANNING.] School board! This is 
 the kind o scandals you re tryin to introduce with your Bos 
 ton idears 
 
 MADELINE. To be hanged why, grandpa Philip 
 
 GILLESPIE. Damned ole jailbird firebrand and horse thief 
 and copperhead! Once a copperhead always a copper 
 head [Exit.] # 
 
 SHANKS. Maddy Maddy, dear it had to come some 
 time you got ter gimme a minute ter collect my idears. I 
 ain t afraid o death, Philip but I couldn t leave her this way! 
 
 [CURTAIN.] 
 
ACT IV 
 
 SCENE 
 
 Cheap Illinois rural interior but neat. The room is rectangu 
 lar except that upper left corner is obliqued for a chimney- 
 piece and cheap wood mantel of a low ivory in color. The 
 back wall has an exterior door, right, and window, left. 
 A second window is up, right, in side wall. 
 
 A door to kitchen is down, left. The wallpaper is neutral. 
 There are hartshorn blinds and cheap muslin curtains 
 looped back. A much worn rug or ingrain carpet prefer 
 ably rug covers entire floor. 
 
 Combined bookcase and desk, right. Desk is open and full of 
 the accumulated scraps of years. Chair at desk. Leaf 
 table, center, closed and covered with faded red cloth. 
 Piano between door and window. Two mid-Victorian 
 hair chairs at table. Rocker above fireplace. Black 
 walnut buffet, left. Cheaply furnished. The mantelpiece 
 carries a Rogers group and some China peasants. The 
 fireplace has a wallpaper screen in it, a rusty iron fender 
 is in place, and blowers. In upper right corner is a 
 furnished " whatnot The pictures on wall are framed 
 prints of sentimental stuff. An oval frame of walnut 
 molding over fireplace holds photo of boy of sixteen in 
 Federal uniform. Center table has a lamp. V oik s life 
 mask of Lincoln hangs on mantel panel over fire opening 
 Lincoln s hand is in bookcase desk. Through back door 
 is seen ceiling of porch, which may be a small piece hung 
 to about height of door. The back drop beyond gives an 
 oblique of left side of first set adjusted to angle of that 
 set house. 
 
 DISCOVERED 
 
 MADELINE putting away the supper dishes on dresser. She 
 takes off apron and brings writing material from desk to 
 table. Lights lamp. 
 
 150 
 
THE COPPERHEAD 151 
 
 [MADELINE turns at sound of step on porch. PHILIP ap 
 pears. ] 
 
 PHILIP [pause]. Good evening. 
 
 MADELINE [with restraint]. Good evening. 
 
 PHILIP. May I come in? 
 
 MADELINE. Yes. 
 
 PHILIP [enters]. Well that s something. [Pause.] Shake 
 hands? [Extends hand.] 
 
 MADELINE. Yes. 
 
 PHILIP. Feeling better? 
 
 MADELINE. Seeing better, I think. 
 
 PHILIP. Couldn t be looking better unless perhaps you d 
 consent to smile. 
 
 MADELINE [bitterly]. Not in this place. When I ve got 
 him away from these people who can carry hatred for a life 
 time got him safe with me in the city perhaps. 
 
 PHILIP. Only two old geezers in their dotage ignorant 
 and primitive. One of them just turned loose from jail. Why 
 care about them? 
 
 MADELINE [shakes head]. Colonel Hardy, the biggest man 
 in the town, hasn t spoken to him in nearly forty years. And 
 to think I was ignorant of the martyrdom he was suffering! 
 
 PHILIP. But it s over now, isn t it? 
 
 MADELINE. Is it? Who s been here to see him since it 
 happened? The afternoon s gone by and only the string of 
 morbid gossips gaping past the house. 
 
 PHILIP. I ve been here. 
 
 MADELINE. Your mother hasn t. 
 
 PHILIP. Well, mother s peculiar mother believes 
 
 MADELINE [pause]. In heredity 
 
 PHILIP. Mother believes there are times when people want 
 to be alone besides, to tell the truth, that shindy of ours rather 
 shook mother s nerves. She never saw anybody pull a gun 
 before and 
 
 MADELINE. Nor heard any one called a murderer. 
 
 PHILIP. I fancy not. But mother s all right. She said: 
 " My heart just aches for poor little Madeline." [MADELINE 
 sits and covers eyes.] I told her twasn t best to pull much of 
 that and you see I m right. Don t cry, dear, unless it com 
 forts you. [Pause.] Must be a deuce of a strain. [Arm 
 about her.] 
 
i 5 2 THE COPPERHEAD 
 
 MADELINE [moves away"]. Please dor/t do that. 
 
 PHILIP. We -re engaged, aren t weV [MADELINE shakes 
 her head. Pause]:] Well, I am and I ve got witness. That 
 Doctor friend ^f yours congratulated me said you d told 
 him. 
 
 MADELINE. Did your mother congratulate you? 
 
 PHILIP. Not yet but she will. 
 
 MADELINE. Did you tell her? 
 
 PHILIP [pauses shakes head]. She heard the Doctor. 
 [MADELINE looks at him. Pause.] I was planning to 
 cushion it even if that scrap hadn t have happened. 
 
 MADELINE. Naturally 
 
 PHILIP. I mean for any girl. When a fellow s an only 
 child and his mother s a widow, she [Shakes head.] Well, 
 for a thing like this you got to kind o blindfold em and back 
 J em into it. Mother thinks now that I don t love her 
 [shakes head] and I kind o hoped I d bring up my average 
 with you. 
 
 MADELINE [pause]. You may tell her she has nothing to 
 fear. 
 
 PHILIP. Ha! You don t know my mother. When I tell 
 her that you re making her conduct an excuse for throwing me 
 over, she ll be in here asking you what you mean by it. I 
 want you to marry me because you love me and appreciate 
 me, and not just to get rid of mother. 
 
 MADELINE [smiles]. Oh, Philip! 
 
 PHILIP [pleased with smile]. That s the girl I m going to 
 marry. 
 
 MADELINE [tasting her tears]. That s the girl that s 
 breaking her heart because you re not. 
 
 PHILIP [pause]. Why, Madeline, I d insist on your keep 
 ing your contract with me if you d been in jail. You can t 
 cancel it because this story turns up about your grandfather. 
 
 MADELINE. I saw the horror on your mother s face when 
 grandpa couldn t deny the stories copperhead and horse thief 
 and murder and penitentiary 
 
 PHILIP. But, Madeline, some of our best families can t 
 stand a show-down on grandfathers. Why 
 
 MADELINE. No, no I love him and I ll take him away 
 and protect him but I won t burden your career with that 
 a public man just starting his success a 
 
THE COPPERHEAD 153 
 
 PHILIP. Where is your grandfather now? 
 
 MADELINE. In town somewhere. 
 
 PHILIP. I ve got a car out here. Come with me. We ll 
 pick him up and a ride will do you both good. [MADELINE 
 shakes her head. A step is heard. They turn. Enter RAN 
 DALL.] 
 
 RANDALL. Good evening. 
 
 PHILIP. How are you? 
 
 RANDALL. I don t mean to intrude, but I ve an appoint 
 ment here with Mr. Shanks. [Consults watch.] 
 
 PHILIP. I m glad not to leave Madeline alone, Doctor. 
 [Pause] That engagement on which you congratulated me is 
 disturbing her just at present. I wish you d tell her that in 
 politics a man s father cuts very little ice and when it comes 
 to grandfathers, that most of the voters never had any. [To 
 MADELINE.] He ll tell you I m right about it. [Exit.] 
 
 MADELINE. Where did you leave grandpa? 
 
 RANDALL. On his way to Colonel Hardy s if that s the 
 name. 
 
 MADELINE. Why there? 
 
 RANDALL [shakes head]. Something about an election to 
 night. 
 
 MADELINE. At the school board? 
 
 RANDALL. I think so. 
 
 MADELINE. Poor grandpa. He mustn t be humiliated by 
 that. Oh, dear! 
 
 RANDALL. What is it? 
 
 MADELINE. I d applied for the appointment as school 
 teacher, but I don t want it now and I wish grandpa wouldn t 
 say any more about it. 
 
 RANDALL [pause]. Our friend [nods off] says your en 
 gagement is disturbing you some way. What does he mean? 
 
 MADELINE. I ve broken it. 
 
 RANDALL. On account of this trouble to-day? 
 
 MADELINE. Yes. 
 
 RANDALL [pause]. M! [Pause] Why, as I remember 
 it, Mr. Manning behaved rather sympathetically. 
 
 MADELINE. His mother didn t. 
 
 RANDALL. Well [pause] it s hard for me to be an en 
 thusiastic advocate, but maybe it s just as unfair to blame him 
 for mother as it would be to blame you for grandfather. 
 
i 54 THE COPPERHEAD 
 
 MADELINE. She s never liked grandpa. I was only twelve 
 when she took me away from him. 
 
 RANDALL. She took you ? 
 
 MADELINE. Well, sent me. 
 
 RANDALL. Why ? 
 
 MADELINE. School and music lessons in Boston. Their 
 family comes from there. 
 
 RANDALL. What was her reason? 
 
 MADELINE. She heard me singing in here as I was washing 
 dishes one day. I must have been bawling, because she stopped 
 her carriage and turned back and then came in. 
 
 RANDALL. Did she have her son with her? 
 
 MADELINE. No. 
 
 RANDALL. Carriage? [MADELINE nods. } By taking you 
 away from your grandfather, you mean that she financed your 
 school period? 
 
 MADELINE. Yes and that s one of the things I m going 
 to repay. That must have hurt grandpa, too because he s 
 awfully fine and delicate about such things but what s a girl 
 of twelve know? Can t you go to Colonel Hardy s and find 
 grandpa ? 
 
 RANDALL. Yes, but let s be sure that s what we want to 
 do. Don t you think that unpleasantly suggests a lack of 
 responsibility and 
 
 MADELINE. Yes of course you mustn t go 
 
 RANDALL [pause]. This this indebtedness you imply to 
 Mrs. Manning was that did that influence you in entering 
 into this engagement with her son? 
 
 MADELINE. Rather the other way but that s over now. 
 She s been against the other woman who is applying for the 
 teacher s place against her because her father, Mr. Gillespie, 
 is rather ordinary but grandpa s education isn t any better 
 and I couldn t [shakes head] with this this new talk about 
 him No, it s over over all of that [Throws it from 
 her.] 
 
 RANDALL. I m not going to be so gauche as to urge my 
 interest again at a moment like this but I want you to be 
 conscious of me as a kind of rainy day proposition one of those 
 consolation backgrounds like an accident policy when one feels 
 the automobile skidding. 
 
 MADELINE. Dear Doctor, your proposals are all so so 
 
THE COPPERHEAD 155 
 
 RANDALL. Indefinite ? 
 
 MADELINE. Practical to improve my voice, or live on the 
 lake front, or guard against skidding but I do like you. 
 
 RANDALL. And my dear mother is buried in Ann Arbor. 
 [Enter GILLESPIE.] 
 
 GILLESPIE. Where s Mr. Milton Shanks? 
 
 MADELINE. He s not at home, and I wouldn t let you see 
 him if he were. 
 
 GILLESPIE. He left word at my house that if I wasn t a 
 coward, to come here soon as I got home. 
 
 MADELINE. Doctor 
 
 RANDALL. Well, we ll tell him you called. 
 
 GILLESPIE. I won t trouble you, stranger. I ll wait for 
 him. 
 
 MADELINE. Not in here, Mr. Gillespie. 
 
 GILLESPIE. Sidewalk suits me unless it s just another cop 
 perhead trick ter keep me away from the school board. I ll 
 stay right out here till that meets and then I ll be back agin 
 when it adjourns at the gate. [Exit.] 
 
 MADELINE. Doctor 
 
 RANDALL. Nothing to fear, Madeline. An old fellow 
 like that! Why, his wind goes at the first real exertion. Be 
 sides [Voices outside. PHILIP and GILLESPIE.] 
 
 MADELINE. Grandpa [Runs to door RANDALL with 
 her.] 
 
 RANDALL. Mr. Manning again. 
 
 GILLESPIE [outside]. Half a dozen fellers heered him. By 
 God, I never tuk a dare from a copperhead in the army times. 
 
 RANDALL. Your grandfather isn t there. Come away. 
 
 MADELINE. I can t stand any more fuss. [PHILIP and 
 MRS. MANNING appear.] 
 
 PHILIP. Here s mother, Madeline. I ll be right back my 
 self. [Exit. MRS. MANNING enters.] 
 
 MRS. MANNING. Madeline! 
 
 MADELINE. Mrs. Manning 
 
 MRS. MANNING. Dear Madeline, you don t doubt my af 
 fection for you? 
 
 MADELINE. Tisn t a question of that, Mrs. Manning. I 
 know your pride, too. I m not going to shame it. 
 
 MRS. MANNING. Philip wants us to go on as though noth 
 ing had happened and wants us not to let this business stam- 
 
i 5 6 THE COPPERHEAD 
 
 pede our meeting to-night. The whole matter can be put over 
 a week. Philip s a lawyer and 
 
 MADELINE. What can a week change, if it s all true? 
 
 MRS. MANNING. Perhaps it isn t. 
 
 MADELINE. Perhaps it is. Grandpa hasn t denied it. 
 
 MRS. MANNING. He hasn t? 
 
 MADELINE. No. [Voices outside.] 
 
 SHANKS [voice emerging]. Yes, I said so. Come in, 
 Philip. 
 
 RANDALL. That s Mr. Shanks. [SHANKS and PHILIP ap 
 pear.} 
 
 SHANKS. Inside, Gillespie [PHILIP enters and goes to 
 MADELINE, ^vho avoids him down left.] Inside [Enters. 
 GILLESPIE enters. SHANKS looks about at others hesitates] 
 
 GILLESPIE. If I wasn t a coward, I d come. Well, I m 
 here. 
 
 SHANKS. I ve asked Colonel Hardy to come here. 
 
 PHILIP. Mr. Shanks! 
 
 SHANKS. Yes, Philip. 
 
 PHILIP [impulsively]. There s my hand, sir. 
 
 SHANKS [taking hand]. Yes. 
 
 PHILIP [pause]. You can tell whether I like you or not, 
 can t you? 
 
 SHANKS [in pain of grasp]. Yes, Philip I kin but don t 
 keep it up any longer n you haf to. [Straightens his cramped 
 fingers] 
 
 MRS. MANNING. I ve just got to be straightforward with 
 you, Mr. Shanks. 
 
 SHANKS. Best way allers if ye kin straightf orward ! 
 
 MRS. MANNING. Were you ever convicted on a criminal 
 charge ? 
 
 SHANKS [pause. Nods]. Once. 
 
 MRS. MANNING. That man said the penitentiary. 
 
 GILLESPIE. An I said so, too. 
 
 MRS. MANNING. I hate to add a moment to your unhap- 
 piness, Mr. Shanks. [Pause, during which SHANKS suffers 
 quietly] I m perfectly willing to concede that there was some 
 mistake about it that you were probably innocent of the 
 charge, but 
 
 SHANKS [shakes head]. No, I took em me and some 
 other fellers workin for the South. Them was war times, 
 
THE COPPERHEAD 157 
 
 recollec , an they wanted the horses fur John Moseby in Ken 
 tucky. F I d been in the army, it d been all right, but I was 
 I wasn t in the army. [Pause.] So [Throws up his 
 hands.] 
 
 MRS. MANNING. You must believe I haven t meant to 
 hurt you, Mr. Shanks! 
 
 SHANKS. Course. Yer jist thinkin about yer boy. 
 
 MRS. MANNING. That s all. 
 
 PHILIP. Never mind about me. 
 
 SHANKS. That s all at matters now. I don t care about 
 myself. Two other fellers was convicted long with me. One 
 of em s gone now; you saw the other one to-day so I don t 
 have to say anything fur them. But I would Folks called 
 em " copperheads," but they thought they was workin fur 
 their country, same as folks on the other side. Grant under 
 stood. He gave every feller his side-arms and his hoss at Ap- 
 pomattox. Grant said : " You ll need the bosses, boys, to plant 
 yer crops." That s what Abe Lincoln would o said, too. 
 Er [Pause.] Sorry, Philip [pause] awful sorry. 
 
 PHILIP [hands on SHANKS shoulders]. Over fifty years 
 ago, Mr. Shanks. It s a damned shame to dig it up now. 
 There s a moral statute of limitations and I hope that in fifty 
 years I ll have as clean a heart. [Strikes SHANKS on breast.] 
 
 SHANKS [pause and tender regard]. Taller n me. He 
 he used to put his hands on my shoulders. I wish Hardy d 
 come but there s somethin we kin do while we re waitin . 
 [He goes to desk gets old revolver in paper, unwraps it. 
 There is a tag which his grasp hides.] 
 
 MRS. MANNING. Is that loaded? 
 
 SHANKS. Four barrels yes. 
 
 GILLESPIE. I didn t bring any gun. 
 
 SHANKS. You kin have this one, Newt. [To MADELINE.] 
 Dearie, git the corkscrew for me. [MADELINE goes for old 
 folding corkscrew in buffet.] Philip. 
 
 PHILIP. Mr. Shanks. 
 
 SHANKS. At my trial, this was marked Exhibit B. Two 
 barrels fired. The rest are just as we left em. Take that 
 corkscrew, Philip, and pull out the wads and the powder, 
 cause they never was any bullets in em. I didn t say that at 
 the trial, cause I didn t want to lay the blame all on the 
 others but I ain t a murderer, Madeline. 
 
i 5 8 THE COPPERHEAD 
 
 MADELINE. Of course you aren t, dear. 
 
 GILLESPIE. You ve had thirty-eight years ter git out the 
 bullets yerself. 
 
 SHANKS. That s so and I only want to convince Made 
 line about that. I ve never told her a story. 
 
 PHILIP. I believe you, too. 
 
 GILLESPIE. Well, I don t and it s time fur your school 
 board meetin , Mrs. Manning. [Enter HARDY.] 
 
 SHANKS. Come in, Colonel Hardy, come in, sir. Sit 
 down, Mrs. Manning. A short horse is soon curried, and my 
 business won t keep the men standin long. [HARDY comes 
 down, bowing to company] Sit down, Maddy, dear you kin 
 Stan by her, Philip. [Pause as group arranges itself.] Doc 
 tor Randall. [Pause.] Philip. [Pause. Defers to MRS. 
 MANNING slightly] Colonel Hardy and me was boys to 
 gether. Our Congressman give me an appointment to West 
 Point, but Tom Hardy ought a o had it. Besides, twasn t 
 convenient for me to go to West Point jest then, so I resigned 
 it fur him. Fore that, we went together to a school where 
 Abe Lincoln come and talked to us. We both knowed him 
 from that time on until he was elected President ain t that 
 so, Colonel Hardy? 
 
 HARDY [severely]. Yes. 
 
 SHANKS [gets mask from mantel, blows dust from it]. 
 Lincoln! We was together at his house, fore he started for 
 Washington. A sculpture man was there to take a plaster 
 Paris model of his face. Most folks think this is a after death 
 thing, but Colonel Hardy and me saw it took jes throwed 
 the soft plaster on his face and let it git hard. Lincoln sittin 
 in a armchair, like you are. [To MRS. MANNING.] In this 
 box [gets it from desk] where I have my letters and keep 
 sakes is a model of Lincoln s hand the hand that wrote the 
 emancipation of slavery. [Pause] The sculpture man sent 
 me these hisself, so they re genuine. That stick s a piece of 
 broom handle Lincoln sawed off while Volk [reads name 
 on cast] that was the sculpture feller s name while Volk was 
 mixin plaster in a washbowl. [Shows hand by his own] 
 Bigger man n me, every way. [Pause] All of the statues of 
 Lincoln nowadays is copied from this [pause] so, you see, we 
 knowed him. [Pause] Then the war broke out. Hardy tuk 
 a vow to support his country, I took one to destroy it. Hardy s 
 
THE COPPERHEAD 159 
 
 company marched off my Joey, only sixteen, along with em. 
 iHis mother leant agin the fence an the women fanned her 
 an , my God he looked like a soldier! [Regards picture 
 suggests march. To PHILIP.] You was probably thinner at 
 sixteen yerself. 
 
 PHILIP. Yes I was. 
 
 SHANKS. I was peekin from some bushes cud o almost 
 teched him as they marched by [pause] blue eyes [To 
 MRS. MANNING. Paused] His mother never said a word 
 cried quite a spell. Well, us Knights o the Golden Circle 
 
 GILLESPIE. Copperheads 
 
 SHANKS [pause]. Golden Circle we sent help to the 
 South all we could and we pizened cattle, and I went to 
 Richmond Virginy twict. Time went on an Vicksburg 
 come and one night a feller galloped into town hyar and 
 hitched. " When d you hear from Joe ? " sez he. " Last week," 
 I sez. "How was he?" sez he, a-foolin round tightenin up 
 his girth. "All right," sez I, and he sez: "Joe s dead." 
 [Pause. To MADELINE.] I kin see yer gramma yet, a-cryin* 
 by the well, pettin the corner of it where Joey d been. Bym 
 by, I leant over to tech her, but she drawed away, a-tremblin 
 and a-sayin : "For Gawd s sake, Milt Shanks, yer unclean!" 
 [Pause. To MRS. MANNING.] His mother [pause] two 
 or three days she was pinin with her face agin the letters 
 he d wrote home, and then [Pause.] At the church in 
 stead of the trouble I expected from the neighbors, they was all 
 strange-like an kind, cept when I went to look in the black 
 coffin under the flag, where Joey was. Newt Gillespie took 
 me by the arm and [Pause,] You tell em, Newt, what 
 you said to me. 
 
 GILLESPIE. I hev told em more n once. 
 
 SHANKS. Tell her. She never heered it. 
 
 GILLESPIE. I d give my word fore he died. 
 
 SHANKS [to MADELINE]. His word to Joey. 
 
 GILLESPIE. Yes. He said : " If you take me back, don t 
 let him see me. If he on y fought on the other side, I d o 
 been proud, even if he d been the one that shot me but no 
 copperhead." An I did. Right in the church, I jes tuk him 
 by the arm and said : " It was his particular last request " 
 quiet-like, as I m talkin now, and led him out o the church. 
 An , by God, I d do it agin! 
 
160 THE COPPERHEAD 
 
 MADELINE. Oh, grandpa! 
 
 SHANKS. That left only little Elsie, yer ma an she was 
 so little I couldn t leave her alone, and I was carryin her on 
 my arm. Newt Gillespie was the only man at spoke to me 
 and in the whole United States yes, in the whole world 
 only one man wrote to me. [Pause.] I kep his letter 
 natural [Gets letter from box.] I m gonna ask Colonel 
 Hardy ter read it. [Takes letter from old flag and hands it, 
 open, to HARDY.] Careful, Colonel. It s a keepsake with me. 
 An then that s all I ve got to say. If twasn t fur Madeline 
 and Philip and I know they re lovin each other and sep- 
 aratin 
 
 HARDY. My God! Who s crazy you or I Milt 
 Shanks! Milt Shanks! 
 
 RANDALL. What is it, Colonel? 
 
 SHANKS. Read it, Colonel Hardy. 
 
 HARDY [reads] . " Executive Mansion, Washington, April 
 nth, 1865. Mr. Milton Shanks, Millville. Dear Milt: 
 Lee s surrender ends it all. I cannot think of you without 
 a sense of guilt, but it had to be. I alone knew what 
 you did and, even more, what you endured. I cannot reward 
 you man cannot reward anything worth while there is only 
 One who can. I send you a flag handkerchief. [SHANKS un 
 consciously touches the flagJ] It is not new, but you will prize 
 it the more for that. I hope to shake your hand some time. 
 Your friend, A. Lincoln." 
 
 SHANKS. Colonel, do you recollec the time you druv me 
 to the train in March o sixty-one? 
 
 HARDY. Very well. You went to look at cattle. 
 
 SHANKS. That s what I told you. I wuz called to Wash 
 ington by Lincoln, an two days later, at night, in his library 
 White House he walked over to erd a winder, and, without 
 turnin round, he says: "Milt " [Pause.] Funny I remem 
 ber a clock tickin on the mantelpiece [Pause.] I sez: 
 " Mr. President " [Pause.] " Milt, how much do you 
 love yer country?" [Pause.] "I cahilate I d die for it," I 
 sez. [Shakes head.] " Thousands o boys is a-cryin to do 
 that." Then he turned round. " Would you give up sumpin 
 more n life?" [Pause.] "Try me," I sez. The President 
 run his hands through his hair an went on : " It means to be 
 odious in the eyes of men and women ter eat yer heart out 
 
THE COPPERHEAD 161 
 
 alone f ur you can 4 tell yer wife ner chile ner friend." 
 [Pause.] " Go on, I sez. [Pause.] " The Southern sym 
 pathizers are organh ing in our State really worse than the 
 soldiers. I want yo> ter jine them Knights o the Golden 
 Circle ter be one o^them their leader, if you kin. I need 
 you, Milt. Yer country needs you." [Pause.] Hadn t been 
 two minutes since he was laffin , but he lifted his hands, and it 
 seemed we wuz the only folks in the world [pause] and that 
 clock [pause] funny I remember that. [Pause.] " I ll do 
 it," I sez. [Pause.] He tuk a little flag out o his pocket 
 like as not this very one put it on the table like I m puttin 
 it. [Pause.] " As Chief Magistrate of the nation, I ll muster 
 you inter the nation s service," he said. He laid my hand 
 where the blue is and all the stars, and put his hand over mine. 
 [Business suggested with cast.] Only open, of course [uses 
 his own hand] and said nothin [pause. Nods.] jes looked 
 in my eyes an looked [Pause.] Well, I jined em. 
 [Pause.] It was terrible, when I couldn t tell the boy [looks 
 at PHILIP] when he marched off. [To MRS. MANNING.] 
 Sixteen, you know blue eyes [Pause. MADELINE takes 
 his hand and kisses it. The action startles him a little.] It 
 ruined the Governor that pardoned me out o Joliet, where I 
 was convicted to but I ve allers figured he had his orders 
 from Washington same as me an couldn t talk about it. 
 An even when Vicksburg come, and Joey was dead, why, the 
 war wasn t over. 
 
 HARDY. But, damn it, in all these years we ve despised you, 
 why haven t you told? 
 
 SHANKS. Told who? Couldn t tell Joey or his mother, 
 and, with them gone tellin anybody seemed so so useless. 
 Only now, when it s separatin her an Philip an spoilin her 
 election in the school board 
 
 HARDY. Her election! Why, damn it, that story d elect a 
 wooden Indian! [GILLESPIE grabs SHANKS coat.] 
 
 RANDALL. What are you doing? 
 
 GILLESPIE. Take that off. This coat don t belong on me. 
 
 SHANKS. Newt not yer Grand Army coat? 
 
 GILLESPIE. Git in it! Here s the hat. [Goes to door, 
 carrying SHANKS coat.] Bring him to that meetin . I m a 
 damn fool, but, by God, I ain t no skunk! [Exit.] 
 
 MADELINE. Oh, grandpa! 
 
162 THE COPPERHEAD 
 
 SHANKS [loving the coat}. The blue- 
 
 RANDALL. The hat, Mr. Shanks! 
 
 SHANKS. An a cord round it. If thej* was only a lookin 
 glass. \ 
 
 MRS. MANNING. Come, Colonel. [ HARDY crosses to 
 SHANKS returns the letter. The two men join hands in 
 speechless emotion a moment.] 
 
 SHANKS [forgiving]. Tom! [HARDY pats SHANKS shoul 
 der and moves on. With flag] All right, now, to carry this, 
 ain t it? 
 
 PHILIP. I should say it was! 
 
 SHANKS. God! It s wonderful [pauses and inhales] to 
 hev friends agin! [Goes. PHILIP takes MADELINE in his 
 arms MRS. MANNING watching them from right.] 
 
 [CURTAIN.] 
 
DULCY * 
 A COMEDY IN THREE ACTS 
 
 By 
 GEORGE S. KAUFMAN 
 
 and 
 
 MARC CONNELLY 
 (With a Bow to Franklin P. Adams) * 
 
 * Copyright, 1921, by George S. Kaufman and Marc Connelly. 
 
 Dulcy is reprinted in this volume by the kind permission of G. P. 
 Putnam s Sons, the original publishers. All dramatic rights are con 
 trolled by George C. Tyler, New Amsterdam Theatre Building, New 
 York. It may not be acted, either by professional or amateur com 
 panies, without permission and the payment of royalty. 
 
 1 The editor thanks F. P. A. for permission genially granted to 
 "take anything you like" from The Tower. 
 
There is hardlv any kind of source, novels, poetry, chronicle 
 histories, biographies, or old plays that Shakespeare did not 
 draw upon for his plots, his characters, his local color, and 
 even his great passages of poetry; but since modern journalism 
 dates only from the eighteenth century, and feature journalism 
 developed in the nineteenth century, and " colyumists " have 
 flourished and multiplied only in the twentieth, it is safe to 
 assert that George S. Kaufman and Marc Connelly were 
 strictly original in using the " Dulcinea " of Franklin P. 
 Adams for dramatic purposes. 
 
 Within easy recollection, Mr. Adams has conducted columns 
 in three New York newspapers, The New York Mail, The 
 New York Tribune, and The World. There have been other 
 notable column conductors, beginning with Eugene Field, who 
 was the first one, and coming down to Bert Leston Taylor, for 
 whose posthumous collection of poems F. P. A. has written such 
 a gay and touching foreword. Then there is Don Marquis, 
 who presides over The Sun Dial in The Sun. There are 
 other favorites, too, in various parts of the United States. 1 
 
 To the present generation of readers, it seems fairly evident 
 that future historians of " columning " in America will rank 
 high among the brilliant achievements of Don Marquis the 
 delineation of that inimitable lady of intellectual pretensions, 
 Hermione, and her " Little Group of Serious Thinkers." 
 Hermione was born and grew to full artistic maturity in The 
 Sun Dial; and the same historians will place on a neighboring 
 pinnacle Dulcinea, who in June, 1914, sprang fully panoplied 
 in platitudes to a place of power and position in The Conning 
 Tower, the column conducted by F. P. A. in The New York 
 Tribune. 
 
 So many beastly things happened in the summer of 1914 
 that it is pleasant to stop and contemplate the emergence of 
 laughter-provoking Dulcinea. On June 4, 1914, there ap 
 peared the following item in The Conning Tower: 
 
 1 Other well known " colyumists " are Edwin Meade Robinson, 
 Christopher Morley, Judd Mortimer Lewis, S. Jay Kaufman, S. E. 
 Kiser, Kenneth C. Beaton, and Frank Stanton. 
 
 165 
 
1 66 DULCY 
 
 "PROBABLY FANNING ONLY MAKES HER WARMER 
 
 How are Don Juan s dates for this week? I d like to take him to 
 Dulcinea s Del Taboso s for tea smafternoon and let her spring You 
 know, hot tea is really more cooling than iced tea in warm weather 
 on him." 
 
 Dulcy was followed up the next day in a series of items like 
 this: 
 
 "IT ISN T THE PLACE, THOUGH, IT S THE PEOPLE 
 
 SIR: Tell Don Juan I can produce one upon a day s notice guar 
 anteed to say: I want to go somewheres where it s quiet, this 
 summer. " 
 
 and 
 
 "OH, IT S A FINE TOWN TO VISIT BUT NO PLACE TO 
 
 LIVE IN 
 
 SIR: Dulcinea tells me she knows Don Juan, and that he told her 
 New York, for a man, is really as comfortable a place as any to 
 spend the summer." 
 
 Three days later, F. P. A. printed more interpretations 
 under the heading: 
 
 " DULCINEA AND THE BROMIDAN TOUCH 
 
 M. L. E. Each Spring she says: I like to do Coney Island just 
 once every summer, and that s enough. 
 
 SARTOR. Perhaps she lives in Europe, but only exists in Amer 
 ica. 
 
 HELEN. I know her. She * doesn t care for money for its own 
 sake only for what it will buy. 
 
 R. C. M. You don t need to care much what kind of people are 
 there, Dulcinea, if you have your own crowd. 
 
 We feel certain that Dulcinea doesn t care much about what kind 
 of room she gets at that summer resort. * One is never in one s room 
 except to sleep, you know. " 
 
 Presently F. P. A. was having Dulcinea send to The Con 
 ning Tower letters describing her stay at Bromidlewild. She 
 would write, for example: 
 
DULCY 167 
 
 "At Bromidlewild they have had some new stationery designed. 
 The shield shows a bromide tablet, dormant on a field of parsnips. 
 
 Motto: Dulcy far niente." 
 
 or 
 
 " Last night was one of those nights in the country that makes you 
 feel so sad, you don t know why. So I went up to my room and 
 read some poetry. Don t you just love Poe? His poems are so 
 musical, especially The Bells, and The Raven is a wonderful 
 thing. He must have been awfully distressed to have written that. 
 It might seem funny to you, but I ve always thought he had his own 
 life in mind when he wrote and that it is symbolic of his passion for 
 drink and the remorse that followed. Then again there s Browning, 
 so entirely different, but so true to life." 
 
 F. P. A. even allowed Dulcinea to attempt her own Horatian 
 paraphrase, here reprinted: 
 
 IN A MANNER OF WRITING 
 
 Horace: Book I, Ode 38. 
 
 Persicos odi, puer, apparatus 
 
 By Our Own Dulcinea 
 
 Honestly, Fred, I simply detest the new Persian styles. And I 
 can t bear those linden-tree hats. And don t, please, Fred, go looking 
 for expensive American Beauty roses. I like plain myrtle heaps 
 better. It s the intention; not the cost of a gift, I always say. 
 
 I d rather have a glass of cold water, too, than all the fancy 
 drinks in the world. 
 
 Good-by! Be good." 
 
 On July 4, 1914, the following prophetic notice appeared 
 in The Conning Tower: 
 
 "THE SAILING AWAY OF G. S. K. 
 
 SIR: I told Dulcinea I d be in England and she said to give her 
 regards to the king. . . . Imagine me with five weeks of Towers to 
 read when I come back! [Exit laughingly.] G. S. K." 
 
 On July 7, another contributor wrote as follows: 
 
 "SIR: Dulcinea and I went down to see G. S. K. off on the Kroon- 
 land. She thought the slow boats were lots more fun, the fast trips 
 
i68 DULCY 
 
 don t seem like really crossing the pond at all. She wanted to know 
 if I didn t wish / was going too, but thought she d rather see Amer 
 ica first. . . . The officers uniforms were awfully handsome, and 
 she thought a sailor s life must be awfully healthy, always out in 
 the salt air. But they say they re terribly superstitious." 
 
 % 
 
 So we arrive finally at the meeting of Dulcinea and G. S. K., as 
 George S. Kaufman is known, when he writes as contributor 
 to F. P. A. s The Conning Tower. 
 
 In August, 1920, George C. Tyler, the manager, needed a 
 comedy for Lynn Fontanne, Ellen Terry s charming pupil. Mr. 
 Tyler invited George S. Kaufman and Marc Connelly to 
 write a play for this English actress. Only ten characters were 
 to be introduced. The authors exceeded this limit by one. 
 To quote Mr. Kaufman, " We had a great break of luck with 
 it the various parts fell into place all in one Sunday after 
 noon. It was written in less than five weeks in the belief 
 that it would go into rehearsal immediately. That was August 
 of 1920. The theatre shortage held us up until February of 
 the following year, when the play opened in Chicago." 
 
 Both authors are journalists. Marc Connelly comes from 
 Pittsburgh, where he did newspaper work for six or seven 
 years, during the last one of which he conducted a humorous 
 column in The Gazette Times. He has lived in New York 
 ever since. Mr. Connelly is a reporter on The Morning 
 Telegraph, has done a number of Sunday stories for The New 
 York Times and other papers, and has been a frequent con 
 tributor to Life. 
 
 George S. Kaufman was also born in Pittsburgh, in 1889, 
 a year before Mr. Connelly. They both studied in public 
 schools in Pennsylvania. At one time Mr. Kaufman thought 
 of becoming a lawyer, but he found the law " too dry." 
 Mr. Kaufman is now in the dramatic department of The 
 New York Times. He has in the past been connected with 
 The New York Tribune, The New York Mail and The 
 Washington Times, conducting columns on the last two. 
 On these various newspapers, he has also been reporter, rewrite 
 man, and copy writer. " Incidentally," Mr. Kaufman confesses, 
 " as Dulcy herself might say, the newspaper training is elegant 
 for stage writing it teaches you not to repeat." 
 
 As a matter of poetic justice, one more fact should be chron 
 icled in connection with Dulcy. On February 20, 1922, an- 
 
DULCY 169 
 
 other comedy in three acts by George S. Kaufman and Marc 
 Connelly, called To the Ladies, was produced at the Liberty 
 Theatre in New York. In this play, according to the appre 
 ciative reviewers in the Calendar of The New York Drama 
 League, " the authors of Dulcy have given us another bright, 
 clean, hilarious comedy. They have turned the tables, and 
 in the place of the bungling, bromidic wife tangling up the 
 affairs of a self-reliant husband, we see a quick-witted little 
 wife smoothing out the ineptitudes of a conceited blockhead 
 of a husband." 
 
DULCY 
 
 CHARACTERS 
 
 Produced by George C. Tyler and H. H. Frazee, at the Cort 
 Theatre, Chicago, February 20, 1921, with the following cast: 
 
 DULCINEA : t . . Lynn Fontanne 
 
 GORDON SMITH, her husband ...... .,. John Westley 
 
 WILLIAM PARKER, her brother Gregory Kelly 
 
 C. ROGER FORBES Walter Clark 
 
 MRS. FORBES Constance Pelissier 
 
 ANGELA FORBES . . Norma Lee 
 
 SCHUYLER VAN DYCK Gilbert Douglas 
 
 TOM STERRETT, advertising engineer .Elliott Nugent 
 VINCENT LEACH, scenarist ......... Howard Lindsay 
 
 BLAIR PATTERSON ,..,..,..,.. George Alison 
 
 HENRY Harry Lillford 
 
 Produced at the Frazee Theatre, New York, August 13, 1921, with 
 the same cast. 
 
 ACT I 
 
 The scene is the living-room in the suburban home of DUL 
 CINEA and her husband in Wesichester County, within 
 commuting distance of New York. -It is a room that is 
 splashing rather than merely striking. The furniture, for 
 no particular reason, is old Italian, but most of it is hid 
 den beneath beautiful and variously colored batiks and 
 dmpes. Over the divan, for example, is a golden brocade, 
 and on it three blue pillows. Across the grand piano is 
 a red drape, and on it a blue book. The window cur 
 tains are also of blue; there are two or three striking 
 lamps in the background, and the tinted walls are cov 
 ered here and there by a couple of good-looking tapestries. 
 There are no pictures, for DULCINEA is nothing if not 
 modern. On a platform at the rear, where the stairs 
 begin to ascend, stands a great blue urn, filled with hydran- 
 170 
 
DULCY 171 
 
 geas. On a cabinet at one side is an iridescent bowl 
 containing tea roses; at each side of the cabinet stands 
 a floor candlestick of Italian design. In a word, the 
 room is DULCY. // there were a telephone DULCY would 
 have it covered with a cute little doll but this is a play 
 without a telephone. 
 
 In addition to the stairs there are three means of exit at the 
 rear are French windows which open onto the lawn and 
 DULCY S cherished garden; at the right is a door that 
 leads to the interior of the house, and at the left another 
 that leads to the hallway and the outer door. 
 
 The tirne is five o clock on a Friday afternoon in late summer. 
 The French windows are closed, subduing somewhat the 
 light in the room. The rising curtain reveals WILLIAM 
 PARKER, DULCY S brother, stretched out in an easy chair, 
 reading a magazine. After a moment HENRY, the but 
 ler, enters. He goes up to the windows, opens them, and 
 comes back to BILL. 
 
 HENRY. Mr. Smith has just come in, sir. 
 
 BILL [after a pause, not looking up from his magazine}. 
 Yeh? 
 
 HENRY. Yes, sir. 
 
 BILL. My sister with him? 
 
 HENRY. Oh, no, sir! Mrs. Smith is at her Friday after 
 noon club, over at Mrs. Kennedy s. [HENRY picks up a 
 magazine from the floor and puts it on the table.} 
 
 BILL [getting to his feet}. What time s dinner? 
 
 HENRY [hesitates}. Seven-fifty, sir. 
 
 BILL. Seven-fifty? My God! 
 
 HENRY. Yes, sir. 
 
 BILL. Oh James ! 
 
 HENRY. Henry, sir. 
 
 BILL. Henry ? 
 
 HENRY. Yes, sir. 
 
 BILL. Henry. [He pauses.} Who else is coming to this 
 week-end? I mean, besides Mr. Forbes, and ah his wife 
 and daughter? 
 
 HENRY. I m not certain, sir. I ve rooms ready for a 
 number, sir. 
 
 BILL. M m. Well [Enter GORDON SMITH, DUL- 
 
i 7 2 DULCY 
 
 CINEA S husband. He is an alert young business man, with 
 worry just beginning to set on his shoulders.] 
 
 GORDON [as he enters]. Good evening, Bill. You re early. 
 HENRY [turning away from BILL]. Yes, sir. 
 BILL. Hello, Gordon. [BILL lights a cigarette. HENRY 
 goes out; GORDON S eyes follow him] 
 
 GORDON [looks around, yawns, stretches]. Been here long? 
 BILL. Oh, not so very. It was sort of dull in town, so 
 I thought I d come out early. 
 
 GORDON. Of course glad you did. [He takes another 
 moment to stretch, then drops onto the sofa] Tired to-night. 
 BILL [observing a folded newspaper in GORDON S pocket]. 
 What s that the Sun? 
 
 GORDON. No Post. [He hands him the paper BILL 
 drops into a chair with it. There is a considerable pause while 
 BILL reads and GORDON indulges in another yawn] Dulcy 
 not home yet, huh? 
 
 BILL [reading the paper at the same time]. No. She s 
 across the street some place. Mrs. Kennedy s, I think. 
 GORDON. Oh, yes. It s a Friday afternoon thingmajig. 
 BILL [still with the paper]. M m. 
 
 GORDON [another pause; musters up some energy]. Well! 
 How s business? 
 
 BILL [puts down the paper and looks at him]. What? 
 GORDON. I say, how s business? 
 
 BILL [as though announcing a death]. Haven t you heard? 
 GORDON [a bit cheerily]. Oh, I don t know I have an 
 idea it may be picking up presently. 
 
 BILL [tapping the newspaper]. You ve been reading Mr. 
 Schwab. [He quotes] " Steel Man Sees Era of Prosperity. 1 
 GORDON. Well I think he s right at that. 
 BILL. Yes. [A pause] Rockefeller expects to break even 
 this year, too. 
 
 GORDON. Just the same, I look for an improvement. 
 [Earnestly] Bill, if it could just be arranged that all the out 
 standing accounts could be absorbed by the banks, and then 
 turn those into accounts payable 
 
 BILL [interrupting]. I know. You mean things would 
 be better if we weren t all broke. 
 
 GORDON. That s one of the things that holds us back 
 pessimism. 
 
DULCY 173 
 
 BILL. How s the artificial jewelry business? If any? 
 
 GORDON. Well, it s looking up a bit. 
 
 BILL. Anything new on Forbes merger? 
 
 GORDON. It s coming along. It s practically settled, I 
 think, that I m to go in with him. 
 
 BILL. That s great. I hadn t said anything, but I rather 
 felt that you were up against it, when I saw you last week. 
 
 GORDON. Thanks, old man. I was, a bit. 
 
 BILL. You ll be all right if this deal goes through? 
 
 GORDON. I think so. It will end this fighting among us 
 smaller men. 
 
 BILL. How many of you are going into this pool? 
 
 GORDON. About half the trade. I m to get sixteen and 
 two-thirds per cent of the stock of the combine. 
 
 BILL. Just for the factory? 
 
 GORDON [unwillingly]. Well, the plant and the pearl 
 formula. 
 
 BILL. Oh, I see. 
 
 GORDON [justifying himself]. Of course, that means a cash 
 payment when the papers are signed, and that will just about 
 see me through. 
 
 BILL. You think that s enough sixteen and two-thirds? 
 Those pearls of yours are pretty good, you know, even if they 
 are imitations. 
 
 GORDON. I know but I m up against it. I ve got to take 
 what he gives me, or have that crowd to fight. Forbes is a 
 tough customer. 
 
 BILL. That s hard luck. 
 
 GORDON [doubtfully]. Of course, I may be able to do 
 something with him over the week-end. 
 
 BILL. Huh? 
 
 GORDON. He s coming out here, you know. 
 
 BILL. So I understand. 
 
 GORDON [looks at his watch] . They re driving up from 
 town. 
 
 BILL. Uh-huh. [Thoughtfully. ] Bringing his wife and 
 daughter, too, isn t he? 
 
 GORDON. Yes. They re going to stay over Sunday. 
 
 BILL. I didn t know you knew them that well. 
 
 GORDON. Well, I don t except Forbes in a business way. 
 [He pauses] I wasn t keen for it. 
 
174 DULCY 
 
 BILL. Well, then 
 
 GORDON [rises]. Well, Dulcy thought it would be nice to 
 have them out here, and well 
 
 BILL [as GORDON pauses]. Yes, I know. [There is a 
 pause.] Does he play Russian bank? [HENRY enters with 
 the afternoon papers, which he puts on the table. GORDON 
 watches him narrowly, and believes that he detects HENRY 
 looking furtively at him. HENRY departs again.] 
 
 GORDON [paying no attention to BILL S question]. Did 
 you notice that? 
 
 BILL. What? 
 
 GORDON. The way he looked at me. 
 
 BILL [lightly]. Henry? 
 
 GORDON. Didn t Dulcy tell you? 
 
 BILL. She s over at Mrs. Kennedy s. 
 
 GORDON. Well he s an escaped convict! 
 
 BILL [with a start]. He s what? 
 
 GORDON. No I don t think that s just what I mean. It s 
 a suspended sentence. Dulcy got him off by you know. 
 Promised to take care of him, and give him work, and 
 
 BILL. What s his line? 
 
 GORDON. He s a butler. 
 
 BILL. I mean, what was his line? 
 
 GORDON. Oh! He wrote a little check or something. 
 
 BILL. And the judge turned him over to Dulcy? 
 
 GORDON. After she made about twenty trips to town, and 
 exhausted the judge, and used up a hundred dollars worth 
 of my lawyer, and 
 
 BILL. She does things right. 
 
 GORDON. Oh, well, I suppose it s all right. After all, 
 there was some doubt about him. Dulcy went to see His wife 
 and family, and she felt pretty badly over it [Door bell 
 rings.] 
 
 GORDON. Here they are ! 
 
 BILL. The Forbeses? 
 
 GORDON. Yes. 
 
 BILL. Better send them over to Mrs. Kennedy s, so that 
 Dulcy can receive them. 
 
 GORDON. Darn it! the man coming here, with a busi 
 ness deal on. I don t like it! [Enter HENRY.] It looks 
 too much as if I were trying to 
 
DULCY 175 
 
 BILL. Oh, I don t know. [HENRY crosses and goes out 
 at the other side. BILL watches him off.~\ Are you always 
 sure he s coming back? 
 
 GORDON. I don t like mixing business with social affairs. 
 
 BILL [solemnly]. Why don t you make Dulcy lay off? 
 
 GORDON. Why don t I? How can I? 
 
 BILL [after considering it}. I never thought of that. 
 [Enter HENRY.] 
 
 HENRY. It s a Mr. [Enter TOM STERRETT, a very- 
 much-alive young man. He is the kind of youth who pulls 
 weights in his bedroom every morning, and who feels that a 
 vigorous good health is the first aid toward business success. 
 His business is advertising. He could tell you hundreds of 
 interesting facts about type psychology, direct sales drives and 
 national conferences; and would, if you gave him half a chance. 
 He believes in Presence and knows he has it.] 
 
 STERRETT [brushing past HENRY with an Open, Sesame! 
 smile]. I beg your pardon! I m Mr. Sterrett! 
 
 BILL [first looking at GORDON to see if he knows him; sees 
 he does not]. That s fine. 
 
 GORDON. You re looking for Smiths? [HENRY departs 
 at this point] 
 
 STERRETT. Yes, sir. I m expected to meet Mr. Forbes 
 here. Your man says 
 
 GORDON [# bit more cordial]. Oh! Mr Forbes hasn t 
 arrived yet I m expecting him very soon. [Extending his 
 hand] I am Mr. Smith. 
 
 STERRETT [inflicting a brisk hand-shake]. Smith Pearls? 
 
 GORDON. Ah yes. 
 
 STERRETT. I follow your campaigns. Your advertising. 
 
 GORDON. This is Mr. Parker, my brother-in-law. 
 
 STERRETT. How are you, sir! {^Shaking his hand vigor* 
 ously] Didn t I meet you at the A. C. A. Convention? in 
 Detroit last summer? [Renewing the hand-shake with the 
 explanation] Advertising Oubs of America? 
 
 BILL [returning the shake with interest]. I m afraid not. 
 
 STERRETT [very quickly]. Sorry, my mistake. 
 
 BILL [adopting STERRETT S snappy style]. It s all right! 
 Have a cigarette! [He whips out his case; clicks his heels 
 with military precision] 
 
 STERRETT [accepting one and glancing at it]. Ah! C & 
 
i 7 6 DULCY 
 
 G! Thanks! [Pulls forward a chair, sits, and lights hif 
 cigarette.] 
 
 GORDON [knowingly saying the unnecessary]. Won t you 
 wait ? 
 
 STERRETT. Surely! Mr. Forbes left word at his office for 
 me to meet him here. It s about some contracts that have to 
 be 
 
 GORDON [somewhat more cordially]. Oh, I see. You re 
 in the Forbes organization? 
 
 STERRETT [with a trace of reproof]. Oh, no! I handle 
 Mr. Forbes advertising. S. S. Q. & L. Agency. 
 
 BILL [airily]. Oh, the S. S. U. & L.! 
 
 STERRETT [correcting him]. S. S. Q. & L. Simpson, 
 Simpson, Querrida and Lawford. 
 
 BILL [taking a moment to digest it]. That s fine. 
 
 STERRETT [hitching his chair towards SMITH]. Have you 
 followed our Forbes copy, Mr. Smith? 
 
 GORDON. Well to a degree yes. 
 
 STERRETT [a bit disappointed in GORDON; turns to BILL], 
 You re interested in advertising, Mr. Parker? 
 
 BILL. I buy the Saturday Evening Post. 
 
 STERRETT [missing it by sixty feet]. But speaking generally 
 of the other media 
 
 BILL. I m afraid I don t know much about advertising. In 
 fact, I ve never been in Detroit. 
 
 STERRETT [answering without thinking]. Well, that s too 
 bad. [Realizing he hasnt understood] Huh? [Thinking 
 he understands] Oh, yes great town! Town that s made 
 itself through advertising! [He consults watch] What 
 time do you expect ah Mr. 
 
 GORDON. Mr. Forbes and his family will be here presently. 
 
 STERRETT. Oh, is Mr. Forbes family coming? 
 
 GORDON. Yes, they re going to spend the week-end. 
 
 STERRETT. Mr. and Mrs. Forbes? 
 
 GORDON. Yes. 
 
 STERRETT. And Miss Forbes? 
 
 GORDON. Yes. 
 
 BILL. Are you a friend of the family s? 
 
 STERRETT. Oh, yes! [A pause] Yes, indeed! 
 
 BILL [giving GORDON a significant look]. H m. 
 STERRETT. What was that? 
 
DULCY 177 
 
 BILL. I didn t say anything. 
 
 STERRETT. Oh, beg pardon, I m sure. 
 
 GORDON. Well ah [He is saying what seems to be 
 expected of him.] You must stay for dinner, Mr. Sterrett. 
 
 STERRETT. Many thanks. If I won t be 
 
 GORDON [a bit curtly]. That s splendid. 
 
 BILL. Yes that s fine. We generally need one more for 
 Dulcy s parlor games, don t we? 
 
 STERRETT. Now, I want to be sure I m not intruding. 
 
 GORDON. Not at all. We re only too glad to have you. 
 [DuLCiNEA enters through the French window. She is 
 dressed in a gown that is just a bit too much for an afternoon 
 gathering; she carries an armful of flowers, and she is in her 
 customary bubbling good humor.] 
 
 DULCY. Hello, everybody! 
 
 BILL. Hello, Dulcy. 
 
 DULCY. M m! It s nice and cool in here, isn t it? You 
 know, if there is any breeze going at all, we get it in this 
 room. [She has a way of speaking an age-old platitude as 
 though it were a wise and original thought a little thing 
 casually tossed off in the course of conversation.] Don t we, 
 Gordon, darling? [She kisses him.] Did you have a good 
 day at the office? Send for Henry to fix these, will you? 
 [She indicates the flowers.] Aren t they pretty? right out 
 of my own garden. [BiLL comes down to her.] Hello, Wil 
 lie. [Kisses him.] Whom have you been doing? Eh? 
 [She laughs loudly at her own joke.] 
 
 GORDON. Dulcy, this is Mr. Sterrett. My wife. 
 
 DULCY. Oh, how do you do? [Shaking hands somewhat 
 appraisingly.] 
 
 STERRETT [with great assurance]. How do you do! 
 
 DULCY [trying to estimate STERRETT S position in the scheme 
 of things]. Have you been over the grounds? Gordon, you 
 must show Mr. Sterrett over the grounds. 
 
 GORDON. Mr. Sterrett is a friend of the Forbeses. 
 
 DULCY [as this explains STERRETT to her]. Oh, the 
 Forbeses really! Oh, that is nice! [Then with a bit of 
 panic.] Have they come? Where are they ? Why didn t you 
 tell me! [She rushes up toward the staircase, then toward 
 the windows.] Upstairs or in the garden or where 
 
 BILL [holding up his hand]. Now wait. 
 
 
i 7 8 DULCY 
 
 DULCY [coming to BILL]. But what are they going to 
 think? My not being here how rude why, if they 
 
 BILL. Now, wait wait! [She finally pauses.} The 
 Forbeses are not here. 
 
 DULCY. Well, why didn t you tell me so in the first place? 
 After all, Willie, I m not a mind reader. 
 
 GORDON. Mr. Sterrett has come to see Mr. Forbes on a 
 matter of business. 
 
 BILL. And since he is also a friend of Miss Forbes 
 
 GORDON. I ve invited him to stay for dinner. 
 
 DULCY [none too pleased, particularly about STERRETT S be 
 ing a friend of ANGELA S]. Oh! So, you re a friend of An 
 gela s that s lovely! Yes, you must stay! [HENRY enters 
 and stands awaiting instructions. } Just take pot luck with 
 us, Mr. Sterrett. I always say that anyone can drop in 
 I think that s the nicest kind of a household, don t you? [This 
 one is No. 213, Series L, but DULCY utters it as though no 
 one had ever thought of such a thing before.] 
 ^TERRETT. Why, yes. You know, I have a dear old aunt 
 
 DULCY [not waiting to hear]. Oh, Henry, get some vases 
 for these flowers then I ll arrange them. I think arranging 
 flowers is quite a knack, don t you, Mr. Sterrett? Some peo 
 ple can do it, and others can t, you know . . . it s just like 
 an ear for music. Either you have it, or you haven t it, and 
 there you are ! 
 
 BILL. Mr. Sterrett is in the advertising business not the 
 music business. 
 
 STERRETT. Oh, but what she says is very true very true, 
 indeed. But as I was saying this dear old aunt of mine 
 I ah she [DuLCY is giving the flowers to HENRY and 
 pays no attention. STERRETT fails to make an audience either 
 of SMITH or BILL.] I ah suppose I wait in the next room 
 for Mr. Forbes? 
 
 DULCY. Of course. Henry, show Mr. Sterrett into the 
 library. There are some lovely books there. My books are 
 my best friends, Mr. Sterrett. 
 
 STERRETT. Thank you. [He departs and glad of the 
 opportunity.] 
 
 DULCY. Henry, fix up the little green room for to-night. 
 Fix it nicely. 
 
 Yes, ma am. [He follows STERRETT off.] 
 
DULCY 179 
 
 GORDON. He s not going to stay to-night! 
 
 DULCY [has picked up an evening paper, and is already ab 
 sorbed in it]. No, darling, but someone else is. 
 
 BILL. Still another? 
 
 DULCY [with the paper]. Oh, what do you think? Mrs. 
 Harper was acquitted! I always say, if a woman is good 
 looking, no jury on earth will convict her. 
 
 GORDON. Dulcy, never mind that. Who else is coming? 
 
 DULCY {immersed in paper]. " A demonstration that lasted 
 fifteen minutes greeted the acquittal of Mrs. " 
 
 GORDON. Dulcy! 
 
 DULCY [slowly, as she scans the article ]. I just want to 
 see what she wore. 
 
 GORDON. Dulcy, listen to me! 
 
 DULCY. Well, dear? 
 
 GORDON. Who else is coming? 
 
 DULCY [putting paper down]. You ll never guess. 
 
 GORDON [tiredly]. I m sure I ve no idea, Dulcy. 
 
 DULCY [going to him]. Schuyler Van Dyck! 
 
 BILL. Schuyler Van Dyck! 
 
 DULCY. One of the Van Dycks, and he s worth millions! 
 
 GORDON. Schuyler Van Dyck s coming here! 
 
 DULCY. Yes isn t it wonderful! He s a marvelous man, 
 and you ought to hear him play the piano. You d never think 
 he was a Van Dyck he s so democratic. 
 
 BILL. Where the devil did you meet him? 
 
 DULCY. Oh, several places, and this afternoon he was 
 at Mrs. Kennedy s and played for us. He had a lot of invi 
 tations, and he accepted mine. [DuLCY returns to the table 
 and replaces the newspaper neatly, then gives the sofa cushions 
 a touch. GORDON follows her, speaking as he goes.] 
 
 GORDON. But, my dear, having this man here with Forbes 
 how do we know it s going to 
 
 DULCY. Oh, but it will Mr. Van Dyck s a business man 
 too, darling. He owns all kinds of things railroads rail 
 roads I think some of them are. He ll help entertain Mr. 
 Forbes with them. 
 
 GORDON. But Forbes isn t the kind of man that wants 
 to be entertained. That s just it! 
 
 DULCY. Darling, leave Mr. Forbes to me. [Puts arm 
 around him.] I ve got a real surprise for you! 
 
i8o DULCY 
 
 GORDON. Another one? 
 
 DULCY. A wonderful one! Just for you! 
 
 BILL. One thing that Dulcy never learned is the differ 
 ence between a surprise and a shock. [HENRY returns with 
 a bowl and a vase of flowers. ] 
 
 DULCY. You shut up, Willie. 
 
 GORDON. But what is it? Has it got to do with Forbes? 
 
 DULCY. Yes, darling, and it s something that s going to 
 help you a great deal with Mr. Forbes. [BiLL goes solemnly 
 to GORDON and shakes his hand.] 
 
 BILL. Sometimes I think our family must have adopted 
 Dulcy. [He makes a melancholy exit.] 
 
 DULCY. Oh, Henry! There ll be two more for dinner. 
 
 HENRY. Yes, ma am. 
 
 DULCY. That makes nine, doesn t it? 
 
 HENRY. Yes, ma am. [HENRY goes upstairs.] 
 
 DULCY. I love a big table, don t you, Gordon? There s 
 something so hospitable about it. [She is looking around for 
 the spots at which to place the flowers.] 
 
 GORDON. Nine? Then there s still another coming be 
 sides Van Dyck? 
 
 DULCY [with the air of someone revealing a great secret]. 
 Yes! 
 
 GORDON. What are you trying to do solve the housing 
 problem ? 
 
 DULCY [picking up vase of flowers]. Just wait, darling! 
 You ll be so excited! [Breaking the big news over SMITH S 
 shoulder.] Vincent is coming! 
 
 GORDON [at sea]. Vincent? 
 
 DULCY. Yes. Isn t it wonderful? [Puts the vase on the 
 piano] That looks pretty, doesn t it? 
 
 GORDON [trying to recall]. Vincent Vincent who the 
 devil is Vincent? 
 
 DULCY [indicating the bowl]. Or do you think this one 
 ought to go over there and that one here? 
 
 GORDON [annoyed], I don t know. Who is this man? 
 
 DULCY. Well, you don t need to get angry at me> 
 darling, just because I want to make the place look nice. 
 
 GORDON. I m not angry but 
 
 DULCY. I m doing it for you, darling. You know, with 
 Mr. Forbes coming 
 
DULCY 181 
 
 GORDON. I know, but tell me about this man 
 
 DULCY. Vincent Leach? Don t you remember ? You and 
 I met him at Mrs. Peabody s last week you know, the big 
 scenario writer. 
 
 GORDON [faintly recalling}. Oh, yes. Is he coming here? 
 
 DULCY. Yes! Isn t it wonderful? [Picks up the bowl 
 from the table and starts toward piano with itJ] 
 
 GORDON. But look here now Dulcy, will you leave those 
 flowers alone, and come here and talk to me? 
 
 DULCY. Just a minute, darling. [She replaces the vase 
 on the piano with the bowl, then takes the vase back and puts 
 it on the table.] A time and a place for everything. There! 
 [She seats herself on his lap.} 
 
 GORDON. But, dear, why do you want to mix this man 
 Leach up with Forbes? Van Dyck may be all right, but 
 
 DULCY. Ah ! That s the secret ! 
 
 GORDON. But I don t like secrets. This isn t a game. 
 
 DULCY. Promise you won t tell! Cross your heart! 
 
 GORDON. Yes, yes. 
 
 DULCY. Well, then Vincent and Angela [she kisses 
 him} like each other. 
 
 GORDON. You mean Forbes daughter? 
 
 DULCY [nodding]. Isn t it wonderful? So I invited them 
 both here so they ll have the whole week-end together. And 
 at the same time he can meet her parents. You never can tell 
 what will happen. 
 
 GORDON. But, Dulcy, dear, you don t know Angela so 
 well, and this man Leach what do you know about him? 
 
 DULCY. I know all about him. He s a big scenario writer, 
 and just the man for Angie. He s he s so practical, and 
 she s a dreamer. Opposites should marry you know that, 
 darling. 
 
 GORDON. But, Dulcy, now 
 
 DULCY. And what else do you think? I m going to get 
 him to help me with some of ray scenarios while he s here. 
 
 GORDON. But why, dear ? 
 
 DULCY. To make them better. 
 
 GORDON. No, no I mean why are you trying to match 
 this fellow Leach with Angela? What do you care about 
 it? 
 
 DULCY. Don t you see? 
 
1 82 DULCY 
 
 GORDON. No. 
 
 DULCY. Can t you guess? 
 
 GORDON. No. 
 
 DULCY. Well, if Angie likes Mr. Leach, and marries 
 him 
 
 GORDON. Yes? 
 
 DULCY. And / fix it 
 
 GORDON. Well ? 
 
 DULCY. Well I m your wife [GORDON springs up in 
 alarm, dropping DULCY off his lap.] 
 
 GORDON. Now, Dulcy dear 
 
 DULCY. That will make Mr. Forbes so grateful i:hat he ll 
 have to give you more than sixteen and two-thirds of the per 
 centage. 
 
 GORDON. Good heavens, Dulcy! Now 
 
 DULCY [ecstatically]. I figured it all out myself! 
 
 GORDON. But, now wait! [He paces the floor]. 
 
 DULCY. Gordon, darling don t be upset about it. I know 
 they ought to marry I just know it. It s a woman s intui 
 tion. [A pause.] Just as I knew I ought to marry you, 
 dear. [GORDON stops.] It was because I loved you, darling, 
 and wanted to help you, and and 
 
 GORDON [going to her and embracing her]. Yes, and you 
 do help me. 
 
 DULCY. Well, then 
 
 GORDON [tenderly]. And you re not sorry that you mar 
 ried me, instead of Arthur, with all those millions? 
 
 DULCY. You re going to have millions, too, dear at least 
 thousands. And I loved you not Arthur. [She buries her 
 head on his shoulder.] 
 
 GORDON. Dulcy, dear. [He kisses her neck.] 
 
 DULCY. And I d love you if you didn t have a cent, and 
 and stand by you, and help you. You do want me to help you, 
 don t you? 
 
 GORDON [reluctantly]. Why I ah yes ah 
 
 DULCY. Well, then, let me! 
 
 GORDON. But you don t understand, dear. Try to see 
 my position. 
 
 DULCY. But I do see it. You need Mr. Forbes help and 
 I m going to get it for you. 
 
 GORDON. I need it in a business way. And as it s only in 
 
DULCY 183 
 
 a business way, I feel that I ought to handle ft alone in 
 office hours. Don t you see? 
 
 DULCY [turning away on the verge of tears], I feel almost 
 as if I were being exiled. 
 
 GORDON [embracing her]. Well, you mustn t you aren t 
 being exiled. Just realize that in this particular affair you re 
 my silent partner, and a very important one, too. Don t you 
 know, dear, if it weren t for you I couldn t go to town day 
 after day and fight! There! you re really helping me all 
 the time, by just being you. [He steps back from her.~] 
 Furthermore, don t you remember that you promised me that 
 you d let me manage my own business matters? 
 
 DULCY. When? 
 
 GORDON. Three months ago? When we came back from 
 our honeymoon? 
 
 DULCY. Why, I never did. 
 
 GORDON. The time that you practically discharged my 
 secretary ? 
 
 DULCY [remembering ]. Oh! 
 
 GORDON. You thought Shepherd was dishonest simply be 
 cause he wore a heavy black moustache. 
 
 DULCY. Oh, Gordon, darling, I know I ve done some silly 
 things, but when I married you, dearest, I did promise to 
 stand beside you all my life and love you and help you, and 
 that s what I think I ought to do now. That s why I m doing 
 it. 
 
 GORDON. But, Dulcy 
 
 DULCY. Well, Mr. Forbes is taking advantage of you and 
 I m not going to let him that s all ! 
 
 GORDON [desperately]. But that isn t the point! In the 
 position that I am I have to go ahead with it. I wouldn t 
 want anything to happen. [Pleading affectionately.] Don t 
 you see, dear, if I m not in that merger, I ll lose everything! 
 
 DULCY. But only sixteen and two-thirds per cent it s 
 such a funny number, too. I don t see why you couldn t get 
 a nice even number like twenty-five. [She pauses.] Or 
 fifty! But sixteen and two-thirds they could never divide it. 
 [BlLL returns.] 
 
 BILL. Well, has she fixed it? 
 
 DULCY. We ve been all through it quietly, Willie, and 
 it s settled. 
 
1 84 DULCY 
 
 GORDON. Now, Dulcy, you must listen 
 
 DULCY. Now now not another word. Just let let 
 sleeping dogs lie and everything is bound to come out all right. 
 It always does. [She looks toward the window.] Oh, here s 
 Mr. Van Dyck! [Rushing to the window. ] Come right in 
 this way, Mr. Van Dyck! That s right here you are! 
 [ScHUYLER VAN DYCK enters through the French window. 
 He is aristocratic in bearing and well dressed. He has a bag of 
 golf-clubs over his shoulder and is carrying a suitcase .] Well, 
 you found the way, didn t you you re like me you ve got a 
 bump of location! Henry will take your things where s 
 Henry? Willie, send for Henry! My, this is lovely! [BiLL 
 pulls the bell cord.] So glad to see you in our own little nest, 
 Mr. Van Dyck. [VAN DYCK has put his suitcase and golf- 
 bag down. DULCINEA leads him down to GORDON.] This 
 is my husband, Mr. Van Dyck. Mr. Van Dyck, Gordon, 
 that I ve been telling you so much about. [As an after 
 thought. ] And my brother, Willie. [HENRY comes down 
 stairs.] 
 
 VAN DYCK [as he shakes SMITH S hand]. Mr. Smith, how 
 do you do, sir? 
 
 GORDON. I m very pleased to know you, Mr. Van Dyck. 
 
 DULCY. Henry, take Mr. Van Dyck s things. So glad 
 you brought your golf clubs. We ll see that you use them. 
 [BiLL has circled down to VAN DYCK and offers his hand.] 
 
 BILL [quietly]. My name is Parker. 
 
 VAN DYCK. I m delighted, Mr. Parker. [BiLL retires 
 again.] I m very much afraid that I m intruding. 
 
 GORDON. Why, not at all! 
 
 DULCY. Intruding! I should say not! [HENRY has 
 picked up the bags and is awaiting VAN DYCK on the stairs.] 
 
 VAN DYCK. Mrs. Smith was so so very gracious as to 
 ask me to be your guest. May I accept with a proviso? 
 
 GORDON. Why, certainly. 
 
 VAN DYCK. It is barely possible that some business mat 
 ters will call me back to town. In that event [He smiles 
 his rare smile.] I hope you will pardon me. 
 
 DULCY. Of course! We all understand business here 
 don t we, Gordon, darling? Business before pleasure! 
 
 VAN DYCK. You re very good. 
 
 DULCY. Henry, show Mr. Van Dyck to his room. Henry 
 
DULCY 185 
 
 will show you, Mr. Van Dyck. [It is not in her nature to 
 say a thing ONCE.] 
 
 VAN DYCK. Thank you if I may. I shall rejoin you 
 presently. 
 
 DULCY [calling to him as he goes upstairs ]. Dinner at 
 eight-twenty ! 
 
 BILL. E ight- twenty ? Have you been reading Vanity Fair 
 again ? 
 
 DULCY. Everybody dines at eight-twenty, Willie. It s con 
 tinental. [DuLCY turns to her husband.} Well, how do you 
 like Mr. Van Dyck? Nice, isn t he? 
 
 GORDON. He s all right, I guess. 
 
 DULCY. Wait till you hear him play the piano. A lovely 
 touch, and so soulful. 
 
 BILL. Don t forget to ask him to play. [HENRY comes 
 down the steps.} 
 
 DULCY [going to BILL and sitting beside him}. Dear, no 
 right after dinner. We re going to have a nice musical eve 
 ning. Music after eating helps digestion. All the new doc 
 tors say so. [HENRY departs again. BILL looks after him 
 uncomfortably.} 
 
 BILL. Dulcy ! 
 
 DULCY. Well, Willie? 
 
 BILL. When you took this butler out of Sing Sing 
 
 DULCY [rising}. Sing Sing? He wasn t in Sing Sing! 
 
 BILL. You didn t go way out to Leavenworth, did you? 
 
 DULCY. Now, I know just what you re going to say, but 
 it isn t true. Just because Henry made one false step doesn t 
 mean he s going to make another. If you ask me, I think 
 there s enough sorrow in the world without trying to make 
 things worse. Every cloud has a silver lining, and so has 
 Henry. 
 
 BILL. Yes. The question is, how did he get it? 
 
 DULCY. It doesn t matter in the least he s all right now. 
 He promised me. Besides, he has to report to the probation 
 officer every week, and tell him everything he does. 
 
 BILL. Oh, he has to tell him everything? 
 
 DULCY. Every week. 
 
 BILL. You don t think he has any secrets? 
 
 DULCY. You must be more tolerant, Willie. You know, 
 there s so much good in the best of us and so much bad in 
 
186 DULCY 
 
 the worst of us well, it ill behooves the best of us [She 
 flounders, but is saved by the door bell.] 
 
 GORDON. Here are the Forbeses! 
 
 DULCY. Wait, Gordon let that poor Henry answer! 
 The trouble with the world, Willie, is that it doesn t give 
 the under-dog a chance! Live and let live is my motto. 
 [HENRY returns to answer the bell.] 
 
 BILL. I surrender. [A pause.] Oh, Dulcy! [HENRY 
 goes out at the other side.] Why don t you raise his salary? 
 
 DULCY. I have! 
 
 GORDON. Now remember, Dulcy, just leave Forbes to me 
 and don t forget this is a very important business matter 
 
 DULCY. Now, don t worry, darling. Worrying is the very 
 worst thing you can do everybody says so. I was reading 
 where Dr. Crane said it in the Globe the other day by wor 
 rying you can catch things. [HENRY opens the door. The 
 voices of the FORBESES are heard; they enter. First, MR. 
 FORBES then MRS. FORBES then ANGELA. The greetings 
 are ad lib. DULCY shakes hands with each, passing them to 
 GORDON, who does likewise.] 
 
 DULCY. Well, here is Mr. Forbes now, and Mrs. Forbes! 
 How charming you look! Green s your color! [She turns 
 to GORDON to tell him about it.] Green s her color, darling! 
 And Angela ! ! You ve come to see me at last ! My, such red 
 cheeks! Just like two ripe apples! [FORBES is already deep 
 in business talk with SMITH, but DULCY turns to him blithely.] 
 Mr. Forbes [FORBES turns to her.] Did you have a 
 nice ride out from the city? Awfully pretty, isn t it West- 
 chester? [FORBES agrees with a nod is about to turn back 
 to SMITH.] Did you come out the short way or the long way? 
 
 FORBES [it is already evident that DULCY is going to be 
 just the person for him] Ah what was that? 
 
 DULCY. Did you come out the short way or the long way? 
 
 FORBES. Ah let me see. [A pause.] Do you know, 
 Eleanor ? 
 
 MRS. FORBES [his second wife; a very feminine person of 
 about thirty-five; good looking and a bit flighty]. What, dear? 
 
 FORBES. Mrs. Smith was just asking if 
 
 DULCY. Did you come out the short way or the long way? 
 
 MRS. FORBES. Which is the way through Hartsdale? 
 
 DULCY. Oh, that s the short way you should have come 
 
DULCY 187 
 
 the long way. No, I think that is the long way, isn t it? 
 Hartsdale ? Yes. No 
 
 GORDON [diplomatically ]. Well, it doesn t really matter. 
 
 DULCY. No, no both ways are awfully pretty. [She has 
 said this to MRS. FORBES, and FORBES and SMITH have turned 
 immediately to each other to renew their conversation. They 
 haven t a chance.] Though I don t suppose you got much 
 chance to look at the scenery, did you, Mr. Forbes driving 
 the car? Don t you think driving is awfully hard work, Mr. 
 Forbes? 
 
 FORBES. Why, no, I rather like it. 
 
 DULCY. Like it? Really! Oh! Well, it wouldn t do if 
 all our tastes were alike, would it? [Turns away just as 
 HENRY enters.] Henry, take the things right up you know 
 the rooms. [DULCY turns to MRS. FORBES.] Mrs. Forbes, 
 you and your husband are to have the shell-pink suite. It 
 looks just like a bridal suite. [MRS. FORBES giggles and 
 DULCY lauglis with her.] The bridal suite! Oh, Mr. 
 Forbes [She goes to him.] Mr. Forbes you and your 
 wife are going to have the bridal suite! [FORBES tries to 
 understand the joke, but without success] And, Angie Oh, 
 there you are! I forgot you and Willie were old friends. 
 Naughty, naughty! [HENRY is on the stairs with the bags] 
 Well, how is little Angie! My, what a pretty necklace! It s 
 new, isn t it? Pearls, too! [This registers with HENRY.] 
 
 ANGELA. Father gave it to me for my birthday. 
 
 DULCY. Your father. Really wasn t that sweet of him? 
 [To FORBES.] Your own manufacture? 
 
 FORBES. Oh, no! 
 
 DULCY. Real pearls! Angela, fancy your having a string 
 of real pearls! Isn t that wonderful! [Remembers HENRY S 
 presence] Take the bags right up, Henry. 
 
 BILL. Yes, Henry. [HENRY goes] 
 
 DULCY. Angie is going to have the cutest little room of all ! 
 Just wait till you see it! 
 
 ANGELA. Oh, thank you. [VAN DYCK comes downstairs] 
 
 DULCY [turning ANGELA away as if for a confidence]. And 
 wait till you see what else I ve got for you! You II be sur 
 prised, and oh, here s Mr. Van Dyck! [In her element] 
 Mrs. Forbes, Mr. Van Dyck! 
 
 MRS. FORBES. How do you do? 
 
188 DULCY 
 
 DULCY. And Miss Forbes 
 
 VAN DYCK [bowing]. Miss Forbes! [ANGELA bows.] 
 
 DULCY. And Mr. Forbes Mr. Schuyler Van Dyck of 
 New York. 
 
 VAN DYCK. C. Roger Forbes? 
 
 FORBES. I m certainly glad to know you, Mr. Van Dyck. 
 I believe I know something of your interests. In fact, I just 
 missed meeting you at the International Metals conference last 
 week. 
 
 VAN DYCK. Yes? Well, I hope we can have a little 
 chance to talk down here. I m very much interested in jew 
 elry. 
 
 DULCY [with a triumphant look at her husband]. You 
 see, Gordon? 
 
 FORBES [aware that something is going on]. What s that? 
 
 GORDON. Oh, it was just ah that is, Mrs. Smith 
 thought [HENRY comes downstairs.] 
 
 DULCY. Oh, we re all forgetting Mr. What s-his-name 
 in the library a gentleman to see you, Mr. Forbes, on busi 
 ness. Henry, tell the gentleman in the library to come in. 
 [HENRY departs again.] 
 
 GORDON. It s your advertising man. 
 
 FORBES. Oh, yes Sterrett. [ANGELA turns sharply at the 
 mention of the name.] I took the liberty of leaving word for 
 him to come here I had to get away early. 
 
 GORDON. Why, certainly. 
 
 DULCY. And so that you ll have lots of time to talk busi 
 ness, I ve invited him to stay for dinner. [She looks proudly 
 toward her husband as though asking approbation for this 
 remark. GORDON is pleased with her for the first time.] 
 
 ANGELA. Oh! Mr. Sterrett is going to stay for dinner? 
 
 DULCY. Yes because he s a friend of yours, Angie, dear. 
 [Quickly.] And because of the business, of course. Well, 
 what do you girls say? Shall we leave the men to talk busi 
 ness? Wouldn t you like to see your rooms? You haven t 
 been over the house at all, you know. 
 
 MRS. FORBES. Why, we d love to. 
 
 DULCY. Gordon, darling, you must show Mr. Forbes and 
 the others over the grounds. [She is shepherding MRS. F. and 
 ANGELA toward the stairs.] You get a beautiful view from 
 the lawn, Mr. Forbes. And don t forget to show him the 
 
DULCY 189 
 
 garden, darling all our vegetables are out of our own gar 
 den, Mr. Forbes. Then later you must see the garden, Mrs. 
 Forbes and Angie. You know, there s nothing like country 
 life, is there? Out next to Nature, you know. We re just 
 gypsies regular gypsies. New York is a wonderful place to 
 visit, but I wouldn t like to live there. [They go up the 
 stairs.] 
 
 BILL [breaking the spell}. All in favor of the garden, say 
 " Aye." 
 
 GORDON. Smoke? 
 
 FORBES. Thanks. [He selects a cigar.] 
 
 VAN DYCK. Thank you. [Takes a cigarette. FORBES, 
 after a glance around the room, heads for a stiff chair.] 
 
 GORDON [indicating an easy chair]. Oh, sit here, Mr. 
 Forbes! 
 
 FORBES. Thanks I prefer a stiff chair my back, you 
 know. [STERRETT returns] 
 
 STERRETT. Ah! Good afternoon, Chief! 
 
 FORBES. Hello, Sterrett. Too bad to make you come 
 way out here, but 
 
 STERRETT. Not at all not at all! Particularly, as Mr. 
 Smith has insisted on my staying to dinner. Has Angela 
 come? 
 
 FORBES [patting him on back]. Oh, yes, she s come. 
 You ve met Mr. Parker? 
 
 STERRETT. Oh, yes. 
 
 FORBES. And Mr. Schuyler Van Dyck? 
 
 STERRETT. Mr. Schuyler Van Dyck? 
 
 VAN DYCK [shaking his hand]. Mr. Sterrett. 
 
 STERRETT. I ve heard of you, Mr. Van Dyck. 
 
 VAN DYCK. Yes? 
 
 STERRETT [crisply]. Yes, sir. They tell me you have ad 
 vertising interests, on the q. t. 
 
 VAN DYCK. Well, it s it s possible, yes. 
 
 STERRETT. I m an advertising man myself. 
 
 VAN DYCK. Really? 
 
 BILL [helping along]. S. S. Q. & L. Agency. 
 
 STERRETT. Yes, I personally handle all of Mr. Forbes* 
 business. 
 
 VAN DYCK. That so? 
 
 STERRETT. Yes, sir. I ve made the nation Forbes-conscious. 
 
igo DULCY 
 
 BILL. Forbes what? 
 
 STERRETT. Forbes-conscious. I have made Forbes Jewelry 
 Products a part of the country s buying habit. 
 
 FORBES. It s wonderful wonderful what the younger gen 
 eration is doing in a business way. 
 
 GORDON. It certainly is. 
 
 FORBES. Why, when I was breaking into business, sir, do 
 you think that a young man like that would have been en 
 trusted with the handling of such important matters? 
 
 GORDON. No, sir. 
 
 FORBES. No, sir he would not! Would he, Mr. Parker? 
 
 BILL [with a look at STERRETT]. No, sir, he would not! 
 
 FORBES. But to-day, not only is he entrusted with them, 
 but he is actually given the preference over an older man. I 
 find myself doing it. 
 
 STERRETT. Oh, I don t know, Chief. I m no unusual 
 specimen that is, so far as my youth is concerned. Mozart 
 was composing at fifteen ; William Cullen Bryant wrote Than- 
 atopsis when he was nineteen; Homer did part of the Iliad 
 
 BILL [rising]. Suppose we all go out and look at the gar 
 den? 
 
 GORDON. Yes, that s a good idea. 
 
 FORBES. If you don t mind, I ll put my car in your garage. 
 
 GORDON. Certainly. 
 
 FORBES. That is, if there s room. 
 
 GORDON. Oh, plenty. Our car isn t here at present. It s 
 being repaired. 
 
 BILL [to VAN DYCK]. You must find it rather a relief 
 to get away from business occasionally. 
 
 VAN DYCK. Yes, just to relax. It s very wonderful. 
 
 FORBES [turning back to VAN DYCK]. I imagine you ve 
 been kept pretty well tied down lately. [All except STERRETT 
 have strolled up to the window.] 
 
 VAN DYCK. Well, yes to a degree. Of course, I have 
 things pretty well systematized. 
 
 FORBES. Of course. 
 
 GORDON. Now, right here at the left is where the garden 
 begins. You can see for yourself [They go out through 
 the windows SMITH, FORBES, VAN DYCK and BILL. STER 
 RETT, somewhat puzzled at losing his audience, decides to go 
 along. ANGELA comes down the stairway.] 
 
DULCY 191 
 
 ANGELA [very impersonally]. Oh, hello, Tom! 
 
 STERRETT. Angela! I m here, you see! 
 
 ANGELA [selecting a magazine]. Yes, I see. 
 
 STERRETT. Well, aren t you glad to see me? 
 
 ANGELA. You came to see father, didn t you? 
 
 STERRETT. Why, no that is yes but 
 
 ANGELA. Have you seen him? 
 
 STERRETT. Yes, but that was business and 
 
 ANGELA. I know it s always business with you men. 
 You re all alike. 
 
 STERRETT. You talk as though you d examined the whole 
 city. 
 
 ANGELA. Well, I did know another man who was just 
 like you. 
 
 STERRETT. Who is he? 
 
 ANGELA [looking up from the magazine for first time]. 
 Oh, don t be silly. I shouldn t tell you even if you weren t so 
 rude. I simply say you are all alike. Your idea of romance 
 is to sit in the moonlight and talk about the income tax. 
 
 STERRETT [sitting beside her]. Now, look here, Angela 
 you know I m crazy about you, and I ve told you what I ll do 
 for you. I ll devote my entire life to you. 
 
 ANGELA. And give up business? 
 
 STERRETT [swallows]. Well, you wouldn t want me to 
 give it up, would you? Right at the beginning of my career! 
 Why, when your father signs these new contracts 
 
 ANGELA [throwing the magazine down beside her and 
 rising]. Contracts! Bother the contracts! It s always con 
 tracts! 
 
 STERRETT. But they mean our future. 
 
 ANGELA. Our future? I didn t know that we were going 
 to have any! 
 
 STERRETT. Well, we are! You just watch me! I ve al 
 ways got what I was after in business, and 
 
 ANGELA. Well, I m not business! 
 
 STERRETT. I I didn t mean just that, Angela. 
 
 ANGELA. Oh, sometimes I feel that I don t ever want to 
 talk to another business man in my life! 
 
 STERRETT. I notice that you don t mind talking to a mov 
 ing picture man, though! 
 
 ANGELA [wheeling]. What do you mean by that? 
 
i 9 2 DULCY 
 
 STERRETT. I saw you with that bird Leach at the Biltmore 
 yesterday. 
 
 ANGELA. Well, what of it? Mr. Leach is a very charm 
 ing man. 
 
 STERRETT. He s got a swelled head! 
 
 ANGELA. He s entitled to one. 
 
 STERRETT. Look here has he been making love to you? 
 
 ANGELA. Well, at least he hasn t been talking business. 
 
 STERRETT. Now look here, Angela 
 
 ANGELA. Oh, Tom, don t be silly! If I didn t know any 
 more about girls than you do, I d go some place and learn! 
 That other man talked business, too, and that s why I what 
 does a girl care about business, and things like that? She 
 wants something else in her life that s what makes her a girl ! 
 She wants romance and a thrill and something real and 
 she wants a man to be like all the heroes she ever read about 
 if she cares about him at all! It may be foolish and all that, 
 but that s what she wants and she s bound to have it! She 
 wants someone to tell her how wonderful she is whether 
 she is or not to sweep her off her feet and carry her away 
 and [One look at STERRETT S face tells her that all this 
 has been wasted.] Oh, I m going out into the garden! [She 
 flounces through French window. STERRETT follows.] 
 
 STERRETT. Now look here, Angela! I didn t mean 
 [Enter FORBES and SMITH. FORBES looks back after AN 
 GELA and STERRETT.] 
 
 FORBES. Smart chap, Sterrett. 
 
 GORDON. Yes, he seems to be. 
 
 FORBES. Wide-awake! That s what I like about him. 
 
 GORDON [eager to agree]. Yes, wide-awake chaps certainly 
 have an advantage. 
 
 FORBES [bluffly]. Now, that s the kind of a man I d like 
 for a son-in-law. 
 
 GORDON [mindful of DULCY S plans]. Son-in-law? 
 
 FORBES. Yes. Good business head. No foolishness, like 
 
 most young people. Substantial that s what I mean. Lord 
 
 knows, Smith, I m just as tolerant as anybody, and a little bit 
 
 more so, but if there is one thing I can t stand it s this frivol- 
 
 headed, gad-about way of doing things they ve got now-a-days. 
 
 GORDON. Oh, absolutely. Yes, indeed. 
 
 FORBES. Damn it they they play with life they don t 
 
DULCY 193 
 
 work. And it s not just the young people that have notions. 
 The worst of it is that oh, well, what s the use! [He 
 pauses.] That reminds me. I must apologize for not answer 
 ing that letter of yours. My wife comes into my office occa 
 sionally and uses my stenographer the one that writes Eng 
 lish. [He tries to appear half- joking. ,] All day yesterday. 
 She likes to write little stories and movie scenarios. Of course 
 she never sells them. 
 
 GORDON. Well ah probably she s just seeking self-ex 
 pression. 
 
 FORBES. Yes, I suppose so. She s quite young Angela s 
 step-mother, you know. [DuLCY and MRS. FORBES come 
 downstairs.] 
 
 DULCY. Come right down, Mrs. Forbes. Well, here we 
 are! No more business now! It s time to play! [To 
 FORBES.] You know one thing poor Gordon has never 
 learned is how to play! He takes everything so seriously. 
 Now, what I like to do is cut loose once in a while just be 
 children again. Don t you, Mrs. Forbes? 
 
 MRS. FORBES. Yes, indeed away from everything. 
 
 DULCY. Gordon, darling why don t you take Mrs. 
 Forbes for a stroll out in the garden before dinner she hasn t 
 seen it yet. [GORDON realizes this would leave DULCY with 
 FORBES.] Wouldn t you like to see it, Mrs. Forbes? 
 
 MRS. FORBES. Indeed, yes. 
 
 DULCY. Gordon ! 
 
 GORDON [turning to MRS. FORBES.] Why, of course. 
 
 MRS. FORBES. It s awfully good of you. You have a beau 
 tiful place here. There are some lovely places in Westchester, 
 aren t there? [MRS. FORBES and GORDON go through the win 
 dow, GORDON looking back nervously at the possibilities he is 
 leaving.] 
 
 DULCY. I ve got the most wonderful day planned out for 
 you to-morrow, Mr. Forbes! You re going to play and play 
 and play! 
 
 FORBES [alarmed]. Me! Thank you very much but you 
 know I 
 
 DULCY. Oh, but you play golf, don t you? 
 
 FORBES. Well ah thank you. It s been so long since 
 
 DULCY [pursuing him]. You ll love our links they re 
 wonderful ! 
 
194 DULCY 
 
 FORBES. Yes, but I ve been having a lot of trouble with my 
 back lately and 
 
 DULCY. Oh, really! That s too bad! What you need is 
 exercise. It would be the finest thing in the world for you. 
 Now, you play nine holes of golf with Mr. Van Dyck first thing 
 in the morning. 
 
 FORBES. But, really, Mrs. Smith 
 
 DULCY [indulgently]. You remind me so much of Gordon 
 that poor darling. All men are children. You know he 
 gets hardly any exercise at all he works so hard, the poor 
 boy. I don t suppose he s told you, Mr. Forbes, but he s really 
 got a lot of things on hand. 
 
 FORBES. Why, no 
 
 DULCY. You might just as well know it isn t only the 
 pearl business. He has lots of other interests, too. 
 
 FORBES. What s that? 
 
 DULCY. It s really asking too much of him to make him 
 give up all these other things to come into the jewelry com 
 bination that is, unless it were made worth his while. 
 [DuLCY effects her master stroke.] Of course, if he just got 
 sixteen and two-thirds per cent, he couldn t afford to give up 
 all his time to it no! [VAN DYCK and BILL come strolling 
 through the window] He d have to look after his other 
 things, too, and you d be the loser. 
 
 FORBES. Why, I didn t know he had any other [Door 
 bell rings] 
 
 DULCY. Oh, there s Mr. Leach now! [Calling. ] Gor 
 don ! Gordon, bring Angela in ! [She sees VAN DYCK.] Are 
 you having a nice time, Mr. Van Dyck? We want everybody 
 to have a nice time. [GORDON and MRS. FORBES return. 
 HENRY enters to answer the door bell] 
 
 VAN DYCK. Oh, delightful! 
 
 DULCY. You re to play eighteen holes of golf with Mr. 
 Forbes the first thing in the morning. [FORBES is delighted] 
 
 VAN DYCK. That will be splendid! 
 
 GORDON. Now now, / have a suggestion. 
 
 DULCY. Well, what is it? 
 
 GORDON. Suppose that to-morrow we just let everybody 
 go the way they want to, and [Enter HENRY, followed by 
 VINCENT LEACH. DULCY swings down to greet him] 
 
 DULCY [with great enthusiasm]. Oh, here he is! 
 
DULCY 195 
 
 LEACH. Mrs. Smith, dear lady [VINCENT LEACH is 
 young, very languid, a bit effeminate.] 
 
 DULCY. Ladies and gentlemen, this is Mr. Vincent Leach, 
 the great scenario writer! [FORBES looks up, puzzled and an 
 noyed. BILL is merely puzzled. VAN DYCK is politely inter 
 ested. GORDON is all but crazy with apprehension. MRS. 
 FORBES is quite in her element. DULCY passes LEACH over 
 towards MRS. FORBES.] Mrs. Forbes, Angela s step-mother! 
 
 LEACH [enthusiastically]. Oh, how do you do! 
 
 DULCY. And Mr. Forbes, her real father! [FoRBES rises 
 slowly his dislike has been immediate and intense. LEACH 
 does all the bowing] And Mr. Van Dyck! [They bow] 
 You ve met Gordon, haven t you? [LEACH shakes GORDON S 
 hand] And my brother, Willie. 
 
 BILL. Parker William. 
 
 DULCY [ANGELA and STERRETT appear in the windows]. 
 Oh, here she is! Well [She leads ANGELA down to 
 LEACH.] 
 
 ANGELA. Why, Mr. Leach! 
 
 LEACH. Miss Forbes! 
 
 STERRETT [with cold emphasis]. How do you do, Leach? 
 
 LEACH. Oh, how are you? 
 
 DULCY. Didn t I tell you I d have a surprise for you? 
 
 FORBES [to ANGELA, as she stands with her hand still in 
 LEACH S, to STERRETT S great annoyance]. Oh, then you ve 
 met Mr. Leach before? 
 
 ANGELA. Oh, yes! 
 
 DULCY. Why, didn t you know about it? Mr. Leach 
 showed us through his studio the other day. He almost kid 
 napped your Angela, and made a motion picture star out of 
 her. 
 
 FORBES [not quite succeeding in being pleasant <about it]. 
 Oh, is that so? 
 
 DULCY. We saw his new picture being taken. Oh, tell us 
 about it, Mr. Leach! [Whispering loudly to everyone.] Mr. 
 Leach is a scenario writer a scenario writer. 
 
 LEACH [correcting her]. If you will pardon me, not 
 scenario writer scenarist really. 
 
 BILL [in mock comprehension]. Oh, scenarist! 
 
 LEACH. It s the more modern term. The scenarist of to 
 day is quite different from the scenario writer of yesterday. 
 
196 DULCY 
 
 DULCY [in her element]. Mr. Leach says the motion pic 
 ture business is still in its infancy. 
 
 LEACH. The surface has hardly been scratched. The pos 
 sibilities are enormous, and the demand for new people new 
 writers [He turns to MRS. FORBES.] Oh! Mrs. Smith 
 tells me that you are writing for the films, my dear Mrs. 
 Forbes ! 
 
 MRS. FORBES. Well, I m trying to 
 
 LEACH. Well, you go on writing don t give up don t let 
 anyone discourage you. [FORBES turns away with a mild at 
 tack of apoplexy.] That was my experience. I just kept on 
 and on until well, you see. 
 
 BILL. What? 
 
 DULCY [in a quick aside]. You shut up, Willie! 
 
 LEACH [to MRS. FORBES], Yes, you just keep on writing. 
 [Then generously taking them all in.] All of you and go 
 and see the pictures. See them and see them and see them. 
 [To MRS. FORBES and VAN DYCK.] Study them! [To 
 MR. FORBES.] Learn how they re made! Now in my last 
 picture, The Sacred Love you ve all seen that, I take it? 
 
 DULCY. Oh, yes a wonderful picture! 
 
 MRS. FORBES. Yes! 
 
 ANGELA. I saw it twice. Once with you, Tom. 
 
 STERRETT. Was that his picture? 
 
 LEACH. There were some points in that did you see it, 
 Mr. Forbes? 
 
 FORBES [wild within]. No, I I don t believe I did. 
 
 LEACH. Really! You must come to one of our trade 
 showings at the Hotel Astor 
 
 FORBES. What ? 
 
 LEACH. Just a moment. [Consults note-book.] At the 
 Hotel Astor, next Tuesday, at 3 130. Of course, it s it s only 
 a little thing. We re going to do some big things later. The 
 possibilities 
 
 BILL [ever helpful]. Are enormous. 
 
 LEACH [falling for it]. Oh, very big . . . you d be sur 
 prised! Yes, we re going to do some of Shakespeare s things 
 next. 
 
 DULCY. Shakespeare s? Well [Her arms are around 
 her husband s shoulders and she shakes him to pick up the cue.] 
 
 GORDON [coming to]. Really! 
 
DULCY 197 
 
 LEACH. Yes, I m at work on his continuity now. I was 
 telling my director yesterday I said, you know, Shakespeare 
 had a tremendous feeling for plot. Of course, the dialogue 
 is stilted for modern audiences but then, you don t have to 
 listen to that in the pictures. But he s still the master. 
 
 DULCY. He s going to organize his own company next. 
 
 BILL. Who Shakespeare ? 
 
 DULCY. No, Willie! Mr. Leach. 
 
 LEACH. Yes the Vincent Leach Productions, Inc. The 
 stock will be placed on the open market very soon. 
 
 DULCY. Mr. Van Dyck can tell you how to do it! He 
 owns lots of moving picture companies don t you, Mr. Van 
 Dyck? 
 
 LEACH. Is that so? 
 
 VAN DYCK [modestly f as always]. Well, I m interested 
 in a small way. 
 
 LEACH. I d enjoy talking to you about it later. [To MR. 
 FORBES.] And how about you, Mr. Forbes? Didn t I hear 
 that you were interested in pictures? 
 
 FORBES [turning away and smothering the line}. I don t 
 care a damn about pictures. 
 
 LEACH [not believing his ears]. What s that? 
 
 FORBES. I said, I make jewelry. 
 
 LEACH. Well, of course, that s very necessary too, in its 
 way. [FORBES mouth opens GORDON rises hurriedly.] 
 
 GORDON. Dulcy! 
 
 DULCY. Ah let s play a rubber of bridge before dinner! 
 It s so nice and soothing. [Patting LEACH for fear he has been 
 offended.] Let me see [To MR. FORBES.] Mr. Forbes, 
 you play bridge, don t you? 
 
 FORBES. No, I m afraid not. 
 
 DULCY. Oh, yes, you do you re just modest. Mr. 
 Forbes [She is picking the card players out with cool in* 
 tent] And Mr. Sterrett and Gordon And I ll make the 
 fourth. Mr. Leach. [He is absorbed in ANGELA.] Mr. 
 Leach. [He turns] Why don t you and Angela go out on 
 the lawn and see the view? 
 
 GORDON. Dulcy, dear 
 
 DULCY. Where the Japanese garden is going to be? 
 
 ANGELA [giving LEACH her hand]. Come on, Vincent. 
 
 LEACH [putting her arm through his]. Yes, I d love to 
 
i 9 8 DULCY 
 
 see you framed against the glowing splendor of a twilit gar 
 den. [ANGELA and LEACH go out through the window."] 
 
 BILL. My golly, the man even makes love in subtitles! 
 
 FORBES. I ll see if my car is still in the garage. I ll come 
 back I think. [He goes out through the window.] 
 
 GORDON [to DULCY]. Now, now, you see [He goes 
 out quickly after FORBES.] 
 
 BILL [up in the windows ]. You know, this is probably 
 going to be the first week-end party on record that ended on 
 Friday night. [He departs, lugubriously] 
 
 STERRETT. I think I ll go back to my book. 
 
 DULCY [somewhat weakly]. We ll be starting the game in 
 a minute, Mr. Sterrett. [STERRETT disappears] Well, I ll 
 get the bridge things. [She turns in the doorway only MRS. 
 FORBES and VAN DYCK are left on the stage] Two s com 
 pany and three s a crowd! [She goes] 
 
 MRS. FORBES [rising with a self-conscious laugh]. I must 
 go and dress for dinner. 
 
 VAN DYCK. Oh, please don t go I ve been wanting to 
 have a chat with you. I ve been hearing all about you this 
 afternoon. 
 
 MRS. FORBES. All about me? From whom? 
 
 VAN DYCK. Mrs. Smith. 
 
 MRS. FORBES. Oh! 
 
 VAN DYCK. So you see, I was prepared to be interested 
 even before I met you. 
 
 MRS. FORBES [sitting]. And now the disappointment? 
 
 VAN DYCK [sitting beside her]. Oh, far from it. I find 
 you even more interesting than I had anticipated. You have 
 depths. 
 
 MRS. FORBES. Are you going to tathom them? 
 
 VAN DYCK. If I may. 
 
 MRS. FORBES. And how are you going about it? [FORBES 
 is seen strolling behind the windows at back]. 
 
 VAN DYCK. That s my secret. But tell me, first you ve 
 been married just a short time? 
 
 MRS. FORBES. Not so short four years. Why? [FORBES 
 comes down into window; sees and hears] 
 
 VAN DYCK. Mrs. Smith tells me that you are becoming 
 quite a novelist. 
 
 MRS. FORBES. Oh, but I m not yet. I only 
 
DULCY 199 
 
 FORBES. Is that you, Eleanor? [VAN DYCK rises.] 
 
 MRS. FORBES. Yes, dear. 
 
 FORBES. Oh ! 
 
 VAN DYCK. I shall see you later, I hope. 
 
 MRS. FORBES. I hope. 
 
 VAN DYCK [attempting to relieve the tension}. I suppose 
 you get a good many ideas for your writings from your hus 
 band? [The tension is not relieved. VAN DYCK departs 
 through windows.} 
 
 FORBES [looking from VAN DYCK to his wife]. Well! 
 
 MRS. FORBES [rises]. Well? 
 
 FORBES. What did that mean? 
 
 MRS. FORBES. Why, nothing! 
 
 FORBES. Isn t it enough to have Angela go prancing off 
 with that brainless conceited motion picture jack-ass? 
 
 MRS. FORBES. Mr. Leach, do you mean? Why, he s a 
 charming man, and very successful. 
 
 FORBES. Bah! And on top of it, I come in here and find 
 you spooning with Van Dyck. 
 
 MRS. FORBES. Why, Charlie how can you say such a 
 thing ! 
 
 FORBES. My God, didn t I see it! 
 
 MRS. FORBES. But, Charlie, dear 
 
 FORBES. I tell you this whole place is going to drive me 
 crazy! I didn t want to come here anyhow! I had a back 
 ache, and I wanted to stay home and rest. 
 
 MRS. FORBES. But you couldn t refuse 
 
 FORBES. And instead of that I ve got to get up at some 
 ungodly hour in the morning and go out and play golf. If 
 there is one thing I hate more than anything else in this world, 
 it s golf unless it s bridge or moving pictures! 
 
 MRS. FORBES. Now, Charlie, dear when you re here as 
 a guest 
 
 FORBES. If I could think of a good excuse, I d go back to 
 town to-night with Sterrett, and take Angela and you with 
 me. 
 
 MRS. FORBES [alarmed]. But, Charlie, you can t do that 
 when 
 
 FORBES. Don t you suppose I see that woman s plan to 
 throw Angela and that that film thing together! 
 
 MRS. FORBES. But I tell you he s a most charming man. 
 
200 DULCY 
 
 FORBES. And I tell you, if it weren t for Smith and our 
 business relations I WOULD go back to-night! 
 
 MRS. FORBES. But, Charlie you can t be so rude ! [Enter 
 GORDON.] 
 
 FORBES. Sh! That reminds me Oh, Smith! 
 
 GORDON. Yes, sir. 
 
 FORBES. Mr. Smith, Mrs. Smith has been telling me some 
 thing of your other business activities. 
 
 GORDON. Other business activities? Why 
 
 FORBES. And it came as something of a revelation to me. 
 
 GORDON. But Mrs. Smith couldn t have meant [VAN 
 DYCK returns and joins MRS. FORBES.] 
 
 FORBES. As you may have been aware, my agreement to 
 admit you on a sixteen and two-thirds basis was founded on 
 the expectation that you would give all your time to the new 
 enterprise. 
 
 GORDON. Yes, of course, Mr. Forbes. 
 
 FORBES. In the circumstances your business and your 
 services would hardly be worth that amount to me. 
 
 GORDON. But, my dear Mr. Forbes you you don t un 
 derstand. Mrs. Smith [Enter DULCY, bubbling over.] 
 
 DULCY. Oh, here are the bridge players! Come right in, 
 Mr. Sterrett. [Enter STERRETT and HENRY, carrying the 
 card table.] Henry, put the table right here. You know, I 
 hope you men don t mind playing with me I m not very good. 
 I always say I don t really play bridge, I play at it. But I do 
 love it, and after all, that s what counts, isn t it? 
 
 FORBES [worn out]. Yes. 
 
 DULCY. That s right, Henry, put the chairs around. Now, 
 I think Mr. Sterrett will sit there. [Indicating chair opposite 
 her.] I shall sit here. Let s see that makes you my partner, 
 Mr. Sterrett. You don t mind, do you? 
 
 STERRETT [beyond minding anything ]. Not at all. [STER 
 RETT takes one final look out the windows after ANGELA.] 
 
 DULCY [to FORBES]. He had to say that. You know I m 
 an awfully unlucky player I never have a finesse go right. 
 Well, unlucky at cards lucky at love [Turning to GOR 
 DON.] Lucky at love, Gordie, darling. You re here, of course. 
 [GORDON is evidently worrying about what DULCY could have 
 said to FORBES. FORBES keeps turning uneasily for a sight of 
 his wife and VAN DYCK. DULCY starts to deal.~] Now 
 
DULCY 201 
 
 look at me I m dealing when I ought to be shuffling! IS he 
 gathers up the cards and shuffles awkwardly.] Come along, 
 Mr. Sterrett! We re going to beat them! Bring that chair. 
 [STERRETT starts to follow her directions. Three more misera 
 ble men have never been seen.] Is everybody happy? [The 
 curtain starts slowly down.] Somebody tell me which is 
 higher a heart or a spade? I never can remember. And do 
 you discard from strength or weakness, Mr. Sterrett? Of 
 course it doesn t matter [She continues her chatter, as 
 
 [THE CURTAIN FALLS.] 
 
ACT II 
 
 The scene is the same as Act I; the time is immediately after 
 dinner, on the same day. Although it is evening, the 
 French windows at the rear still stand open. The stage 
 is in semi-darkness only one or .two of the lamps are 
 lighted but a shaft of moonlight shoots through the 
 windows. The dining room, at the left, is brilliantly 
 lighted, and the chatter of many people, with the 
 clink of glasses and the occasional scrape of a chair, can 
 be distinctly heard. For an appreciable period after the 
 rise of the curtain only the sound of this merry gathering 
 can be heard. Over the others the voice of VINCENT 
 LEACH rings out clearly "/ said to Mr. Breitenstein, 
 e Don t you worry about those German films Then the 
 babble drowns his further remarks. 
 
 DULCY, resplendent in a golden evening dress, presently 
 enters, peering back as though expecting someone to follow 
 her. She beckons excitedly to someone in the other room, 
 and MRS. FORBES enters. 
 
 DULCY [in excited tones}. Isn t he wonderful? 
 
 MRS. FORBES [also flushed with excitement]. Who? 
 
 DULCY. Vincent Leach ! [Banter in gly.~\ Ah, you thought 
 I meant Mr. Van Dyck, didn t you? Ah, ha! 
 
 MRS. FORBES [confused}. Why I didn t know 
 
 DULCY. Now, now! It doesn t take a brick wall to fall 
 on me. But seriously, he s mad about her! 
 
 MRS. FORBES [with just a touch of apprehension]. Do you 
 really think so? 
 
 DULCY. And she hasn t taken her eyes off him since he 
 arrived! I tell you, they re in love! 
 
 MRS. FORBES [looking off]. There is something about 
 him. The only thing is 
 
 DULCY. I wouldn t be surprised if they became engaged 
 right here in my house. Wouldn t that be nice, after my 
 bringing them together? 
 
 202 
 
DULCY 203 
 
 MRS. FORBES. But you re sure it s all right positive that 
 Mr. Leach is 
 
 DULCY. Of course, I am he s just the man for Angela. 
 Ssh! Here s Mr. Sterrett! IT he two women draw up 
 against the wall as STERRETT enters. His hands are deep in 
 his pockets, and he is sore. He looks back as he enters, then 
 starts across the room. A few steps further he looks back 
 again, as ANGELA S laugh is heard. He stalks out the win 
 dows. DULCY titters. } 
 
 DULCY. He s mad! Let s see what happened! [ANGELA 
 comes running on. She is happily excited, being pursued. 
 LEACH follows her, capturing her at the piano, and holding 
 her with her back toward him, giving MRS. FORBES and 
 DULCY a chance to escape into the dining room unseen.] 
 
 LEACH. Now I ve got you! 
 
 ANGELA. And what are you going to do with me? 
 
 LEACH [turning her around]. I m going to tell you how 
 wonderful you are. 
 
 ANGELA [liking it]. Oh, my! 
 
 LEACH. You are! You re like a beautiful warm dawn 
 just your magic presence [VAN DYCK and MRS. FORBES 
 stroll on together] 
 
 ANGELA [stopping LEACH]. Ssh! 
 
 VAN DYCK. But surely if one has a talent it should be 
 developed. 
 
 ANGELA. Shall we sit down? [LEACH makes a gesture 
 towards the chairs by the piano] Oh, not there here. [She 
 bounces over to the stairs and sits behind the hydrangeas, 
 LEACH takes his place beside her] 
 
 MRS. FORBES [convinced by now she is a potential George 
 Sand]. But I m afraid I m just a dabbler and always will be. 
 
 VAN DYCK [sitting beside her]. Ah, but I m sure you re 
 wrong! You must be wrong. [Enter FORBES and GORDON. 
 All of the men, except STERRETT, are in evening clothes] 
 
 FORBES. Well, as a straight business proposition I must 
 say [He sees his wife with VAN DYCK, and stops short] 
 Huh! [VAN DYCK gets up from the easy chair] 
 
 VAN DYCK. Sit here, Mr. Forbes. 
 
 FORBES. No, thank you. I prefer a stiff chair. 
 
 GORDON. Here you are, Mr. Forbes. [Enter BILL.] 
 
 BILL. Everybody ready for a nice musical evening? [STER- 
 
204 DULCY 
 
 RETT, still sulking, comes in silently through the French win 
 dows. DULCY enters at the same time, and immediately takes 
 characteristic charge of the situation.] 
 
 DULCY. Well, this is going to be jolly, isn t it? Let s 
 have a little light on the subject. [She switches on the lights.} 
 Let me see Yes, everybody s here. [MRS. FORBES, anxious 
 to relieve the tension maintained by her husband, leaves VAN 
 DYCK and follows DULCY. DULCY puts her arm around 
 her.] I love a big house and lots of company. If only it 
 were a winter night, we could gather around the fireplace 
 and tell ghost stories. [ FORBES has made up his mind to sit 
 and has headed for the stiff chair. DULCY seizes him."] Oh, 
 no, Mr. Forbes you must take the easy chair that s for you 
 yes. [She pulls him across to it.] 
 
 FORBES [cursing the conventions of chivalry"]. But I really 
 would rather that is 
 
 DULCY. Now, not a word I know you re polite and want 
 to leave it for me, but I insist on your having it. [GORDON 
 tries to head her off but his efforts are unavailing. DULCY 
 forces MR* FORBES into the chair.] I wouldn t dream of any 
 one else s having it but you. Now sit right in it that s right 
 way back! It s awfully comfortable just the thing after 
 eating. [MRS. FORBES has seated herself; VAN DYCK is enter 
 taining her.] It ll rest you for to-morrow for your horse 
 back riding. 
 
 FORBES [in great alarm]. Horse-back! 
 
 DULCY. Yes, didn t you hear us talking about it? In the 
 afternoon. We re making up a party to go to the Sound 
 and you re in it. [Enter HENRY with coffee, on a tea wagon. 
 He pushes it across to DULCY.] Well, who s for coffee? 
 Coffee coffee! [BiLL has wandered over to the piano and 
 has seated himself. DULCY pours] It s a lovely ride to the 
 Sound. You ll go, won t you, Mr. Van Dyck? 
 
 VAN DYCK [with MRS. FORBES]. What s that? Oh, yes 
 yes, indeed. 
 
 DULCY [whispering]. You and Mrs. Forbes can go to 
 gether. [FORBES turns around to locate his wife and daughter] 
 I ll ride with Mr. Forbes. Here you are, Henry. [HENRY 
 serves.] 
 
 GORDON [to FORBES]. Now this was what I wanted to 
 
DULCY 205 
 
 show you. These are our Number Three s; we are turning 
 these out at an extremely low price, and the German formula 
 can t touch them. Just examine these. [FORBES puts on 
 glasses and does so. HENRY returns for two more coffees; 
 he offers one to FORBES, who refuses.] 
 
 DULCY. We re going to have a lovely day for it to-mor 
 row. Did you see that sunset? Angela, you and Mr. Leach 
 are to go along, too. And Mr. Sterrett where is that Mr. 
 Sterrett? 
 
 STERRETT [behind her}. I m here. 
 
 DULCY. Oh! There you are! I d almost forgotten you. 
 
 STERRETT [submerged in gloom]. That s all right. 
 
 DULCY. It s too bad you can t stay over, Mr. Sterrett. 
 I m sure you d enjoy it. [HENRY serves ANGELA and LEACH, 
 who both accept. His offers to BILL and STERRETT are re 
 fused] You know, the paper says rain for to-morrrow, but 
 it s always wrong. I have the worst luck with the weather 
 whenever I go any place. When I take my umbrella it never 
 rains, and if I don t take it [BlLL has started on a solo of 
 " Chop Sticks " as an anodyne] Come away from the piano, 
 Willie. . . . Mr. Van Dyck is going to play us something 
 aren t you, Mr. Van Dyck? 
 
 VAN DYCK. Why ah a little later. [BiLL starts an 
 other one-finger solo] 
 
 GORDON. If you ll examine those you ll see that they are 
 the same grain and luster as the Hammond Number Six, 
 
 DULCY. Oh, do stop, Willie! 
 
 FORBES. Mmm. [A pause] Angela! [There is no an 
 swer] Angela!! 
 
 ANGELA [coming to]. Yes, father. 
 
 FORBES. Just let me see those pearls of yours for a minute, 
 will you? 
 
 ANGELA. Yes, father. [ANGELA and LEACH rise. LEACH 
 reaches as if to remove the pearls, but ANGELA hands him her 
 coffee instead and removes the pearls herself. HENRY steps up 
 to ANGELA to relieve her of the pearls. She gives them to 
 him. BILL strikes a bass note three or four times in warning, 
 rising as he does so. DULCY and GORDON rise, their eyes on 
 HENRY. HENRY gives the pearls to FORBES; DULCY gives a 
 huge sigh of relief. ANGELA and LEACH resume their seat on 
 
206 DULCY 
 
 the bench again. BILL sits again at piano. Quiet is 
 restored.] 
 
 DULCY. Are you ready now, Mr. Van Dyck it s your 
 turn! 
 
 VAN DYCK. Oh, really, I I don t think that I should 
 play. Mr. Forbes and your husband would much prefer to dis 
 cuss jewelry, I m sure. 
 
 DULCY. Oh, no, they wouldn t! Would you, Mr. Forbes? 
 [He is studying the necklace.] Mr. Forbes! 
 
 FORBES [looking up]. Huh? 
 
 DULCY. Wouldn t you like to hear Mr. Van Dyck play 
 the piano? 
 
 FORBES. Oh, yes yes. 
 
 DULCY. You see and I know Mrs. Forbes wants you to 
 play don t you, dear? 
 
 MRS. FORBES. Oh, yes. 
 
 DULCY. And / do! And Willie [Another solo of 
 BILL S is obtruding] Get away from the piano, Willie 
 and Mr. Sterrett. Now, Mr. Van Dyck 
 
 VAN DYCK. Well, if you insist. [VAN DYCK seats him 
 self and starts to play. The selection is the Chopin Prelude, 
 Op. 28, No. 4] 
 
 DULCY [seated]. What was that little thing you played 
 at Mrs. Kennedy s this afternoon? [She listens. GORDON 
 and FORBES are discussing jewelry in low tones] No that 
 wasn t it. It s lovely, though. Carries me right away. [GoR- 
 DON and FORBES become audible] Quiet everybody quiet! 
 [After a look at her they lower their tones, but not enough 
 to satisfy DULCY.] Ssh! [She rattles so??:e noisy bracelets. 
 FORBES turns and looks at her. DULCY giggles at him] Oh, 
 Mr. Forbes! I thought it was my husband. [DULCY S wan 
 dering eyes light upon a box of candy, the wrapping still on it. 
 She makes a weak attempt to turn her eyes away from it and 
 then picks it up and tears off its paper noisily, whispering across 
 to MRS. FORBES.] Candy that Mr. Leach brought! Yes 
 wasn t it nice of him? [She removes cover and ribbon, opens 
 box and offers some to MRS. FORBES and STERRETT in hoarse 
 whisper] Take some! [They signal refusal. She reaches 
 it towards FORBES.] Want some candy, Mr. Forbes? 
 [FORBES looks around, but does not understand. DULCY creeps 
 across to him] Some candy? Sherry s! Delicious! Mo- 
 
DULCY 207 
 
 lasses! [She is heavily sibilant. FORBES, unable to hear, leans 
 toward her. She reaches the box further toward him. After 
 seeing the candy he refuses.] 
 
 FORBES. No, no, thank you. [Returns to his chair. GOR 
 DON coughs and is hushed. DULCY takes a piece of candy 
 from the box and tastes it; does not like it, looks about to 
 make sure no one is observing replaces it. BILL rises, comes 
 down and selects two pieces.] 
 
 DULCY. Ssh! 
 
 BILL [whispering]. What? 
 
 DULCY. Ssh! [The music suddenly stops. DULCY drops 
 candy and applauds.] 
 
 BILL. Ssh! [The ?nusic begins again.] 
 
 DULCY [in a whisper to MRS. FORBES]. I thought he had 
 finished. [VAN DYCK strikes the remaining chords. DULCY 
 rises.] Lovely!! [Long drawn out.] 
 
 MRS. FORBES. It was adorable! 
 
 ANGELA. I loved it! 
 
 LEACH. It was beautiful. It made me think of Araby 
 and the moon-soaked desert. [He loses himself in the desert 
 for a second.] Did you see The Virgin of Stamboul? 
 
 BILL [promptly]. No. 
 
 DULCY. No I don t believe I did, either. 
 
 LEACH. That s too bad. You know, some of my new 
 picture is being laid in the desert, and that would be won 
 derful music for it. 
 
 DULCY [getting an inspiration]. Oh! 
 
 BILL. What s the matter? 
 
 DULCY. I have an idea. [BiLL moves toward the door.] 
 Why not have Mr. Leach tell us the story of his new picture, 
 while Mr. Van Dyck plays the music for it? 
 
 GORDON [springing up]. But but, Dulcy 
 
 DULCY. It ll be just like a moving-picture theatre! 
 
 LEACH [with fake modesty]. Oh, but really I don t think 
 that I should of course, it would be interesting. 
 
 ANGELA. Oh, please tell it, Vincent! [She gives a look 
 at STERRETT.] 
 
 STERRETT. Yes, do! [Turns away.] 
 
 MRS. FORBES. I d love to hear it, and so would my hus 
 band. [She throws her husband a look.] 
 
 DULCY. Well, now you can t refuse. 
 
208 DULCY 
 
 LEACH [with no thought of refusing]. Since you demand 
 it. 
 
 DULCY. Oh, good! Now everybody take their places! 
 Mr. Van Dyck, you go back to the piano! [They all take 
 seats.] Mr. Leach, you tell him what kind of music you want! 
 [BiLL stands motionless and noiseless. ] Be quiet, Willie. 
 Now, I ll sit here. 
 
 BILL. Mr. Leach. [A pause.] How many reels is this 
 picture ? 
 
 LEACH. There are eight! [BiLL sinks into his chair.] 
 It s an extra-super-feature, not released on the regular pro 
 gram! 
 
 BILL. How long does each reel take? 
 
 LEACH. Oh, about fifteen minutes. 
 
 FORBES [looks up]. Two hours? 
 
 BILL. To tell it? 
 
 LEACH. Oh, no, to show it. I can give you what we call 
 an outline in half an hour well, three-quarters at the most. 
 
 BILL. That s much better three-quarters. That s fine! 
 
 DULCY. Now keep quiet, Willie, or he won t tell it. 
 What s the name of the picture, Mr. Leach? 
 
 GORDON [striking match]. We can have a smoke, any 
 how. 
 
 FORBES. Thanks. 
 
 LEACH [with a winning smile]. Of course, I must have 
 absolute silence. [FORBES looks at him.] 
 
 DULCY. Of course. Tell us the name of it. [GORDON 
 lights his own, and, as FORBES is about to turn for his light, 
 LEACH protests amiably.] 
 
 LEACH. I shall have to concentrate, and if there are any 
 distractions 
 
 DULCY [hastily]. There won t be any tell us the name 
 of it. 
 
 BILL. Ask him what it s called. 
 
 DULCY. Shut up, Willie! 
 
 LEACH [waiting a moment until everyone is quiet]. The 
 name of the picture 
 
 DULCY [lifting an arm, and thus rattling her bracelets]. 
 Quiet, everybody! 
 
 LEACH. Is Sin. [This to the men.] Sin. [To the 
 womenJ} 
 
DULCY 209 
 
 DULCY [Doing her bit]. Sin. [VAN DYCK starts the 
 Rachmaninoff Prelude. LEACH steps up and stops him. ] 
 
 LEACH. Not yet. And when I m ready, just a soft accom 
 paniment. [Starting with enthusiasm.] This is really some 
 thing quite new in films. I am going to show Sin throughout 
 the ages. 
 
 DULCY [with anticipation]. Well! 
 
 LEACH. In the beginning the picture is symbolic. I open 
 with a quotation from Hawthorne [For the men s benefit.] 
 Nathaniel Hawthorne. 
 
 BILL [raising his hand]. Who s the director and the 
 cameraman ? 
 
 DULCY. Willie! 
 
 LEACH [squelching him]. The director is Frank Heming 
 Stratton. 
 
 BILL. Oh! [BiLL prepares for as comfortable a nap as 
 possible.] 
 
 LEACH. It begins with the setting out of Noah s Ark. 
 [LEACH signals VAN DYCK, who stars " Sailing, Sailing." 
 LEACH considers the music for <a second, decides it will do, and 
 continues.] We see Noah, a man of advanced years. His 
 wife, his sons, the animals of each of its kind two. We 
 see the Ark setting out upon its journey we see the waters 
 rise and rise and rise. For forty days it rains. [VAN DYCK 
 changes to ff Rustle of Spring"] Civilization is all but wiped 
 out it is kept alive and SIN is kept alive only in the Ark. 
 [At te Sin " VAN DYCK changes to t( Kiss Me Again."] 
 
 DULCY [in hoarse whisper to MRS. FORBES]. "Kiss Me 
 Again." 
 
 LEACH. Then comes a calm [VAN DYCK changes to 
 ff Morning Mood" (Grieg}.] The dove is sent forth it 
 returns, unable to find a lighting place. [Suiting action to the 
 word, FORBES strikes a noisy match and lights his cigar, un 
 mindful of LEACH S glare.] And then a second dove and // 
 returns and then a third and it does not return for some 
 where in the great beyond it had found LAND. [A quick sig 
 nal to VAN DYCK.] LAND! [VAN DYCK goes loudly into 
 "My Country Tis of Thee." DULCY automatically rises, 
 ever patriotic. LEACH is about to begin again, looks at her 
 surprised. DULCY giggles her apology, then sits. LEACH con 
 tinues as the curtain slowly falls.] Many years pass we are 
 
aio DULCY 
 
 now at King Solomon s Court his wives are bathing in the 
 fountain [The curtain remains down for a few seconds to 
 indicate the passing of thirty minutes. As the curtain rises, 
 LEACH, somewhat dishevelled, is still talking. BILL is asleep 
 in his chair, STERRETT asleep in his chair. GORDON has fallen 
 asleep in a sitting posture as though he had attempted to be a 
 perfect host but failed. FORBES is the one man wide-awake. 
 He is chewing the stump of a cigar viciously, breathing heavily 
 and seems to be wondering how many seconds he can stand it 
 before he commits murder. VAN DYCK, at the piano, looks 
 exhausted, and by this time is contributing only an occasional 
 chord. MRS. FORBES, ANGELA and DULCY are still " eating 
 it up. Jf } 
 
 LEACH [talking as the curtain rises }. Frances rushes to the 
 edge of the cliff, and, looking over, sees an inert, lifeless form. 
 The " Weasel " is dead. [LEACH pantomimes his excuses hur 
 riedly and takes a drink from a glass of water on the piano. 
 HENRY enters to clear away the coffee cups.} 
 
 DULCY. Not yet, Henry! How many times [HENRY 
 departs with a shrug.} Yes, Mr. Leach, the Weasel is 
 dead 
 
 LEACH [picking up the story}. And then then the Zep 
 pelin and Jack s automobile go into the final stretch neck and 
 neck. On on they speed! We get another close-up of Jack 
 in the driver s seat! We see his face tense and putting into 
 the car everything that he has, he forges slowly slowly 
 ahead! Then more and more! The goal is nearer and nearer! 
 Back in New York, Charley is seen leaving the Chinese Res 
 taurant! On the corner he meets Fanny, who throws the 
 money in his face. [For emphasis he touches FORBES arm. 
 FORBES jumps.} Then flash back to Jack nearer and nearer 
 HE WINS. [BiLL is rudely awakened and springs up.} 
 
 BILL. What? 
 
 LEACH [explaining]. He wins!! [BiLL returns to his 
 chair and nap with the manner of a man annoyed at being called 
 too early. VAN DYCK strikes a chord.} Gradually he stops. 
 The Zeppelin makes a landing. Coralie gets out of the dirigi 
 ble and rushes to Jack to forgive him. Just as he takes her 
 in his arms, her father arrives with the afternoon paper, which 
 makes everything clear and vindicates Albert. Then the father 
 clasps Jack s hand and apologizes to him for having thought 
 
DULCY 211 
 
 him the thief. And, to keep the symbolism to the end, just 
 as Jack kisses Coralie there in Chicago, Marc Antony is 
 shown kissing Cleopatra in Ancient Egypt and George Wash 
 ington kissing Martha Washington at Mt. Vernon. And so, 
 at the end of the Dream Trail, we fade into a long shot of 
 Jack and Coralie, once more in their South Sea bungalow, 
 with the faithful old Toota Heva waiting to greet them in 
 the sunset and fade out. [VAN DYCK finishes with a loud 
 chord. The women rise. LEACH rushes to them, his hands 
 outstretched, anticipating their congratulations. The women 
 take his hands, chattering. VAN DYCK gets up, raising his 
 arms and exercising his fingers. BILL awakes and rises, but 
 finds his foot asleep. He gradually wakes himself up by some 
 shakes and half-exercises, and awakens GORDON, who also has 
 to exercise and stretch his legs and arms. STERRETT likewise 
 awakes. FORBES has risen and holds his back. HENRY en 
 ters, clears the cups and saucers, and goes again.] 
 
 DULCY [when, the excitement has died down a little]. Oh, 
 that was the most wonderful picture I ever saw! [The women 
 echo this.] I mean heard! Eight marvelous reels! 
 
 BILL. What a picture! My God, what a picture! [He 
 slips away.] 
 
 FORBES [through his teeth]. And now, Eleanor, they might 
 enjoy hearing one of your scenarios. In fact, I m going up 
 stairs and get one! 
 
 MRS. FORBES. Charlie you you re not really going to 
 get one of mine! 
 
 FORBES. So help me God! [He starts up; DULCY stops 
 him at the foot of the staircase] 
 
 DULCY. Mr. Forbes, wouldn t you like to play a game of 
 billiards? 
 
 GORDON. Ah! Now, that s fine! 
 
 FORBES. Why, yes, I m very, very fond of billiards! 
 
 DULCY. There, you see, Gordon, darling! 
 
 FORBES. I didn t know you had a billiard table. 
 
 DULCY. Why, yes, a wonderful one! 
 
 GORDON [indicating the door]. Downstairs. 
 
 VAN DYCK. That sounds interesting. May I look on? 
 [GORDON has gone to DULCY and squeezed her hand in ap 
 preciation] 
 
 GORDON [at door]. This way, Mr. Forbes. 
 
212 DULCY 
 
 FORBES. Good God, why didn t you mention billiards ear 
 lier! [VAN DYCK, GORDON, and FORBES depart. ] 
 
 DULCY [to MRS. FORBES]. I think it s good for the men 
 to get off by themselves once in a while they seem to like it. 
 Besides, I wanted to talk to you. Angela dear, why don t you 
 and Mr. Leach go out for a stroll in the moonlight? It s a 
 wonderful night, in the moonlight. 
 
 ANGELA. Yes, let s! 
 
 LEACH. The moonlight! I would adore it! 
 
 MRS. FORBES. You d better put on a wrap, Angela. 
 
 ANGELA. Oh, mother, it isn t cold. [ANGELA and LEACH 
 stroll off, arm in arm. ] 
 
 STERRETT [taking the pretty rough hint]. I guess I ll 
 watch the billiard game. [He goes. The two women sit 
 down. DULCY takes the box of candy from the piano and puts 
 it on a stool between them. They eat and talk.] 
 
 DULCY. Isn t everything going beautifully? 
 
 MRS. FORBES. Ah yes. 
 
 DULCY. I think Mr. Forbes is beginning to like Vincent, 
 too. 
 
 MRS. FORBES. Do you? 
 
 DULCY. Don t you ? Didn t you see his face so tense and 
 excited while Mr. Leach was telling his story? Wasn t it 
 nice, with Mr. Van Dyck playing the piano? 
 
 MRS. FORBES. He plays awfully well. 
 
 DULCY. Has he said anything to you? 
 
 MRS. FORBES. Who? 
 
 DULCY. Mr. Van Dyck, of course. Anybody can see he s 
 attracted to you he s an awfully nice man, and he s one of 
 the Van Dycks of Newport if you ever want to go there. 
 
 MRS. FORBES. Oh, is he? 
 
 DULCY. Yes, I could fix it for you. [GORDON and FORBES 
 return. They have removed their coats.~\ 
 
 GORDON. Dulcy, dear, where did you put those billiard 
 balls? 
 
 DULCY. The what? [VAN DYCK comes back.] 
 
 FORBES. The billiard balls! It s a little difficult to play 
 billiards without them. 
 
 DULCY. Oh, the billiard balls! 
 
 GORDON. Yes. 
 
 DULCY. Did you look in the pockets? 
 
DULCY 213 
 
 GORDON [sadly"]. There are no pockets on a billiard table. 
 
 FORBES [willing to let the whole world go hang]. What s 
 the difference what s the difference? 
 
 DULCY. Maybe I did put them some place now, wait 
 I wonder if I could have no I put the curtains there. [A 
 pause] I ll come right away and look for them. I think I 
 know where they are. Gordie, you and Mr. Forbes come with 
 me. [VAN DYCK starts to improvise on the piano] That s 
 right, Mr. Van Dyck you keep Mrs. Forbes company. [To 
 FORBES.] I m awfully sorry about those balls. You know, 
 sometimes I think I d lose my head if it wasn t fastened on. 
 [She goes, carrying FORBES and her husband with her] 
 
 MRS. FORBES. We can go along and watch them play, if 
 you like. 
 
 VAN DYCK [still playing]. Do you want to? 
 
 MRS. FORBES. Not particularly. 
 
 VAN DYCK. Then let s don t. 
 
 MRS. FORBES [listening to the music]. That s pretty. 
 
 VAN DYCK. I would much rather talk to you. 
 
 MRS. FORBES. A clever man can do both. 
 
 VAN DYCK. But I m not clever. 
 
 MRS. FORBES. You re at least modest. 
 
 VAN DYCK [playing all through this speech]. No I m 
 not even that. The downright truth is I m embarrassed by 
 opportunities. Here I have a moment alone with you you re 
 perfectly willing to be entertained. If I could play at all well 
 which I can t I should dash off something brilliant now. 
 And if I could talk well, which I can t, I should simply 
 scintillate for you. But, you see I m just mediocre. [A 
 pause. He continues to play] Perhaps I wouldn t be quite 
 so annoyed with myself if it weren t for you. 
 
 MRS. FORBES. But you re doing splendidly. You have a 
 most respectful audience. 
 
 VAN DYCK [stopping playing abruptly]. Oh, please, not 
 that! You know you re charming. 
 
 MRS. FORBES. And just what is a charming woman? 
 
 VAN DYCK. A charming woman? She s the one I never 
 meet until she s married someone else. 
 
 MRS. FORBES. You re incorrigible. Play something more. 
 
 VAN DYCK. Oh, no. [He rises] I don t feel like play 
 ing. What do you say to a stroll? 
 
DULCY 
 
 MRS. FORBES. I d like it. I ve not been out since dinner. 
 
 VAN DYCK. It s pleasant here, isn t it? 
 
 MRS. FORBES. Yes, isn t it? 
 
 VAN DYCK. I have a little place like this in the East in 
 Abyssinia. The moonlight comes down through the trees 
 have you ever been in Africa? 
 
 MRS. FORBES. No. [They start out through the win 
 dows.] 
 
 VAN DYCK. You should go to Africa. I have some dia 
 mond interests [They stroll out. HENRY enters, takes a 
 glance around the room, and arranges the cushions on the divan. 
 As he is replacing the one on the end his eyes fall upon some 
 thing in the easy chair. He picks up ANGELA S necklace, 
 which FORBES had dropped, thinking he was putting it in his 
 pocket. HENRY, in a matter-of-fact way, puts it in his own 
 pocket and goes up the stairs. ANGELA and LEACH enter 
 through the windows. ANGELA is considerably excited.] 
 
 ANGELA. It was cool, wasn t it? 
 
 LEACH. Was it? 
 
 ANGELA. Weren t you? 
 
 LEACH. No I was afire afire with love for you, An 
 gela. 
 
 ANGELA. Why, what are you saying? 
 
 LEACH. Oh, those deep burning eyes! The mystery of 
 your hair! Angela, you re wonderful! I love you! Almost 
 from the first moment I saw you, I ve loved you wanted you 
 longed for you! Why, I patterned my newest heroine just 
 after you! To be with you is to breathe the perfume of ex 
 altation ! Angela ! 
 
 ANGELA [breathlessly]. Vincent! 
 
 LEACH. I am offering you myself everything that I am 
 Oh, it s true that I ve knocked about some [Modestly.] 
 A good many girls have loved me, but I have never loved any 
 but you, dearest. [He kneels.] Say that you love me a 
 little even though that love is now no greater than the glow 
 of a single firefly in the fading day! 
 
 ANGELA [rising]. Oh, Vincent my genius! 
 
 LEACH. My sweetheart! [He kisses her and then holds 
 her off, looking at her] My wonder girl! Will you marry 
 me? [ANGELA S head drops in assent.] And the day? [Em 
 bracing her again.] Love cries for its own! 
 
DULCY 215 
 
 ANGELA. Whenever you say Vincent. 
 
 LEACH [getting an Idea]. Why not ah but you 
 wouldn t ! 
 
 ANGELA. What? 
 
 LEACH. Why not now to-day to-night? 
 
 ANGELA. To-night ? 
 
 LEACH. Yes why not elope! 
 
 ANGELA [pleased]. Elope! [Sober, ] Oh, but mother and 
 father 
 
 LEACH. I am thinking of them. Your father would not 
 understand. 
 
 ANGELA. Don t you think so? 
 
 LEACH. No! He doesn t know how our hearts cry for 
 each other! 
 
 ANGELA. But he might never 
 
 LEACH. Darling, since the beginning of Time hearts have 
 been broken because they were not brave. And think how 
 romantic it would be you and I stealing away in the night 
 just we two together. [He draws her to him, they embrace 
 again.] 
 
 ANGELA. Oh, Vincent! 
 
 LEACH. Angela, dear! 
 
 ANGELA. And we d not tell anybody? [Withdrawing a 
 bit from him] Oh, Vincent, I d have to ! Mother and 
 
 LEACH [quickly]. But not your father! 
 
 ANGELA [hesitant]. No, I shan t tell father. But, mother 
 and Mrs. Smith. We ll need her. 
 
 LEACH. Just think of it, Angela you and I eloping! 
 [They embrace again] Won t the world be surprised! [En 
 ter DULCY.] 
 
 DULCY. Oh, excuse me. [They break embarrassed] 
 I haven t interrupted anything, have I? [Ho.ping to God she 
 has] 
 
 LEACH. Why no. 
 
 ANGELA [speaking simultaneously with LEACH]. Why 
 yes. 
 
 DULCY. Can I guess it? [ANGELA nods, too full to 
 speak] Angela, oh, Angela [She goes to her, embracing 
 her] Oh, if this isn t the most wonderful thing I ve ever 
 heard! It s it s it s it s wonderful, that s all I can say! 
 I m so happy I could cry! Good news affects me that way. 
 
 
216 DULCY 
 
 [She turns and takes VINCENT S hand, which he has been hold- 
 ing out expectantly .] Vincent! I may call you Vincent now, 
 mayn t I ? 
 
 LEACH. Of course! 
 
 ANGELA. Mrs. Smith we re going to need your help. 
 
 DULCY. Yes, darling, of course. 
 
 ANGELA. Now, it s a secret, and you must promise that 
 you won t tell anyone. 
 
 DULCY. Why, no I wouldn t tell a soul. 
 
 ANGELA [after an assenting signal from LEACH]. Well 
 Vincent and I are going to elope. 
 
 DULCY. E-elope? 
 
 ANGELA. To-night. 
 
 DULCY. T-t- to-night? You mean run away and get 
 married? [ANGELA nods her head.} Why why why 
 why that s wonderful [she grows incoherent} that s just 
 marvelous! I never heard of anything like that! It s it s- 
 why, it s 
 
 ANGELA. Now, remember you re not to tell a soul! 
 
 DULCY. Oh, no, I wouldn t tell anybody, no How soon 
 are you going? 
 
 ANGELA. Just as soon as we can aren t we, Vincent? 
 
 LEACH. Yes! If we can get away. 
 
 ANGELA. We want you to help us! 
 
 DULCY. Of course. You you you should tell your 
 mother. She ll be crazy to know about it. 
 
 ANGELA. Oh, yes. 
 
 DULCY [indicates windows}. I guess she must have gone 
 out there. My, I m so excited I don t know what to do next! 
 I just feel like jumping up and down ! [Enter BILL. DULCY 
 rushes to him.} Willie, what do you think! [LEACH and 
 ANGELA try to stop her, but she s too fast for them.} Vincent 
 and Angela are going to elope! 
 
 ANGELA. Oh! And you promised 
 
 LEACH. Now you ve 
 
 DULCY. Well, it it just came out before I could help it. 
 But but Willie won t tell anybody. You won t tell anybody, 
 will you, Willie? 
 
 BILL [slowly to ANGELA]. You re going to elope? With 
 Mr. Leach? 
 
DULCY 217 
 
 ANGELA [not quite meeting his eye]. Yes. [BlLL looks 
 fro?n ANGELA to DULCY, then back."] 
 
 BILL. I won t tell a soul. 
 
 DULCY [vindicated]. See? 
 
 ANGELA. Thank you. 
 
 BILL. Where are you going to elope to? 
 
 ANGELA. Why where were we, Vincent? 
 
 LEACH. I hadn t thought about it just yet. 
 
 DULCY. There are lots of places 
 
 BILL [after a glance at DULCY]. How about a marriage 
 license ? 
 
 ANGELA. Why, I don t know Vincent? [She turns to 
 him.~\ 
 
 LEACH [weakly]. Well, I thought we might find some 
 place 
 
 BILL. Going to take your father s car? 
 
 ANGELA [who had not thought about it before]. Yes! 
 
 DULCY. You could have had mine but I broke it. 
 
 BILL [to DULCY]. I suppose this was your idea. 
 
 DULCY. Well, I helped. 
 
 BILL. Yes, I could tell. [Again to ANGELA.] Well, 
 after you get this license and find a minister 
 
 DULCY. Willie, you could help them some way, couldn t 
 you? You know where to get a license and everything. 
 
 LEACH. Do you? 
 
 BILL [a pause]. Why yes. 
 
 DULCY. See, that s why I told him! 
 
 BILL. I live in Bronxville, and I know the borough clerk. 
 We could go to his house and get a license. 
 
 DULCY. Oh, that would be lovely! 
 
 ANGELA [weakly]. Yes. 
 
 LEACH [dubiously]. Yes. 
 
 BILL. Yes. Then I could drive you wherever you wanted 
 to go, and bring the car back that is, if Mr. Leach wants it 
 brought back. 
 
 DULCY. You see! Everything is working out splendidly! 
 Now I ll tell you what we ll do! We ll ah we ll ah 
 what do you suggest, Willie? 
 
 BILL. Is everything ready? 
 
 ANGELA. We just have to get our bags. 
 
218 DULCY 
 
 DULCY. They just have to get their bags. Vincent, now 
 you go out and find Mrs. Forbes and tell her; then we ll all 
 meet in the garage in ten minutes. I ll go up and get An 
 gela s things for her. [She starts up, then turns to consider.} 
 Now let me see [Enter STERRETT.] 
 
 STERRETT [coming forward with attempted carelessness}. 
 Oh, hello! 
 
 DULCY [weakly]. Hello. 
 
 ANGELA [also weakly}. Hello, Tom. [An awkward 
 pause. STERRETT sees that there s something in the wind and 
 that he s not part of it.} 
 
 DULCY [coming to the rescue}. There s nothing the matter. 
 
 STERRETT. Oh excuse me! [He turns on his heel and 
 goes.} 
 
 ANGELA. You don t think he suspected? 
 
 DULCY. Of course not. I told him there was nothing the 
 matter. Now let s see Vincent you go out and find Mrs. 
 Forbes, and then go to the garage and wait for us there. Now, 
 quick, quick! Go right through the tomatoes! 
 
 LEACH [with his eye on BILL]. Yes, but you know, I can 
 drive a car, too, for that matter. 
 
 DULCY. Hurry up! The less speed the more haste, or 
 something ! 
 
 LEACH. All right. [To ANGELA.] My dream woman! 
 [He is gone.} 
 
 DULCY. Oh well, now that s settled. I ll go up and get 
 the things, and we ll all meet in the garage in ten minutes! 
 
 ANGELA. I ll go with you! 
 
 DULCY. No, I ll bring everything out to the garage. If 
 anybody sees me they won t suspect. You know, I m so ex 
 cited! Now you two hurry right out! Vincent will meet 
 you there! My, it s it s just like times of old when knights 
 were bold! [She gallops up the stairs. ANGELA looks uncer 
 tainly at BILL, starts out quickly, then pauses to face what 
 ever he may have to say. BILL turns and speaks quietly.] 
 
 BILL. All ready for the elopement? 
 
 ANGELA. I think I think you re just horrid. 
 
 BILL. Speaking to me? 
 
 ANGELA. You know very well I am. 
 
 BILL. But of course you don t mean it. I m really being 
 very good to you helping you out in this way. 
 
DULCY 219 
 
 ANGELA. Well well you don t have to be so happy about 
 it. After all we we are old friends! 
 
 BILL. But that s why I m glad. You re glad, aren t you? 
 
 ANGELA. That has nothing to do with it! [A pause. ] 
 Of course I am! [Another pause.] You re just just im 
 possible ! 
 
 BILL. Angela, you told me once that I would never change. 
 You were right I never have changed. 
 
 ANGELA [almost in tears]. Oh, I don t care whether you 
 have or not ! I think you re positively hopeless ! [She flounces 
 out through the French windows. BILL, left alone, looks after 
 her a moment, then starts out, but seeing someone coming 
 downstairs, he pauses at the window. It is HENRY on the 
 stairs. He wears a sack coat and is carrying a derby. He 
 seems hurried and nervous. As he turns to go, BILL touches 
 him on the shoulder. HENRY starts.] 
 
 BILL. Hello, Henry! 
 
 HENRY [collecting himself]. Yes, sir. 
 
 BILL. What seems to be the trouble? 
 
 HENRY [nervous]. Trouble, sir? 
 
 BILL. Yes. 
 
 HENRY. Oh, no trouble, sir. Have you the time, sir? 
 [BlLL takes out watch, somewhat absent-mindedly holding it 
 too closely to HENRY then, realizing this mistake, turns away 
 to consult it] 
 
 BILL. Sixteen minutes after ten. 
 
 HENRY. Thank you, sir. Excuse me, sir. [He hurries 
 out. BILL stands a moment, undecided whether to investigate 
 HENRY, then turns and goes out through windows. Enter 
 GORDON and FORBES.] 
 
 GORDON. I m I m sorry, but Dulcy my wife must 
 have had the table moved for some reason, and then didn t get 
 it quite level when it was put back. 
 
 FORBES. Oh, that s all right that s all right. In fact, it 
 was rather novel playing billiards up and down hill. 
 
 GORDON. Probably I can have it fixed before you go home, 
 and then 
 
 FORBES. Doesn t matter, I assure you. I ah I don t 
 care very much for billiards, anyhow. 
 
 GORDON [growing desperate]. Some other time, then. 
 Maybe you d like to to look at some new golf clubs I just got? 
 
220 DULCY 
 
 FORBES. What? [MRS. FORBES comes through the win 
 dows. She is in a state of suppressed excitement, which be 
 comes more suppressed when she finds her husband present.] 
 
 MRS. FORBES. Oh, hello, dear! 
 
 FORBES [sourly ]. Hello. 
 
 MRS. FORBES [fencing]. Who won the billiard game? 
 
 FORBES [violently]. Mrs. Smith! 
 
 MRS. FORBES. Have you seen anybody? 
 
 FORBES. Have I what? 
 
 GORDON [anxious to get away]. Suppose I go and lay 
 out those golf clubs awhile, and then you can come later. 
 
 FORBES [almost viciously]. Yes suppose you do. 
 
 GORDON. Yes, yes. All right all right. [He wipes his 
 forehead nervously as he goes out.] 
 
 MRS. FORBES [casting apprehensive glances up the stairs and 
 out the windows]. What s the matter, dear? 
 
 FORBES. What s the matter? Why why good Heavens, 
 the the 
 
 MRS. FORBES [half fearful that he has learned about the 
 elopement]. Nothing has happened, has it? 
 
 FORBES. Happened? I should say it has! 
 
 MRS. FORBES [alarmed]. What? 
 
 FORBES. I go in here to play a game of [viciously] 
 billiards. I think finally that I m going to get ten minutes of 
 pleasure out of this week-end, and and what do I find? 
 
 MRS. FORBES [sweetly]. Well? 
 
 FORBES [yelling]. What s the difference? [A pause] 
 You don t give a darn you just go ahead carrying on with 
 that fellow Van Dyck. 
 
 MRS. FORBES. But, sweetheart 
 
 FORBES. Oh, I saw the way that woman fixed it up for 
 you! And Angela where s Angela? 
 
 MRS. FORBES [nervously]. I don t know, dear. [DuLCY, 
 carrying two suitcases, comes tiptoeing down the stairs. MRS. 
 FORBES sees her and DULCY wigwags to her to be quiet. 
 FORBES is well down stage, with his back to DULCY.] 
 
 FORBES. Out gallivanting with that moving picture nin 
 compoop, I suppose. More of that woman s work! 
 
 MRS. FORBES. Mr. Leach do you mean? 
 
 FORBES. Yes, Mr. Leach I mean! [DuLCY has reached 
 the windows; MRS. FORBES is signaling to her.] Just imagine 
 
DULCY 221 
 
 having a fellow like that in the family telling you outlines. 
 And the idea of you standing idly by while he and Angela 
 [He sees MRS. FORBES signals.} What the devil s the matter 
 with you? [DuLCY slips through the windows.] 
 
 MRS. FORBES. Why, nothing, dear. 
 
 FORBES. Then stand still! And listen to me. If I find 
 this Leach person actually making love to Angela, why, I m 
 I m going to raise hell, that s all. It s been nothing but a series 
 of aggravations annoyances ever since I came into this house. 
 Eleanor, I can truthfully say that in all my fifty-three years I 
 have never spent an unhappier evening. 
 
 MRS. FORBES. Oh, Charlie! 
 
 FORBES. But I am not going to spend another! I am not 
 going to stay here and ride golf and play horse-back! 
 
 MRS. FORBES. What are you going to do? 
 
 FORBES. I am going home! 
 
 MRS. FORBES. Charlie! 
 
 FORBES. I m going upstairs and pack! I promised Sterrett 
 I d drive him in to-night, and I m not coming back! There s 
 another thing! The way they re treating Sterrett! [Starting 
 up the stairs.] Good night! 
 
 MRS. FORBES. Charlie you can t do that! 
 
 FORBES. Maybe I can t, but I m going to ! You can stay 
 here with Van Dyck and watch Angela carrying on with that 
 Leach person if you want to. BUT mark my words if any 
 thing comes out of this if Angela and that fool are infatuated 
 with each other, and try to do anything silly I don t ever 
 want to see you or her again ! That is all ! [He storms up 
 the stairs. MRS. FORBES looks after him a minute. DULCY 
 enters through the windows and romps over to MRS. 
 FORBES.] 
 
 DULCY [gleefully ]. Well, they re gone! 
 
 MRS. FORBES. Oh, I m scared! Can t you call them back? 
 
 DULCY. Huh? Why, it s lovely! 
 
 MRS. FORBES. No no! I ve got to tell him! If I don t 
 he ll he ll never let me come back to him! He means it I 
 know him ! 
 
 DULCY. Vincent and Angela have eloped and everything s 
 fine! 
 
 MRS. FORBES. Fine? But but oh, it was all your doing! 
 That and Mr. Van Dyck, and everything! Charles 
 
222 DULCY 
 
 would never have talked to me like that if it hadn t been for 
 you. [Sobbing.] He never talked to me like that before. 
 
 DULCY. Why, Mrs. Forbes, dear, you re tired. 
 
 MRS. FORBES. No, I m not! I m just mad, that s all 
 mad at you! It s all your fault! If my husband ever knows 
 that that I knew they were eloping, and didn t stop it, why, 
 he ll he ll oh, I don t know what he ll do! [She breaks 
 down, sobbing] 
 
 DULCY {wanting to pat her and not quite daring to]. 
 There, there, dear. Why, he won t do anything. He ll be the 
 first to congratulate [Enter GORDON.] 
 
 GORDON [coming toward them}. Good Heavens, what s 
 all this about? What s the matter? 
 
 DULCY. It s nothing at all, darling. Just just 
 [FORBES comes down the stairs. He is wearing a duster and 
 carrying his hat and suitcase] 
 
 GORDON. Why, Mr. Forbes! 
 
 MRS. FORBES. Charlie! 
 
 FORBES [still boiling within}. Mr. Smith I I am re 
 turning to New York important business. My ah wife 
 and my daughter will remain here, I believe. I don t know 
 anything about them. 
 
 GORDON. But, Mr. Forbes, I don t understand. 
 
 FORBES. So far as our little deal is concerned, I I haven t 
 made up my mind yet whether to go ahead with it or not. 
 
 GORDON. My dear sir 
 
 MRS. FORBES. Oh, Charlie Charlie I want to tell you 
 something! [She starts towards him, but DULCY stops her] 
 
 DULCY. Now, Mr. Forbes, you don t really mean what 
 you are saying. When in anger, you should always count ten. 
 
 GORDON [sternly]. What is this all about? [Everybody 
 starts to tell him at once and all are talking as VAN DYCK 
 enters through the windows] 
 
 VAN DYCK. I ve got it! [Seats himself at piano] I just 
 thought of it! 
 
 DULCY. Ah ah huh? 
 
 VAN DYCK. You know, that little thing I couldn t remem 
 ber. It was a little Sicilian love song it went like this. [He 
 launches into a pretty little thing] 
 
 FORBES [after a few bars have been played, in great indig 
 nation]. Oh!! [He stalks out through windows.} 
 
DULCY 223 
 
 GORDON. Mr. Forbes Mr. Forbes! [He follows him 
 out.] 
 
 MRS. FORBES. Charlie Charlie! [She follows.] 
 
 DULCY. Oh, Mr. Van Dyck! 
 
 VAN DYCK. Do tell me, what s the trouble? Is Mrs, 
 Forbes 
 
 DULCY [shaking her head]. It s it s Mr. Forbes. 
 
 VAN DYCK. Mr. Forbes? 
 
 DULCY. He just got angry for no reason at all, and 
 now he s going back home in his car. . . . [She remembers 
 that the car is gone.] He thinks. 
 
 VAN DYCK. Dear me! 
 
 DULCY. But the worst of it is he s awfully angry at 
 Gordon, and he won t go ahead with the business thing. 
 
 VAN DYCK. Business thing? Is that the now, I don t 
 want to seem inquisitive, but is that the jewelry merger I ve 
 heard discussed? 
 
 DULCY. Yes. Didn t you know? Well, Mr. Forbes was 
 getting up one, and he was going to give my Gordie some of it. 
 [Her mood changes.] I hope it is all off only sixteen and 
 two-thirds per cent. 
 
 VAN DYCK. Just a minute. As I understand, it was a 
 combination which would have taken in about fifty per cent of 
 the jewelry trade. 
 
 DULCY [approaching tears]. Yes, I think so. 
 
 VAN DYCK. And now Mr. Forbes is leaving your hus 
 band out of it? Is that right? 
 
 DULCY. Yes. [VAN DYCK considers very seriously.] 
 Why? Oh, dear, maybe I shouldn t have told you. [VAN 
 DYCK in deep thought.] Oh, oh, I wish I hadn t told you. 
 [VAN DYCK wheels with decision.] 
 
 VAN DYCK. Mrs. Smith! 
 
 DULCY. Well? 
 
 VAN DYCK. Mrs. Smith, I like your husband very 
 much. 
 
 DULCY [greatly pleased] . Oh, do you ? 
 
 VAN DYCK. Would he be willing to get up his own 
 merger, one bigger than Mr. Forbes ever dreamt of? 
 
 DULCY. Why what do you mean? 
 
 VAN DYCK. Why doesn t he beat Mr. Forbes at his own 
 game? 
 
224 DULCY 
 
 DULCY. Why why I never thought of that. But Mr. 
 Forbes has all the money and and Gordie hasn t any. 
 
 VAN DYCK. That s it exactly! Now, I ve always wanted 
 to take a little flier in the jewelry business. Suppose I financed 
 Mr. Smith suppose he and I set out to beat Mr. Forbes to 
 gether? How would that be? 
 
 DULCY [incoherent ]. Be? Be? Why, it would be in- 
 creditable unbelievable! [Tearfully. ] You do you really 
 mean it? 
 
 VAN DYCK. I do. I ll put up my check the moment your 
 husband says the word. 
 
 DULCY [crying with joy]. Oh, Mr. Van Dyck, you ve 
 you ve made me the proudest woman in all the world! You 
 let me break the news to him, won t you? 
 
 VAN DYCK. Why of course, if you wish it. 
 
 DULCY. And to think I introduced you to him! Now, 
 what will he think of me! [Excited voices are heard off.~\ 
 
 VAN DYCK. It s Mr. Forbes again! 
 
 DULCY. Is it? 
 
 VAN DYCK [at the door]. Perhaps I d better go. My 
 golf things are fearfully rumpled. Will I find your man 
 Henry through here? 
 
 DULCY [her mind on other matters]. He s around some 
 where. [VAN DYCK goes. DULCY is almost hysterical with 
 happiness. The voices outside become definite.] 
 
 MRS. FORBES. But, Charlie dear, calm down a little, and 
 don t fly off the handle! 
 
 FORBES. Handle! Handle, madam! Do you realize what 
 has happened? [He enters during this speech, wearing his 
 coat and hat, and still carrying the suitcase. Stops short at 
 sight of DULCY; then walks to her with terrible calm.] Mrs. 
 Smith. [He pauses.] Mrs. Smith, upon going to your garage, 
 I first discovered that my car was gone. 
 
 DULCY. Oh, but that s nothing [GORDON appears in 
 the windows.] 
 
 FORBES. Just a moment, please! My wife thereupon in 
 formed me that you had told her that my daughter and Mr. 
 Leach have eloped! [He is throwing a terrific emphasis on 
 every word.] 
 
 GORDON. What! 
 
 FORBES. Is this true? 
 
DULCY 225 
 
 DuLCY [quaking, but trying to be gay about it]. Yes 
 yes! You see 
 
 MRS. FORBES. It wasn t my fault, Charlie honestly! 
 [FORBES silences her with a gesture, his eyes not leaving 
 DULCY.] 
 
 FORBES. Mrs. Smith [turning] and Mr. Smith. I am 
 measuring my words very carefully. Since my car is gone 
 and the last train is gone, it seems that I shall be compelled 
 to remain in this house over night. [He pauses his eyes 
 find DULCY.] I shall endeavor not to commit a murder. 
 
 GORDON. My dear Mr. Forbes, Fm sure this can be fixed 
 up in some way. 
 
 DULCY. Yes. Of course it can. [The old DULCY for 
 a second] You know, an angry word spoken in haste 
 
 FORBES. Please! [He turns to GORDON.] Mr. Smith, 
 in the circumstances I don t see how we can possibly get on 
 in business together. I don t like your methods! 
 
 GORDON. But, Mr. Forbes 
 
 FORBES. I shall not call the matter off entirely, but any 
 arrangement which we might eventually make would neces 
 sarily differ from our tentative discussions as to percentage. 
 [GORDON starts to speak] I m sorry, but that s my decision! 
 [STERRETT comes running on through the windows] 
 
 STERRETT. Mr. Forbes, Mr. Forbes [He comes between 
 FORBES and GORDON.] 
 
 FORBES [snapping at him]. Well, what now? 
 
 STERRETT. Your car is not in the garage! 
 
 FORBES. You don t say so! 
 
 STERRETT. Leach and Angela were acting awfully funny! 
 If you ask me, I think they ve eloped in it! 
 
 FORBES. I was not aware that I had asked you! 
 
 STERRETT. But how am / going to get back to town to 
 night ? 
 
 FORBES. You might try skipping! [STERRETT tries to 
 pass this off as a laugh, but a look from FORBES squelches him. 
 He arranges an exit for himself] 
 
 STERRETT. Ah well 111 see if I can find them. [He 
 goes somewhat precipitately] 
 
 FORBES [to GORDON]. I repeat the percentage would 
 have to be adjusted. And now I wish you good night! [He 
 makes for the stairs] 
 
226 DULCY 
 
 MRS. FORBES. Oh, Charlie, mayn t I come with you? 
 
 FORBES. It is a matter of utter indifference to me where 
 you go! 
 
 MRS. FORBES. Oh, but, Charlie, it wasn t my fault 
 really it wasn t! I didn t know anything about it until 
 after they eloped! [MRS. FORBES follows her husband up 
 stairs.] 
 
 DULCY [gleefully ]. Gordie! 
 
 GORDON [turning and looking at her]. My God, are you 
 smiling ? 
 
 DULCY. I ve got the most wonderful news for you! 
 
 GORDON [his anger rising]. Is it a surprise? [A pause.] 
 Dulcy Dulcy, how could you? 
 
 DULCY. How could I what? 
 
 GORDON. You ve ruined me that s all. Ruined me. 
 Dulcy, I m afraid we don t hit it off very well you and I. 
 This thing is too big. Say what we may, it s come between 
 us. 
 
 DULCY. Oh, no, it hasn t, darling. Wait till you hear. 
 
 GORDON. Hear? Hear what? 
 
 DULCY [rising and approaching him]. How would you 
 like to have Schuyler Van Dyck for a partner? 
 
 GORDON. A partner? [Going mad.] More golf? 
 
 DULCY. Business. 
 
 GORDON. Huh ? 
 
 DULCY [with great excitement]. How would you like to 
 go in business with him, and have Taylor and Robbins and 
 Spelvin and all those other people with you, and leave Mr. 
 Forbes out of it? Get up a a bigger merger than Mr. 
 Forbes ever thought about, because because you d have all 
 the money you wanted! Mr. Van Dyck said so! 
 
 GORDON [dazed] . He says so ? 
 
 DULCY. Yes! Think of that! 
 
 GORDON. Here! Wait a minute! You ve you ve been 
 talking to Van Dyck? 
 
 DULCY. Yes just now! 
 
 GORDON. And he said that he d finance a combination to 
 beat Forbes and his crowd with me at the head of it? 
 
 DULCY. He s just waiting for you to say the word, dar 
 ling! 
 
 GORDON. I I I can t believe it. 
 
DULCY 227 
 
 DULCY [caressing him as. if to restore his senses]. But it s 
 true it is, dear. 
 
 GORDON. Why, it s it s too good to be true. I I could 
 be rid of Forbes and put the business in for what it s worth. 
 I I could 
 
 DULCY [excited]. Yes oh, Gordon! 
 
 GORDON. I I can really do big things! Why [FORBES 
 comes downstairs] 
 
 FORBES. Excuse me. [ DULCY and GORDON break. 
 FORBES is the pathetic sight of a strong man reduced to tears.] 
 I am sorry to be compelled to make another statement. I 
 merely wish to announce on top of everything else that my 
 daughter s pearl necklace has disappeared. 
 
 DULCY. Disappeared ? 
 
 GORDON. What s that? 
 
 FORBES. In view of the fact that it took place in this 
 house, I thought you might have a sentimental interest. I 
 put it in my pocket not three-quarters of an hour ago, and 
 now [Enter VAN DYCK, speaking as he comes in] 
 
 VAN DYCK. I m sorry, but I ve been all over the house and 
 I can t find Henry any place. [VAN DYCK senses that he faces 
 a situation of some sort] He must have gone out. [GORDON 
 and DULCY exchange terrible looks. DULCY is the first to 
 recover] 
 
 DULCY. Henry! 
 
 GORDON. Well, I ll be 
 
 FORBES. What s that? Who s Henry? What s he got to 
 do with it? 
 
 VAN DYCK. I ll look again, but I m certain he s not here. 
 [He is about to start out] 
 
 GORDON [stopping him]. Before you go, Mr. Van Dyck 
 [VAN DYCK halts] And just a second, Mr. Forbes 
 [Stopping FORBES.] We ll straighten out about the necklace 
 later. Mr. Van Dyck, I understand that you have offered to 
 back me with unlimited capital in an independent jewelry 
 merger? [DuLCY sits, enjoying the situation] 
 
 FORBES. WHAT? 
 
 GORDON. Am I correct? 
 
 VAN DYCK. You are! Mrs. Smith has interested me very 
 much in this matter. I ll put up the necessary capital, pro 
 vided, of course, we can agree on the details. 
 
228 DULCY 
 
 GORDON [willing to agree to anything]. Oh, there ll be no 
 difficulty about that. [With dignity] I accept your offer. 
 Mr. Forbes, you said a minute ago that you were not certain 
 whether or not our deal was off. Well, I ve decided! It is 
 off! I am going to line up with Van Dyck and fight you 
 fight you till one of us is forced to the wall. But before I 
 do it, I m going to tell you why I m fighting you! I m fight 
 ing you because you tried to take advantage of me ! 
 
 FORBES. Advantage ? 
 
 GORDON. Yes, advantage! By offering me less than you 
 knew my business was worth! You knew I was in a hole, 
 and now you re going to get just what you deserve! You re 
 going to get a first rate licking! 
 
 DULCY. Oh, Gordie! 
 
 VAN DYCK [anxious to get away]. I I ll see if I can 
 find Henry, but I m afraid he s gone. [He slips out.] 
 
 FORBES. All right. Make your fine speeches, but when 
 you talk about fighting, don t forget that I can fight, too. 
 And before you win, you re going to know that you ve been 
 in a real fight! Remember that! [He goes upstairs.] 
 
 DULCY [rising and going to GORDON]. Gordie, darling, 
 you were wonderful! [Embraces him] But the necklace! 
 Do you think Henry 
 
 GORDON [impatiently]. What s the difference whether he 
 did or not? I feel like a new man. 
 
 DULCY. Gordie, you see I was of some use after all. 
 
 GORDON. Use ! You were wonderful ! [ Taking her in his 
 arms.] The best the finest little wife in the world. [He 
 kisses her.] I m going to beat Forbes, dear I m going to 
 succeed and I ll owe it all to you. 
 
 DULCY. Wasn t it lucky, my finding Mr. Van Dyck? 
 
 GORDON. Lucky! It was an inspiration! 
 
 DULCY. And I am a real helpmate? 
 
 GORDON. My darling! [She is again in his arms] 
 
 DULCY. My Gordie! [The door bell rings] That s the 
 door bell. You ll have to answer it, darling, since Henry isn t 
 here. 
 
 GORDON. One of the neighbors, probably. [He goes out f 
 leaving the door open] 
 
 DULCY. Oh, Henry! [Voices are heard off stage] 
 
 PATTERSON. Is this Mr. Smith s house? 
 
DULCY 229 
 
 GORDON. I am Mr. Smith. 
 
 PATTERSON. Can I speak to you a moment on a rather 
 important matter ? 
 
 GORDON. Won t you step in? [Enter BLAIR PATTERSON. 
 A man somewhat under middle-age, well groomed, and with 
 quite an air of authority. He makes a good impression. GOR- 
 DON follows him on, closing the door.] Ah my wife. 
 
 PATTERSON. How do you do, Mrs. Smith? I must apolo 
 gize for calling at this hour. My name is Patterson Blair 
 Patterson. 
 
 GORDON. The attorney! 
 
 PATTERSON. Yes. I was referred to you by Mrs. Kennedy. 
 
 DULCY. Oh, across the street? 
 
 PATTERSON. Ah yes. She said you had guests. I just 
 wondered if among them there is a Mr. Morgan? Can 
 you tell me? 
 
 GORDON. Morgan? Why, no. 
 
 DULCY. No. 
 
 PATTERSON. Well is there a Mr. Ford? 
 
 GORDON. No. He s not here either. 
 
 PATTERSON. Mr. Vanderbilt? 
 
 GORDON [somewhat flattered]. Vanderbilt? No. 
 
 PATTERSON. Mr. Astor ? 
 
 GORDON [more flattered and somewhat surprised}. No. I 
 don t understand. 
 
 PATTERSON. H m. Well, let me ask you is one of your 
 guests tall, good-looking, plays the piano, interested in various 
 ah investments ? 
 
 DULCY [proudly] . Oh, you mean Schuyler Van Dyck ? 
 
 PATTERSON [thoughtfully}. Schuyler Van Dyck. 
 
 DULCY. He s here. 
 
 PATTERSON [slowly]. Yes, I think I do mean Schuyler 
 Van Dyck. I m his cousin. [GORDON and DULCY are cor 
 diality itself.] I I ve come for him. 
 
 DULCY. Come for him? 
 
 PATTERSON. Yes. His real name is Patterson Horace 
 Patterson. He has an hallucination that he s a millionaire. 
 Goes round forming big companies But I assure you he s 
 perfectly harmless. [He taps his head significantly as 
 
 [THE CURTAIN FALLS.] 
 
ACT III 
 
 The scene is the same; the time is the following morning. 
 The windows are open and bright morning sunlight is 
 pouring into the room. 
 
 \The curtain rises on a bare stage and after a second FORBES 
 comes downstairs. He is utterly broken. After throwing 
 a hard look toward the easy chair he sits stiff and upright 
 in the side chair, groaning as he sits. He takes out his 
 cigar case; it is empty ; with a growl he rises and looks 
 in humidor on table. There is nothing there. He sits 
 again in the same chair. 
 
 STERRETT comes tripping down the stairs. 
 
 STERRETT [blithely}. Good morning, Chief! 
 
 FORBES. Got anything to smoke? 
 
 STERRETT. Oh, sure. [STERRETT hauls out his cigarette 
 case and opens it.] 
 
 FORBES. I meant a cigar. 
 
 STERRETT. Oh just a minute. [He goes for humidor^ 
 
 FORBES. There s none there. None any place. Mrs. 
 Smith probably discovered that I like cigars. 
 
 STERRETT. Haven t you any in your room? 
 
 FORBES. Yes, but ah I don t want to disturb Mrs. 
 Forbes. 
 
 STERRETT. Oh, I thought you had separate rooms. 
 
 FORBES [viciously ]. No. We have the bridal suite. 
 
 STERRETT. Well, Mrs. Forbes must be up by this time. 
 Why don t you go up and 
 
 FORBES [rising]. Sterrett. 
 
 STERRETT. Yes, Chief. 
 
 FORBES. I don t want this to go any further but I did 
 not sleep in the bridal suite last night. I took a walk until 
 rather late and when I returned everyone had gone to bed. 
 I didn t know just which rooms were unoccupied, so I slept 
 on a couch in the hall. 
 
 230 
 
DULCY 231 
 
 STERRETT. All night? 
 
 FORBES. Now and then. I tiptoed into my room about 
 four o clock this morning to get this [Indicating his busi 
 ness suit.] Did you ever try to get a suit of clothes out of a 
 closet in the dark, without making any noise? 
 
 STERRETT. Why, no. 
 
 FORBES [putting hand to his head]. Oh, dear. 
 
 STERRETT. You re not ill, Chief? 
 
 FORBES [sitting }. I wouldn t be surprised. It would be 
 too much to expect to get out of this with just a mental break 
 down and a celluloid son-in-law. 
 
 STERRETT. Nothing new on the necklace, I suppose? 
 
 FORBES. Oh, yes. It was brought back and I m wearing 
 it. 
 
 STERRETT. You re what? 
 
 FORBES. Don t you see it? [STERRETT makes a weak at 
 tempt at a laugh.} 
 
 STERRETT. Oh, Chief Chief you certainly have a sense 
 of humor. 
 
 FORBES [grimly}. Yes, and at this time of the morning 
 I m at my best. 
 
 STERRETT. But ah I meant the police. 
 
 FORBES. Huh? 
 
 STERRETT. The police were sent for, weren t they? 
 
 FORBES. Probably. I asked Mrs. Smith not to send for 
 them, so I suppose she did. 
 
 STERRETT. Well, if I were you, I d put them right on it. 
 
 FORBES. It may seem impossible to you, Sterrett, but there 
 are times when it does not pay to advertise. You may recall 
 that my daughter eloped last night. 
 
 STERRETT. It has been a very painful experience for me, 
 Chief. 
 
 FORBES. Well, damn it, you don t think it s been any 
 diversion for me? 
 
 STERRETT [hastily]. Oh, of course not. [Trying to say 
 something comforting.] As her father I can keenly appreciate 
 how you re going to suffer. 
 
 FORBES [giving him a look]. Thank you. The reason I 
 don t want the police sent for is that I m not anxious to have 
 my daughter s elopement become public. 
 
 STERRETT. Oh ! 
 
32 DULCY 
 
 FORBES. I can see the newspaper headlines now. " Daugh 
 ter of C. Rogers Forbes Elopes With Nut." [A pause.] 
 I m going to have it annulled quietly. 
 
 STERRETT [an idea dawning ]. Maybe they didn t get mar 
 ried ! 
 
 FORBES. What? 
 
 STERRETT. Maybe they re not married yet! They couldn t 
 get a license last night! I ll telephone 
 
 FORBES. They made special arrangements to get a license. 
 Mrs. Smith s brother saw to that. H m. I rather liked him. 
 I wondered what he d do. 
 
 STERRETT. I never trusted him. 
 
 FORBES. And on top of everything else, the third member 
 of the family gets the Van Dyck money behind him and prac 
 tically tells me to go to hell. 
 
 STERRETT. Certainly is an unlucky house. What time 
 are we going back to town ? [GORDON comes downstairs. ] 
 
 FORBES. Just as soon as possible. 
 
 GORDON [who hasn t slept either. Meekly]. Good morn 
 ing. 
 
 STERRETT [right back at him]. Good morning. 
 
 FORBES [after hesitating]. Good morning. [Looks away.] 
 
 GORDON. Breakfast will be ready in a minute, if the cook 
 is still here. [GORDON goes out, FORBES not noticing that he 
 has left the room. MRS. FORBES comes downstairs.] 
 
 FORBES. Mr. Smith [Rises.] After taking into con 
 sideration everything that has happened here since my arrival 
 [FORBES turns at this point and notices GORDON is not in the 
 room, but sees MRS. FORBES.] 
 
 MRS. FORBES [to FORBES]. Good morning [Finishing 
 it to STERRETT.] Mr. Sterrett. 
 
 STERRETT. Good morning, Mrs. Forbes. 
 
 MRS. FORBES. Aren t you going to speak to me Charlie? 
 
 FORBES. I m speaking to no one. [GORDON returns.] I 
 will take up our affairs when I get back to the city if I ever 
 do. [He sees GORDON.] Mr. Smith, I was about to say, 
 when you walked away a minute ago [DuLCY comes down 
 stairs. She is wearing bright sport clothes and is ready for a 
 busy day, but is somewhat subdued.] 
 
 DULCY. Good morning, everybody. All ready for break 
 fast? It s a lovely day, isn t it? Has anyone been out? The 
 
DULCY 233 
 
 sun is shining; it s just good to be alive. How do you feel 
 this morning, Mrs. Forbes? 
 
 MRS. FORBES. I m rather depressed. 
 
 DULCY. Depressed? Well, you mustn t be. I have some 
 wonderful news for you. It s a surprise. Who do you think 
 will be here inside an hour? 
 
 FORBES. A couple dozen reporters, I suppose. 
 
 DULCY [almost singing it]. A bridal party. 
 
 FORBES. So they are married! 
 
 DULCY. Yes. Willie phoned me just now. He said they 
 had trouble getting in touch with the license clerk. I suppose 
 all those people are like policemen when you want one you 
 never can find one. Anyway, they got him up at last and they 
 were married at midnight. 
 
 FORBES. By a Justice of the Peace? 
 
 DULCY. No, indeed. By Dr. Carmichael he s one of the 
 finest ministers in Westchester. Willie knows him awfully 
 well, so I suppose he did it as a special favor. Wasn t it nice 
 of him? 
 
 FORBES. Yes, I appreciate it. 
 
 DULCY. So now you have a genius in the family, Mr. 
 Forbes. 
 
 FORBES. Is he returning the car? 
 
 DULCY. Oh, of course they ll be here any minute now 5 
 the happy couple. 
 
 FORBES. You can give them the bridal suite. 
 
 DULCY. But where will you sleep? 
 
 FORBES. I shall be returning to town as soon as the car 
 arrives. [To GORDON.] Mr. Smith, I hope we can have a 
 little talk before I go. 
 
 GORDON [meekly]. Just as you say, Mr. Forbes. 
 
 DULCY. Now, now, no business before breakfast. Come 
 along let s all go in before the grape fruit gets cold. [She 
 returns to FORBES and takes his arm.] Mr. Forbes. You 
 come in with me. 
 
 FORBES [disengaging himself]. No, thank you. I m afraid 
 I must be excused. I m not very hungry this morning. [He 
 goes up into windows.] 
 
 DULCY [feeling the rebuff]. Mr. Sterrett, you ll eat some 
 breakfast, won t you? 
 
 STERRETT [always willing]. Why, surely. 
 
234 DULCY 
 
 MRS. FORBES [stepping toward her husband}. There isn t 
 anything the matter, is there, Charlie? 
 
 FORBES. The matter? Oh, no! Fm just too happy to 
 eat. [He stamps through the windows.] 
 
 DULCY. Gordon, darling, you must eat some breakfast. 
 Come along. 
 
 GORDON. Dulcy, will you go ahead and leave me alone? 
 
 DULCY [persistent]. Mrs. Forbes, you ll have some break 
 fast? [MRS. FORBES nods.] Ah! [Victorious. ] You know, 
 Fm never myself until Fve had a cup of coffee in the morning. 
 [STERRETT opens the door for them] Of course, we re all 
 depressed now, but maybe after breakfast I ll think of some 
 thing to cheer us up. [All but GORDON depart; BLAIR PAT 
 TERSON comes downstairs] 
 
 PATTERSON. Good morning, Mr. Smith. 
 
 GORDON. Oh, good morning, Mr. Patterson. You slept 
 well, I trust. 
 
 PATTERSON. Thank you yes. [Earnestly] Fm very 
 sorry to have caused you this trouble. 
 
 GORDON [dejectedly]. Oh, that s all right. Ready for 
 breakfast ? 
 
 PATTERSON. Thank you. I ll take Mr. Patterson home 
 with me just as soon as he can get his things together. 
 
 GORDON. There s no hurry any more. Have you told 
 him? 
 
 PATTERSON. No, he hasn t seen me yet. I ll not have any 
 difficulty; it s happened before. 
 
 GORDON. He s a cousin, I believe you said? 
 
 PATTERSON. A distant cousin it s really too bad. Bril 
 liant chap agreeable obliging 
 
 GORDON. He certainly is. 
 
 PATTERSON. Quite all right. Lives on Long Island with 
 his mother and sister. Just this one hallucination. 
 
 GORDON. That s all he has? 
 
 PATTERSON. Oh, yes. Now and then he wanders off alone 
 like this, but happily he never causes any real trouble. 
 
 GORDON. He doesn t, eh? That s fine. 
 
 PATTERSON. It s a little hard on me being compelled to 
 round him up at intervals. I have to divide my activities as 
 a lawyer with those of a truant officer. 
 
 GORDON. Yes, it must be hard on you. 
 
DULCY 235 
 
 PATTERSON [looking about and approaching GORDON]* 
 Ah if I might ask a small favor? 
 
 GORDON. Certainly. 
 
 PATTERSON. I hope none of your guests has learned about 
 my cousin s weakness? 
 
 GORDON. I don t think so. [With a look toward the 
 windows.] I hope not. 
 
 PATTERSON. If I may suggest it, it might be better to 
 wait until I ve taken him home, in case you wish to explain 
 to anyone. It will save embarrassment. [VAN DYCK comes 
 downstairs.] 
 
 GORDON. I won t say anything. 
 
 PATTERSON. Thank you. 
 
 VAN DYCK [noticing GORDON only]. Good morning. 
 
 GORDON. Good morning. [He indicates PATTERSON.] 
 Here s a friend of yours. [Exit GORDON through windows.] 
 
 PATTERSON [turning ]. Hello, Horace. 
 
 VAN DYCK. Blair! Why, what in the world are you 
 doing here? 
 
 PATTERSON. Oh, just dropped in to say hello. 
 
 VAN DYCK. You can t fool me. You ve come to make me 
 leave that s what you ve done. 
 
 PATTERSON. Oh, no that is unless you really want to. 
 
 VAN DYCK [aggrieved]. It s very embarrassing. 
 
 PATTERSON [annoyed]. Well, if it s embarrassing for you, 
 what do you think it is for me? I ve a law practice to attend 
 to. I m getting a little tired of these excursions. 
 
 VAN DYCK. Well, I wish you d leave me alone. At least 
 half a dozen times during the past few years you ve interrupted 
 me in business negotiations that were exceedingly inter 
 esting. 
 
 PATTERSON [suddenly suspicious]. Have you been putting 
 through something here ? 
 
 VAN DYCK. Well, yes I ve been representing my Van 
 Dyck interests. We had all sorts of wonderful things planned. 
 My share alone would have been eight and a half millions. 
 Besides, we were going to play golf. 
 
 PATTERSON. Horace, haven t I told you repeatedly that I 
 represent the Van Dyck interests? Now, you must let me 
 handle it. You come back to town with me and we ll talk it 
 over. 
 
236 DULCY 
 
 VAN DYCK [protesting }. But I can t leave now. If I 
 do 
 
 PATTERSON. I m sorry, Horace, but you know our agree 
 ment. Unless you do as I say, I ll never go through with that 
 two hundred million dollar aeroplane company of ours. 
 
 VAN DYCK [appeased and smiling }. Oh, all right. [Enter 
 DULCY. Coming face to face with VAN DYCK, she is startled 
 and uncertain as to how to greet him.} 
 
 DULCY. Oh, good morning. [Timorously.} How do you 
 feel this morning? 
 
 VAN DYCK. Very melancholy. [DULCY sidles away from 
 him.} I m afraid I must go back to town. 
 
 DULCY. Ah ! [The height of sympathy.} 
 
 VAN DYCK. You don t know how I wish I could stay. 
 
 DULCY. Ah . . . ! Well, that s too bad. Still, it s all for 
 the best. You you must have some breakfast first. 
 
 VAN DYCK. Oh, thank you. 
 
 DULCY [in a whisper to PATTERSON]. He can eat break 
 fast, can t he? [GORDON comes back.} 
 
 PATTERSON. Oh, yes. 
 
 VAN DYCK. I hope we re not the last. 
 
 DULCY. Oh, that s all right. The last shall be first and 
 everything. [VAN DYCK goes. To PATTERSON.] I had 
 some soft boiled eggs prepared for him, and some soft milk 
 toast all very .soft, you know. Is that all right? [PATTER 
 SON, with a nod, goes in for breakfast. DULCY is about to 
 follow.} 
 
 GORDON [sharply}. Dulcy! 
 
 DULCY [turning nervously}. Yes dear. 
 
 GORDON [very seriously}. Dulcy, come here, please. 
 
 DuLCY [prattling on to cover her nervousness}. I I was 
 just seeing about Mr. Van Dyck s breakfast Mr. Mr. Pat 
 terson s I mean. He s he s all right, really. I mean, of 
 course, he isn t exactly all right, but he s he s all right for 
 for what he is and I mean everything could be much 
 worse couldn t it, darling? [She finishes rather weakly, go 
 ing to GORDON.] 
 
 GORDON. Dulcy do you realize exactly what has hap 
 pened ? 
 
 DULCY. Well, I I don t know I think so. Oh, Gordie, 
 I didn t mean 
 
DULCY 237 
 
 GORDON [simply and kindly ]. You must listen quietly, dear, 
 until I finish. 
 
 DULCY [momentarily subdued]. Yes, darling. 
 
 GORDON. The time has come when I must speak 
 frankly. [A pause. ] Do you know what Mr. Forbes is go 
 ing to say to me when he learns who Van Dyck really is? 
 [DuLCY shakes her head; she cannot speak at the moment.] 
 He is going to tell me that my factory and my services are 
 of no use to him. Mr. Forbes thinks that he has been made 
 a fool of, and he s right. Our future success depended 
 entirely on him. 
 
 DULCY. But but we haven t really done anything to 
 him. Just because we we asked for more. 
 
 GORDON. It wasn t our asking for more. 
 
 DULCY. Oh, you mean the elopement? [She considers.] 
 He doesn t like pictures. 
 
 GORDON. That was the crowning mistake. 
 
 DULCY. It was me again. It was me as usual. Oh, dear 
 how will it all end! [She sinks onto the sofa.] 
 
 GORDON [slowly]. Forbes will probably force me out of 
 business. Then I ll have to start in all over again without 
 [He glances around the room.] Without this. 
 
 DULCY [forcing herself to say it]. And without me? 
 
 GORDON [dispassionately ]. Dulcy, I love you. I shall al 
 ways love you. I don t know whether it s because you have 
 the soul of a child, or in spite of the fact that you act like one. 
 [He turns away.] I don t know what the future is going to 
 do to us. You mean well, but you just don t stop to think. 
 
 DULCY. I guess I don t think I just think I think. [Ris 
 ing and speaking bravely. ~\ I ll let you go, darling if you 
 want me to. I m just all wrong. I m a false note. I 
 always wondered how I d be able to make a man like you care 
 for me it seems so absurd for a man like you ever to love 
 a false note. And now we re finding out he can t. 
 
 GORDON [carried away for a second]. Dulcy, we can t end 
 everything like this! You re not a false note you re a melody 
 a whole tune. [A pause. He reverts to his previous mood.] 
 But I don t know what to do. 
 
 DULCY [sadly], I don t think I can reform. 
 
 GORDON. No I suppose not. 
 
 DULCY [a bit hopefully]. I could make out a kind of 
 
238 DULCY 
 
 budget of things not to do you know, like the one we did 
 for the household expenses. 
 
 GORDON. I m afraid that wouldn t do much good. 
 
 DULCY [realizing that it s old stuff but hopefully trying it 
 anyhow]. I could make another promise. One that would 
 take in everything. 
 
 GORDON. Oh, I know you d try to keep it, but 
 
 DULCY [with tears in her voice]. Oh, but I would keep 
 this one! Dearest, if you ll let me, I ll promise that I ll never 
 interfere with your business affairs again. 
 
 GORDON. But you practically promised that once, and 
 
 DULCY. I mean in any way whatever! Inviting people to 
 parties, and everything! I ll I ll revolutionize myself. 
 
 GORDON [turning sharply]. Dulcy, I don t want you to 
 change yourself a bit. I love you just as you are. [With 
 desperate earnestness.] I simply want you to let me handle 
 my own affairs. Promise me that you won t even suggest 
 helping me in business. 
 
 DULCY [hysterically]. All right, I ll promise! And I ll 
 keep it! I will! 
 
 GORDON [embracing her]. I m sure you will! 
 
 DULCY. I will, I will! And furthermore, I ll do every 
 thing in my power to repair the damage I ve done. 
 
 GORDON [thoroughly frightened]. Repair it? 
 
 DULCY. Yes about Mr. Forbes. I ll go to him and tell 
 him how sorry I am, and see if there isn t something I can 
 do [FORBES comes striding in through the windows.] 
 
 FORBES. I beg your pardon, but it is extremely necessary 
 that I get back to town immediately. Can I get a car any 
 where in the village? 
 
 GORDON. Oh, but, surely you re not going before w r e have 
 our little talk? 
 
 FORBES. I regret that I must. 
 
 GORDON [evidently conspiring to keep him there]. But 
 I m afraid you can t get in this morning. There are no cars 
 to be had out there so, if you ll just make yourself comforta 
 ble 
 
 DULCY [spilling the beans]. Oh, yes, he can get a car, 
 darling [Starting off.] He can get one right away. I ll 
 phone Kelly. Kelly always has a car. 
 
 GORDON [following her]. But, Dulcy 
 
DULCY 239 
 
 FORBES. Thank you very much, Mrs. Smith. 
 
 GORDON. But, Dulcy Dulcy [Turning back to 
 FORBES hastily. ] I ll be back. Dulcy! [He races out after 
 her. FORBES takes a turn around the room, automatically 
 reaching for his cigar case t which he opens and finds empty. 
 Enter BLAIR PATTERSON.] 
 
 FORBES. Why, Mr. Patterson 
 
 PATTERSON. Oh, it s ah 
 
 FORBES. Forbes. C. Roger Forbes. 
 
 PATTERSON. Oh, of course. [He shakes his hand.] 
 
 FORBES [puzzled and suspicious]. I ah I didn t know 
 you were a friend of Mr. Smith s? 
 
 PATTERSON. Well ah no that is, yes I 
 
 FORBES. H m. Came down this morning, did you? 
 
 PATTERSON. Ah yes, yes. Just got in. Beautiful coun 
 try. 
 
 FORBES. Isn t it? [A pause.] The Van Dyck interests 
 seem to keep you quite busy. 
 
 PATTERSON. Ah yes, yes. 
 
 FORBES. I was just wondering what had brought you, 
 and 
 
 PATTERSON [in a corner}. Yes. 
 
 FORBES. H m. [Lightly. ] Must be something pretty 
 important for him to send for you at this hour? 
 
 PATTERSON. Well, ah just a little matter of business, 
 which he thought advisable [He finishes with a cough.] 
 
 FORBES. I see. What I was about to say was of course, 
 I don t know just what Mr. Van Dyck is thinking of going 
 into, but ah if I had a client who was thinking of going 
 into it, why, I d look into it pretty thoroughly myself. Now 
 I can give you a good deal of facts about [Enter STER 
 RETT and VAN DYCK.] 
 
 STERRETT [as they enter}. Well, that s certainly very in 
 teresting to me. 
 
 VAN DYCK. Yes, I I hoped that it would be. 
 
 STERRETT. Well, Mr. Forbes, if you want me to handle 
 your advertising after this you ll have to bring it to a different 
 office. 
 
 PATTERSON [suddenly suspicious]. What was that? 
 
 STERRETT. I ve just fixed up a little deal with Mr. Van 
 Dyck. I m to head his new advertising agency! 
 
240 DULCY 
 
 FORBES. You don t say so? 
 
 PATTERSON [with a side glance at VAN DYCK]. Well! 
 
 FORBES. That s splendid! Anyone who can join hands 
 with Mr. Van Dyck is a very fortunate person. 
 
 PATTERSON. Ah would you care to finish your packing, 
 Mr. Van Dyck? 
 
 VAN DYCK. All right, Blair. In a minute. 
 
 PATTERSON [going up to the staircase }. Well, whenever 
 you re ready Schuyler. [This informality of address registers 
 strongly with FORBES.] 
 
 FORBES. Ah now that we ve met, Mr. Van Dyck, I hope 
 we can see something of each other in town. 
 
 VAN DYCK. I trust so. As a matter of fact, there are 
 several things I would be interested in going over with you. 
 
 FORBES [eagerly]. That so? What are they? 
 
 PATTERSON [warning I y]. Ah don t forget Schuyler 
 your packing 
 
 VAN DYCK [airily]. Oh, that s all right, Blair. 
 
 FORBES. You were saying, Mr. Van Dyck 
 
 VAN DYCK. Well, it just occurred to me that we might 
 have interests which- ah 
 
 FORBES. Yes? 
 
 VAN DYCK. Which we might pool to advantage. 
 
 FORBES. Indeed, yes. Something of that kind has been in 
 my mind for a long time. Of course I hesitated to suggest it 
 to you. 
 
 PATTERSON. Don t you think that we d better be 
 
 STERRETT. Now, there s something I d like to ask you, Mr. 
 Van Dyck and I hope you won t mind my presuming. Ah 
 do you that is, what is your attitude just at present on 
 the market? Do you look for further declines, or [He 
 pauses.] 
 
 VAN DYCK [importantly]. No, sir. 
 
 FORBES. Ah ! 
 
 STERRETT. That s very interesting. 
 
 VAN DYCK. As a matter of fact, I look for a sharp rise 
 throughout the list. 
 
 FORBES. Indeed? 
 
 STERRETT. What do you base that on, Mr. Van Dyck? 
 [Quickly.] If I may ask? 
 
DULCY 241 
 
 PATTERSON. I hardly think you have time to go into that 
 now, Schuyler 
 
 VAN DYCK. It ll just take a second. [Pompously. ] The 
 reason that I look for a rising market, Mr. Forbes is 
 
 FORBES. Yes? 
 
 VAN DYCK. Is that a war with Spain is now inevitable! 
 
 FORBES. A war with Spain? 
 
 VAN DYCK. Exactly. 
 
 PATTERSON. Schuyler ! 
 
 STERRETT. A war between Spain and this country? 
 
 VAN DYCK. Oh, no! That s it, exactly. Spain and 
 Abyssinia ! 
 
 FORBES. What s that? 
 
 STERRETT. But I don t 
 
 PATTERSON [reaching across STERRETT and leading VAN 
 DYCK <away]. Come, come. I really must get back to town, 
 Mr. Van Dyck. There s a train that goes almost immediately. 
 [To VAN DYCK, confidentially. ] It s a matter of two hun 
 dred millions. [STERRETT and FORBES exchange a glance .] 
 Sorry to take Mr. Van Dyck away from you, Mr. Forbes 
 Mr. Sterrett but you know how it is. We ll see you pres 
 ently. 
 
 FORBES. Certainly. 
 
 PATTERSON. Come along, Schuyler. [He starts up with 
 VAN DYCK.] 
 
 STERRETT [following ]. Mr. Patterson, you don t mind if 
 I go up along with Mr. Van Dyck, do you? 
 
 VAN DYCK [turning back to him ]. Come right along, Mr. 
 Sterrett. I haven t finished with you yet. [PATTERSON is 
 now on the stairs. The other two work their way up the 
 stairs as they speak.~\ 
 
 STERRETT. No, I didn t think you had. Now, if that 
 April ist date is O. K. with you 
 
 VAN DYCK. Yes, and I ll tell you what else you can do 
 for me. I have some copper interests out in Montana 
 [VAN DYCK, STERRETT and PATTERSON go up the stairs. 
 FORBES follows up to the foot of the stairs, looking after them. 
 Enter MRS. FORBES.] 
 
 MRS. FORBES. Oh Charlie 
 
 FORBES. Oh, it s you. 
 
242 DULCY 
 
 MRS. FORBES [approaching ]. Charlie, it wasn t my fault 
 Angela, I mean. [ FORBES listens in stony silence. ,] Honestly it 
 wasn t, Charlie. [She makes up her mind to stretch the truth 
 just a little.] I didn t know anything about it until after 
 they d eloped. Really I didn t! 
 
 FORBES. Well, I I ve no wish to be unjust, Eleanor. 
 
 MRS. FORBES. Then you ll forgive me? 
 
 FORBES. You you re telling me the truth? You didn t 
 know anything about the elopement until 
 
 MRS. FORBES. Until after Mrs. Smith told me. 
 
 FORBES. That woman! 
 
 MRS. FORBES. Then you will take me back? [FORBES 
 looks at her, pinches her cheeksj then embraces her awk 
 wardly.] 
 
 FORBES. Eleanor, dear my little widgie! 
 
 MRS. FORBES [sinking into his embrace]. Oh, Charlie, I m 
 so happy! 
 
 FORBES. My dear, this has been a most unfortunate 
 visit. 
 
 MRS. FORBES. Yes, dearest. 
 
 FORBES. But it has done one thing for me. I didn t 
 know until I saw you with Mr. Van Dyck how much I really 
 cared for you. 
 
 MRS. FORBES. Oh, Charlie do you honestly? Say it 
 again ! 
 
 FORBES. I was actually jealous. 
 
 MRS. FORBES [embracing him]. Charlie how wonderful! 
 I ll never talk to Mr. Van Dyck again, and I ll even give up 
 the Smiths if you insist. 
 
 FORBES [quickly]. Oh, no, no, no. You must stay friendly 
 with the Smiths no matter what happens. Smith s factory 
 equipment couldn t be duplicated right now for any amount. 
 I ve got to have it. 
 
 MRS. FORBES. But, Charlie 
 
 FORBES. Now don t go and tell him. 
 
 MRS. FORBES. Oh, I wouldn t. 
 
 FORBES. I just wanted to be sure. [Enter DULCY.] 
 
 DULCY. Oh, Mr. Forbes, they haven t any automobiles 
 just now. They said maybe they d have one later. 
 
 FORBES. To-morrow, perhaps? 
 
 DULCY. Oh, Mr. Forbes I m sorry [She pauses a 
 
DULCY 243 
 
 second.] Sorry about the elopement, I mean [There is 
 no response from FORBES.] And everything. 
 
 FORBES [annoyed]. It s quite all right, Mrs. Smith 
 quite all right. 
 
 DULCY. And I m sorry about the business deal, too. But 
 it s going to come out all right. 
 
 FORBES. What s that? 
 
 DULCY. I say the business deal between you and Gordie 
 is going to come out all right. 
 
 FORBES. Oh, is it? 
 
 DULCY. Yes. Gordie will go in with you after all. Be 
 cause Mr. Van Dyck isn t Mr. Van Dyck at all. 
 
 MRS. FORBES. What? 
 
 FORBES. What s that? 
 
 DULCY. No he has something wrong up here. [She taps 
 her head.] He only thinks he s a millionaire. 
 
 MRS. FORBES. Good heavens! 
 
 FORBES [keeping calm]. Oh so Mr. Van Dyck is not 
 Mr. Van Dyck! 
 
 DULCY. No. 
 
 FORBES. I see. 
 
 DULCY [after a pause]. So everything s all right now, 
 isn t it? 
 
 FORBES. Oh, yes. Splendid! 
 
 DULCY. And it s all right between you and Mrs. Forbes, 
 too? [MRS. FORBES smilingly puts her arm around him. He 
 smiles at her. DULCY gurgles with joy.] Ah ! H m ! 
 It was sweet of you to forgive her for helping with the elope 
 ment. 
 
 MRS. FORBES [drawing back with an involuntary exclama 
 tion]. Oh! 
 
 FORBES. For helping with the elopement! [To his 
 wife.] Then you did know about it? You helped, f [He 
 turns to DULCY, who has crept a few steps away, as if to 
 escape.] Did she? [Enter GORDON. DULCY sees escape is 
 hopeless^] 
 
 DULCY. I I 
 
 FORBES [to MRS. FORBES]. And you told me you didn t! 
 
 MRS. FORBES [sobbing]. Oh, Charlie, Charlie I didn t 
 very much! And I was sorry I did, right away. [She tries 
 to embrace him; he puts her off.] 
 
244 DULCY 
 
 FORBES. I don t care to hear anything about it! 
 
 MRS. FORBES. Oh, but, Charlie 
 
 DULCY. Ah! Ah! [She crosses to her.] There! there! 
 
 MRS. FORBES. I feel faint. 
 
 DULCY. She feels faint! Come out into the garden and 
 get some fresh air. [Leading her into the windows and out.] 
 Breathe deeply, dear. Ten times. One two three 
 [They are out of sight and hearing] 
 
 GORDON. I m sorry. Sorrier than I can tell you about 
 all of it. 
 
 FORBES [after a pause ]. Oh, Mr. Smith I ve just been 
 hearing something from Mrs. Smith about Mr. Van Dyck. 
 
 GORDON [scared]. You have? 
 
 FORBES. Yes. 
 
 GORDON [he grits his teeth]. Well, then of course you 
 know that 
 
 FORBES. Yes, I know. [A pause]. But it won t work, 
 Mr. Smith. 
 
 GORDON. What s that? 
 
 FORBES. I ll admit that Mrs. Smith is a clever woman 
 a very clever woman. [GORDON looks at him wonderingly.] 
 But it won t work. [A pause.] Van Dyck not Van Dyck. 
 Hah! [GORDON laughs nervously.] I might have believed 
 it if I hadn t happened to meet Blair Patterson down here. 
 No, Mr. Smith! I know Patterson, and I know that he 
 represents the Van Dyck interests. A man like Patterson 
 doesn t suddenly pop up in Westchester to talk business with a 
 man with hallucinations! 
 
 GORDON [not knowing just what to do]. Oh! Well, of 
 course you know 
 
 FORBES. You bet I do! I saw it all! You began to be 
 sorry you d told me about the Van Dyck merger, and wanted 
 to throw me off the trail eh? Well, you can t do it. I 
 know what s in the wind, and I m going to hold you to your 
 agreement. 
 
 GORDON. Agreement ? 
 
 FORBES. Well, it was a verbal agreement. As a gentle 
 man you agreed to come in with me and take sixteen and two- 
 thirds per cent, and you ve got to do it. 
 
 GORDON [having difficulty in not betraying himself]. But, 
 Mr. Forbes 
 
DULCY 245 
 
 FORBES. YouVe not signed anything with Van Dyck yet 
 and it was just as good as settled with me. Now, if you 
 don t [ANGELA bursts through the windows still in her 
 evening dress. MRS. FORBES and DULCY follow her.} 
 
 ANGELA. Father ! 
 
 DULCY. Well, here she is! 
 
 FORBES. Angela ! 
 
 MRS. FORBES [quaveringly, her hands on ANGELA S arms}. 
 Angela, oh, Angela ! 
 
 ANGELA. Oh, mother father! 
 
 DULCY [expectantly, as though awaiting a speech of for- 
 giveness from FORBES]. Well ? 
 
 FORBES [as all eyes go towards him a short pause]. Are 
 you married ? 
 
 ANGELA. Yes, father. 
 
 MRS. FORBES. Oh, she s married! [She takes ANGELA 
 into her arms.] 
 
 DULCY. She s married ! 
 
 FORBES. Well where is your husband? [ANGELA looks 
 up at him, then buries her face in her mother s shoulder.} 
 Answer me, Angela! [Enter BILL. He still wears his dinner 
 clothes.} 
 
 BILL [quietly}. Good morning, everybody. 
 
 GORDON [casually}. Hello, Bill. 
 
 DULCY [carelessly]. Oh, hello, Willie. 
 
 FORBES. Where is Leach? 
 
 ANGELA [with a half smile}. I don t know, father. 
 
 FORBES. You don t know? [To BILL.] Well, perhaps 
 you can tell us! 
 
 BILL [shaking his head}. I m sorry. 
 
 FORBES. Didn t you help to arrange this wedding? 
 
 BILL. Why yes. 
 
 FORBES. Well, don t you know where the groom is? 
 
 BILL. Sure I m the groom. 
 
 FORBES [staggering]. You re wh-wh-what s that? 
 
 DULCY. Gr-gr-groom Willie! 
 
 GORDON. What ? 
 
 MRS. FORBES. Why why Angela [They all come 
 together there is a burst of excitement. MRS. FORBES em 
 braces ANGELA again, DULCY embraces WILLIE. FORBES and 
 GORDON exchange looks. Slowly the excitement dies down.} 
 
246 DULCY 
 
 DULCY. Well well, tell us about it! Good heavens! 
 Willie! Just think! 
 
 ANGELA [breaking from her mother s embrace]. It was 
 just the most romantic thing that ever happened in the world ! 
 William William just kidnapped me, that s all! Oh, Wil 
 liam! [She goes into his arms. DULCY laughs ecstatically.] 
 
 FORBES [to BILL]. Are you a genius? 
 
 BILL. I should say not. [They shake hands] 
 
 DULCY [to FORBES]. He s a broker! Isn t it wonderful? 
 
 MRS. FORBES. Oh, Charlie! 
 
 GORDON. Well, what about Leach where is he? 
 
 BILL. I don t know. 
 
 DULCY. Don t know? 
 
 BILL. We started from here together all right last night >. 
 but ah down the road a piece I suddenly thought my tail- 
 light was out. Mr. Leach was kind enough to get out and 
 see that everything was all right; suddenly the darned thing 
 started. I tossed his suit-case out to him I don t think you ll 
 ever see him again. 
 
 FORBES [after a laugh slapping BILL S back]. You re 
 pretty damn clever. 
 
 DULCY. I introduced them! 
 
 FORBES [to DULCY]. Oh, so this was what you were work 
 ing for, underneath that Leach business? 
 
 DULCY [suddenly seeing a chance to claim the credit]. 
 Yes. [She meets BILL S eye.] And no [She evades the 
 issue.] You don t understand women very well, Mr. Forbes. 
 [Enter HENRY with the morning papers] 
 
 GORDON [taken off his feet] Henry! 
 
 HENRY [as though it were all part of his duties]. Good 
 morning, sir. 
 
 DULCY [to GORDON-]. Aren t you glad he s back? 
 
 GORDON. But but what s this mean? 
 
 DULCY. Oh, I forgot to tell you. Henry had to go to 
 town last night [She lowers her voice.] You know to 
 report to the Probation Officer. Every week. 
 
 GORDON. But but the necklace? 
 
 FORBES. Yes, the necklace. 
 
 DULCY. Oh, I forgot to tell you that, too. Henry found 
 it last night and took it for safe-keeping. He gave it to me 
 back this morning. 
 
DULCY 247 
 
 GORDON. He did? 
 
 HENRY. Yes, sir, I found it lying about, so I thought I d 
 better take charge of it, with so many people in the house. 
 [He departs.] 
 
 DULCY [takes her place between BILL and ANGELA, an 
 arm around each]. It s upstairs for you, Angie, dear. Think 
 of Angie being a married woman, and Willie a married man! 
 Now, Mr. Forbes, you know sixteen and two-thirds per cent 
 isn t very much for a relation, a brother-in-law. 
 
 FORBES. Well, I wasn t very generous about that deal of 
 ours, or very just. Smith 
 
 GORDON. Yes, sir. 
 
 FORBES. What do you say to coming in with me for 
 twenty per cent? 
 
 DULCY. Twenty! 
 
 FORBES [anticipating further objections]. Well, then, 
 twenty-five. 
 
 DULCY. Twenty-five ! 
 
 GORDON. Dulcinea, that satisfies me! 
 
 DULCY. Does it? Well, if it satisfies Gordon [She 
 turns to him.] I didn t mean to interfere, dear. I never will 
 again. You can rely on me. A burnt child dreads the fire. 
 Once bitten [GORDON is embracing her and stops her with 
 a kiss, as 
 
 
 [THE CURTAIN FALLS.] 
 
THE INTIMATE STRANGERS* 
 
 By 
 BOOTH TARKINGTON 
 
 * Copyright, 1921, by Booth Tarkington. 
 
 All acting and motion picture rights to The Intimate Strangers are 
 controlled by A. L. Erlanger, New Amsterdam Theatre Building, New 
 York. It may not be acted, either by professional or amateur com 
 panies, without permission and the payment of royalty. 
 

 
Dramatic reviewing in America is usually supposed by his 
 torians of American literature to have begun with Pierre 
 Irving and a group of his young friends in the early years of the 
 nineteenth century in New York. Since those days there has 
 been a succession of intelligent and independent play critics. 
 In the weekly and in the monthly journals, some of the promi 
 nent names have been Laurence Hutton, William Winter, 
 H. A. Clapp, John Coibin, Norman Hapgood, Clayton 
 Hamilton, Walter Pritchard Eaton, Ludwig Lewisohn, and 
 Stark Young. At the present moment in New York J. 
 Ranken Towse is writing dramatic criticisms for The New 
 York Evening Post. Alexander Woolcott, following the prac 
 tice of the great French critic, Francisque Sarcey, adds to the 
 tale of his day-to-day reactions in The New York Times a 
 thoughtful essay on the current theatre which appears every 
 Sunday under the heading " Second Thoughts on First Nights." 
 Kenneth Macgowan is the dramatic critic of The Globe and a 
 regular contributor to Vanity Fair on subjects connected with 
 the drama. On The Sun the dramatic reviewer is Stephen 
 Rathbun, on The New York Herald, Lawrence Reamer, on 
 The New York Mail, Burns Mantle, and on the Evening Tele 
 gram, Robert Gilbert Welsh. Hey wood Broun has recently 
 migrated from The Tribune to The World, and his place on 
 The Tribune has been taken by Percy Hammond, who made 
 his first success as a play reviewer in Chicago. 
 
 It is Percy Hammond s criticism of Booth Tarkington s x 
 play that has been chosen as a sympathetic introduction to The 
 Intimate Strangers: 
 
 " For a while, in the course of The Intimate Strangers, you share 
 with middle-aged Mr. Ames (Alfred Lunt) the perplexities of 
 sex in which he finds himself involved by Mr. Tarkington. You 
 know, as well as he does, that the mannerly Aunt Isabel (Miss Billie 
 Burke) is a woman far superior to her rambunctious young niece (Miss 
 Frances Howard). Yet, though you are in love with the older lady 
 
 1 See for biographical sketch the same editor s One-Act Plays by 
 Modern Authors, New York, 1921, p. 3. 
 
 251 
 
252 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 
 
 (having just met her a few hours before) you feel an urge toward 
 the vociferous woman-child as she plies you with the blunt seductions 
 of her type. Though you are censorious of her perturbing demerits, 
 you wish, when she is off the scene, that she would hurry back again. 
 She is the kind of horsey nineteen-year-old that you think you abhor, 
 but still, in the lingo of the maiden herself, she * intrigues you. 
 . . . You discover, to your distress, that her bad habits are as inter 
 esting as are the good ones of her attractive aunt, to whom you 
 are almost engaged. 
 
 This, of course, does not disparage the delightful impersonation by 
 Miss Burke of the pretty and cunning spinster. That effort is a fine 
 embodiment of adult charm, humor and beauty, helped or hindered, 
 as you may be inclined to believe, by the player s judicious manner 
 isms. You divide your allegiance simply because you are weak and a 
 man. You are indulging a man s prerogative for occasional bad taste 
 in women. Mr. Tarkington ascribes this clumsy male attitude to the call 
 of youth the lure of * breath all incense and cheek all bloom, to the 
 heedless laughter of the nineteen-year-old who thinks she is eternity s 
 pal and that age exists only for others. She believes that maturity is 
 antique and funny. Why is Aunt Isabel ashamed of how old she 
 is ? this flapper shouts. I m nineteen ! It might be interesting for 
 you to analyze, if you are over thirty, your emotions in the matter, 
 in the event that you have not already done so. 
 
 All is propitious in the romance of Mr. Ames and Aunt Isabel until 
 the gusty advent of the virgin msenad. Having been castaways for 
 ten hours in a desolate railway station in upper New York State, 
 they quarrel over food and fall in love. Incidental to his soft 
 avowals Mr. Ames announces his displeasure with the new genera 
 tion of women. He has remained a bachelor because of his loathing 
 for the loud, slangy, cigarette-smoking, gin-drinking, breeches-wear 
 ing ingenue of the day. He likes quiet women of gentle breeding, 
 like Aunt Isabel, and he assures her that he will not care for her 
 obstreperous kinswoman. In one of the most sweetly sophisticated 
 interludes of Mr. Tarkington s achievements as a playwright, Mr. 
 Ames and Aunt Isabel go to sleep on two benches in the desolate 
 depot, almost engaged to be married. At least, they are tenderly 
 solicitous about each other s comfort; and after sentimental negotia 
 tions they decide that both may be allowed to say Good night . . . 
 dear! 
 
 But arriving with the morning is the brisk flapper in breeches and 
 bobbed hair, affronting the rural silences with ribald jocularities about 
 the compromising position in which she finds her decorous aunt. She 
 thinks it might be subject to interpretations . . . observing, mean 
 time, that, by j,olly, he [Mr. Ames] isn t bad looking. Old, 
 of course, but still a prospect. Ab-so-lutely! * Dazed by her fasci 
 nations, he slips into her spell, and it is he who sits beside her as she 
 drives the forty miles to the home of her and her aunt. 
 
 There it is that the two ladies strive each to win the visitor s 
 admiration, the breezy virgin with the sex s most ancient tricks, the 
 
THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 253 
 
 sedate spinster with its most modern ones. The niece talks to him 
 with the obviously dishonest candors of her kind, telling him that he 
 sure is a fast worker and operating the eyes and the arms in the 
 platitudinous gestures of the baby-wanton. Her favorite device is the 
 prehistoric expedient of causing him every now and then to fasten or 
 unfasten her slippers. All of which causes her youthful suitor (Mr. 
 Glenn Hunter) to brood in bitter disapprobation and to make wise 
 and cutting comment. Mr. Tarkington was never more humorous 
 than he is in this character, and neither was Mr. Hunter. 
 
 Aunt Isabel, however, performs the oldest wiles in the newest ways. 
 Knowing that Mr. Ames suspects her to be aged, because she is the 
 great-aunt of the terrible infant, she feigns years and their infirmities^ 
 planning at the end to surprise him with her comparative youth. 
 She acquires rheumatism, wears a shawl and woolen slippers, and 
 talks to him (smiling to herself) of the World s Fair and President 
 Harrison. When finally, after winning him, she offers him the family 
 Bible so that he may calculate her age therefrom, he foregoes the 
 information, and takes her in his arms. 
 
 Miss Burke s performance of Aunt Isabel is, to my mind, rather a 
 noteworthy endeavor in comedy, embracing, as it does, in skillful 
 fashion, the varying moods of the character its twinkling pathos, its 
 sagacities, its mockery and banter. It causes one to wonder why, as 
 it is suspected, her reputation as a comedienne is less than her achieve 
 ments entitle it to be. I recall few if any ill deeds in her stage 
 career, and I remember one impersonation that was a masterpiece 
 that of Pinero s Mind-the-Paint Girl. The Intimate Strangers, by 
 the way, was written by Mr. Tarkington for Miss Maude Adams 
 who, wisely, I think, refrained from playing it." * 
 
 The Intimate Strangers is one of a lengthening list of Mr. 
 Tarkington s plays. With Harry Leon Wilson he wrote The 
 Man from Home (1907), Cameo Kirby (1908), Foreign Ex 
 change ( 1909), // / Had Money, subsequently known as Mrs. 
 Jim, and Getting a Polish (1909), Your Humble Servant 
 (1909), Springtime (1909), Up from Nowhere (1919), and 
 The Gibson Upright (1919). In 1917, Mr. Tarkington col 
 laborated with Julian Street in The Country Cousin. He 
 had Evelyn Greenleaf Sutherland as his collaborator in the 
 dramatization of his Monsieur Beaucaire, known as Beaucaire 
 (1901), in which Richard Mansfield is so happily remembered. 
 
 Other plays by Mr. Tarkington include A Man on 
 Horseback (1912), Beauty and the Jacobin (1912), 
 Mister Antonio (1916), in which Otis Skinner starred, 
 Clarence (1919), Poldekin (1920), in which George Arliss 
 took the principal role, and The Wren (1921). At least three 
 
 Printed by courteous permission of Percy Hammond, 
 
 
254 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 
 
 of Mr. Tarkington s stories have been dramatized by play 
 wrights other than himself. The Man from Indiana, Seven 
 teen, and Penrod have all made stage appearances. 
 
 The Intimate Strangers Is Mr. Tarkington s contribution to 
 the controversy which is now being waged on the subject of 
 the manners and morals of the younger generation; not that 
 The Intimate Strangers is a polemic far from it. It is in 
 finitely less doctrinaire in its attitude than Rachel Crothers s 
 Nice People, produced also in the year 1921. Miss Crothers 
 drew a lurid picture of the invasion of the social sanctities by 
 the youths and maidens of to-day. 
 
 Booth Tarkington gets his verdict by means of the most 
 delicate of satirical touches. His rapier wit does not hurt, for 
 the button is on the foil. It is doubtful, indeed, whether since 
 the days of Mark Twain there has arisen among our American 
 writers of the first rank a man who so thoroughly understands 
 the way young people reason and feel as Booth Tarkington. 
 He knows the tastes of youth, the heart of youth, and the 
 soul of youth; and so as a novelist and as a playwright, he is 
 the possessor of a golden gift. 
 
THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 
 
 CHARACTERS 
 (In the order of their appearance) 
 
 THE STATION-MASTER.-* 
 
 WILLIAM AMES. ^ 
 
 ISABEL STUART. 
 
 FLORENCE. 
 
 JOHNNIE 
 
 HENRY. 
 
 AUNT ELLEN. 
 
 MATTIE. 
 
Produced by Erlanger, Dillingham, and Ziegfeld at the New 
 National Theatre, Washington, D. C., October 31, 1921, with 
 the following cast: 
 
 THE STATION-MASTER Charles Abbe 
 
 AMES Alfred Lunt 
 
 ISABEL Miss Burke 
 
 FLORENCE Frances Howard 
 
 JOHNNIE WHITE Glenn Hunter 
 
 HENRY Frank J. Kirk 
 
 AUNT ELLEN .Elizabeth Patterson 
 
 MATTIE . .Clare Weldon 
 
SYNOPSIS OF SCENES 
 ACT I 
 
 A railway station. A night in April. During Act I the cur 
 tain is lowered to denote a lapse of a few hours. 
 
 ACT II 
 
 The living-room at ISABEL S. The next morning. 
 
 ACT III 
 The same. That evening. 
 
ACT I 
 
 SCENE 
 
 The rise of the curtain discloses a darkness complete except for 
 an oblong of faintly luminous blue; this is a large window; 
 and one or two stars are seen through the upper panes. 
 After a moment a door up right is opened and a man 
 enters carrying a lantern. He pushes a switch button 
 near the door and two bulbs, shaded by green painted tin, 
 come to life, right center, two other bulbs, left center, take 
 on similar life simultaneously. These lights hang by wires 
 from the ceiling. 
 
 The interior revealed is that of a small railway station, a 
 tr way station " at <an obscure junction in the country. 
 The walls are wainscoted in wood to a height of four 
 feet; above that is plaster painted a tan brown. In the 
 right wall (half way up) is the ticket window, with a 
 little shelf; the up-and-down sliding inner panel of the 
 window closed. Up to this, in right wall, is a door. Iw 
 the back wall up right is another door, that which has 
 admitted the man with the lantern. Center in the rear 
 wall is the window. There is a stove, left, with a 
 pipe running to the left wall. The only decorations are 
 some printed posters giving notice of changes in train 
 schedules, a Navy Recruiting poster, a ff warning " con 
 cerning forest fires, a penny-in-the-slot weighing machine 
 against the rear wall, and ff No Smoking/ There is a 
 clock on right wall; it has stopped at seventeen minutes 
 after six. The furniture consists of four or five wooden 
 benches, with iron legs, the feet screwed to the floor; 
 these benches are set in rigid rows, facing front; one 
 straight behind the other. Upon the front one is seen a 
 knowing, small lunch basket, closed but not strapped, and a 
 very small thermos bottle. Several traveling bags, a couple 
 of guns in cases and a trout-fishing outfit are there also. 
 258 
 
THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 259 
 
 The man with the lantern is the station-master, ticket-agent, 
 telegraph operator, baggage-man, and janitor; but he wears 
 no uniform except a cap. He is elderly and smooth-shaven; 
 his clothes are elderly, too; though not shabby. A dark 
 old overcoat with the collar turned up; his rubber boots 
 are heavy with mudded clay, and his trousers are tucked 
 into the bottoms of them. 
 
 He goes casually near the clock; looks at it; grunts thought 
 fully; goes out right, returns with a plain, wooden^-seated 
 chair, once painted yellow; places it under the clock. He 
 moves the hands around to ten-twenty-four, consulting his 
 watch as he does so. Then he winds the clock. 
 
 T As the winding begins, there is the sound of an annoyed yawn 
 from the apparently empty benches. A man has been lying 
 at full length on the bench second from front, and until 
 now, as he slowly (f sits up," has been invisible. 
 
 He is " somewhere in the early forties " but not yet re well- 
 preserved " looking. People of sixty would speak of him as 
 " a young man " ; people of sixteen would of course think 
 him of an advanced age. He is urban, intelligent look 
 ing a "man of the world"; very "attractive" His 
 clothes are of an imported texture, pleasant for travel, and 
 he has on a soft hat and a light-weight overcoat. 
 
 The STATION-MASTER, having wound the clock, looks at him. 
 
 STATION-MASTER [casually]. Been asleep, I expect. [Gets 
 down from chair.] 
 
 AMES [passing a gloved hand over his eyes]. I have not. 
 [He looks at the STATION-MASTER drowsily] You aren t the 
 same one, are you. [He states this as an interesting dis 
 covery; it is not a question] 
 
 STATION-MASTER. I m not the same one what? 
 
 AMES. You aren t the same Station-Master that was here 
 this afternoon. 
 
 STATION-MASTER. He ain t no Station-Master; he s my 
 brother-in-law. [Starts with chair] 
 
 AMES. Oh! 
 
 STATION-MASTER. He jes spelled me to-day; I was 
 teamin . 
 
 AMES. I thought he seemed to be an amateur. 
 
 STATION-MASTER [moving right with the chair to return it 
 
260 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 
 
 to the room off right ]. How? [He means "What did you 
 say?"] 
 
 AMES. He seemed bashful. About giving any information, 
 I mean. 
 
 STATION-MASTER. Information? He ain t got no infama- 
 tion to give. Never did have. 
 
 AMES. He struck me in that light particularly about 
 trains. 
 
 STATION-MASTER. Well, right to-night, I ain t much bet 
 ter, myself. The wires are all down after them storms; the 
 bridge at Millersville washed out on one road and they was 
 a big freight smash on the other one. My brother-in-law says 
 he told you that much. 
 
 AMES [gloomily]. Yes; he did tell me that much. 
 
 STATION-MASTER. Well, the Lord A Mighty couldn t tell 
 you no more till them wires start workin again. [He moves 
 to go off right with the chair, then turns back.] Where d you 
 say you was aimin to git to? 
 
 AMES. Well, New York eventually! [Plaintively.] I 
 have a place there with a bed in it and food. 
 
 STATION-MASTER [reflectively ]. New York. You got to 
 git from here down to Uticky first then change for Albany. 
 
 AMES [drearily]. Yes, I know, I know. I made a mistake 
 in coming round by this junction ... I ought to have walked. 
 
 STATION-MASTER [with a short laugh]. I reckon! You d 
 a-got there pretty near as soon, mebbe. These here hurry- 
 canes [he means hurricanes ] got train service in this whole sec 
 tion jest about disorganized. They say it s sun-spots / dunno 
 if tis or not, though. [Exits right with his chair. AMES rises 
 and goes to the window, he looks out toward off left. After 
 a moment he goes to the door up right, opens it. Steps just 
 outside the door, but remains in view. Then speaks to some- 
 one invisible and apparently at a little distance off left.] 
 
 AMES [hesitating]. Ah don t you think this is pretty fool 
 ish? [He waits a moment for an answer. None is heard; he 
 speaks louder.] I say, I think this is ah don t you think, 
 yourself, this is pretty foolish? Ah I m sure you can hear me, 
 you know! [He waits again] Ah [He seems about to 
 address further remarks to the invisible person; but decides not 
 to do so, and with a somewhat baffled and puzzled air, comes 
 in, closes the door, sits on first bench, murmuring rather 
 
THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 261 
 
 crossly:"] Well, all right! [Moves lunch basket a little center 
 of bench. The STATION-MASTER returns from the room off 
 right. He speaks as he enters. ] 
 
 STATION-MASTER. Nary a single click from my telegraph 
 instament. [He refers to room off right, then he comes over 
 and looks at the luggage on the front bench.} See you been 
 gunnun. [He means gunning. ] 
 
 AMES. What? 
 
 STATION-MASTER. See you been fishun and gunnun up in 
 the woods. 
 
 AMES. Yes, I have been up at a lodge in the woods, that s 
 how I happen to be here; getting out of the woods. 
 
 STATION-MASTER [examining the guns}. Have any luck? 
 
 AMES [abysmal}. No. 
 
 STATION-MASTER. If you d a-shot anything or caught any 
 fish you d a-done well by yourself to bring it along; you c d 
 a-built a fire and cooked it, anyways. 
 
 AMES [roused to earnestness}. See here; your brother-in- 
 law told me there was absolutely no food in this neighborhood. 
 
 STATION-MASTER. He was right. They ain t. 
 
 AMES. But, my Lord, the people in this neighborhood have 
 to live on something! 
 
 STATION-MASTER. Ain t no people in this neighborhood 
 cept me and my brother-in-law s fam lies. 
 
 AMES. Well, even you and your brother-in-law have to eat t 
 don t you? 
 
 STATION-MASTER. My hens ain t layin . [Sits on front 
 bench, center.} We got jest three eggs in two days from seven 
 teen hens. 
 
 AMES [pessimistically}. I suppose you used all three eggs. 
 
 STATION-MASTER [with a dry laugh}. I s pose we did, 
 among seven childern. We had nine potatoes left and about 
 four slices o bacon. That s all we had fer supper, and we 
 won t have no breakfast at all unless the north-bound train gits 
 through. April s an awful scanty month in the country, and I 
 expected supplies to-day myself. You ain t the only one them 
 sun-spots s been foolin with. 
 
 AMES. I suppose that s as good an explanation as any for a 
 train over eleven hours late sun-spots! 
 
 STATION-MASTER [looking in the lunch basket}. Why, you 
 got food here, right now. Good food ! 
 
262 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 
 
 AMES. One chicken sandwich and one hard-boiled egg; left 
 over from a light lunch a very light lunch. 
 
 STATION-MASTER. Well, why don t you eat it? 
 
 AMES [shortly]. It isn t mine. [Pushes basket to STATION- 
 MASTER.] 
 
 STATION-MASTER [surprised]. Oh! [He nods; glances up 
 off left, and nods again, as if understanding. ] Well, waitin fer 
 trains does git people kind of pettish with each other. [Rises 
 and moves right. Glances off left.] I noticed your wife s still 
 a-settin on that baggage-truck out yonder. 
 
 AMES [shortly]. She isn t my wife! 
 
 STATION-MASTER. Oh! Your lady, I mean. She s still 
 settin out yonder, I see. 
 
 AMES [rather bothered, shakes his head, mutters]. She isn t 
 my lady. [He gets up and goes to the window.] 
 
 STATION-MASTER. Well, excuse me. My brother-in-law, 
 he took her and you fer married. [AMES comes down left.] 
 He told me you and her had kind of a spat, jest before he left 
 here, this evenin . But of course a man s got a right to quarrel 
 with other women s well s his wife. 
 
 AMES [slightly annoyed with himself for being annoyed by 
 this report of the STATION-MASTER S brother-in-law]. The 
 ah lady and I were hardly ah quarreling. 
 
 STATION-MASTER [platativeiy]. To tell the truth; ... .^ 
 [Crosses left.] My brother-in-law ain t hardly got sense enough 
 to tell the difference between a couple that s quarrelin and a 
 couple that s jest kind of startin to make up to each other like. 
 [Sits left end of front bench.] 
 
 AMES [more annoyed]. This lady and I weren t doing 
 either. I never saw her before I got on the train this morning. 
 
 STATION-MASTER. Well, that often happens. I ve knowed 
 plenty of perfeckly respectable people to do it, too. You might 
 say it s nature. 
 
 AMES. What is? 
 
 STATION-MASTER. Why, fer strange couples to git to talkin* 
 to each other and all so on on a train. 
 
 AMES [rather crossly]. I didn t speak to this lady on the 
 train. [He goes up left and comes right down again.] In 
 fact, we didn t speak to each other till we d been moping about 
 this God-forsaken station for an hour. Then, as there wasn t 
 anything else in the world in sight but mud and your brother- 
 
THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 263 
 
 in-law and she didn t need to guess very hard to guess I was 
 hungry she offered to share her lunch basket with me, and we 
 naturally got to talking. 
 
 STATION-MASTER. Well, sir, a person can git mighty well 
 acquainted with anybody in about ten hours talkin . 
 
 AMES [crossly]. We haven t been talking for the last two 
 hours. 
 
 STATION-MASTER. Got acquainted at noon and quit speakin 
 already! [Rises. Chuckles.] 
 
 AMES. Oh, no. She still speaks at least she nodded to 
 show that she heard me, the last time I spoke to her. [He is 
 grimly humorous here, but does not smile.] 
 
 STATION-MASTER. Well, sir; it s funny, some people don t 
 more n say howdy-do, they can t neither of em hardly stand a 
 word the other one says. [Crosses right.] I sh d think she d be 
 chilly out there, by this time, though. 
 
 AMES [looks at the STATION-MASTER earnestly]. You 
 seem to be a man of unusual experience. [Crosses center.] 
 
 STATION-MASTER. Unusual ? I guess if you think that, you 
 ain t married. 
 
 AMES [muttering]. No, and not likely to be. 
 
 STATION-MASTER. Look out, mister! No man in a spat 
 with a lady ain t safe! Where s she bound fer? 
 
 AMES. I think she said a station about thirty or forty miles 
 from here Amity. 
 
 STATION-MASTER. Amity? She s worse ofFn what you 
 are! 
 
 AMES. No, that s impossible ! 
 
 STATION-MASTER. Amity s on the branch line. Every 
 thing s blowed to hell down that way ; creeks over the rails and 
 all. 
 
 AMES. Isn t there any way of getting a motor car? 
 [Rises.] 
 
 STATION-MASTER. Not with the telephone lines down like 
 they are. I don t reckon no car could git through these roads, 
 neither. 
 
 AMES [gloomily]. Yes; so your brother-in-law said. [A 
 clicking is heard off right] Isn t that your telegraph instru 
 ment? [Indicating right] 
 
 STATION-MASTER [jumping up]. So tis. [Going right] 
 That means they got the wire up again at Logan s station. 
 
264 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 
 
 Well, now we ll see what s what, mebbe! [Exits right, leav 
 ing the door open. The telegraph instrument can be heard 
 clicking. AMES listens at the open door, right, a moment; then 
 he goes to the door up right, opens it, and speaks off ; as before.] 
 
 AMES. I think you d better come in now, Miss Stuart. 
 [In response, a thrillingly lovely voice is heard, though the 
 words are not necessarily discernible. However, what Miss 
 STUART says is, " I m quite comfortable here, thank you."] I 
 really think you d better come in. There may be some news of 
 your train or mine! [This seems to mean more to Miss 
 STUART than have his previous appeals. Her voice is heard 
 again, "Oh!" She is evidently approaching. AMES, seri 
 ously.] That s better. Do come in and be sensible. [Her 
 voice is heard once more before she appears. A faint amuse 
 ment and protest are audible in it: ff Sensible? My dear 
 sir! " He holds the door open for her as she appears and comes 
 down. Then he follows. She is of a lovely and charming pres 
 ence; one is aware of that instantly though she is pretty thor 
 oughly muffled in furs and veils; and one becomes even more 
 aware of it as she pushes up the veil from her face as she comes 
 in. A muff is held in her left hand.] 
 
 Miss STUART. My dear sir, I think maybe I could be more 
 sensible if the news turns out to be of my train. Could you 
 stand its being about my train instead of yours, Mr. Ames? 
 [Comes down right. She has gone toward the lunch basket.] 
 
 AMES [a little stiffly]. If mine came first you d be relieved 
 of me. [At upper end of benches, left.] 
 
 Miss STUART. Yes; so I should. [She lifts the lid of the 
 lunch basket, closed by the STATION-MASTER.] Oh, you 
 haven t eaten the sandwich nor the egg either! [As if in re 
 proachful surprise.] 
 
 AMES [stiffly]. Certainly not. [Comes down left.] 
 
 Miss STUART [lifting a hard-boiled egg from the basket 
 daintily, in a gloved hand]. Didn t you even nibble at it? 
 [She looks at him, not at the egg.] 
 
 AMES [stiffly]. I did not. 
 
 Miss STUART. Are you sure? 
 
 AMES [indignantly]. I m not in the habit of "nibbling" 
 things. 
 
 Miss STUART [with a hint of suspicion and severity]. 
 You re sure? I knew a Bishop once who used to steal little 
 
THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 265 
 
 bits of icing off of icing cakes. He d slip out in the kitchen on 
 baking days when no one was looking and then he d 
 deny it ! 
 
 AMES [coldly, interrupting her}. I m not a Bishop, please. 
 
 Miss STUART {reasonably}. How could I tell? I ve only 
 known you [She glances at the clock.} Ten hours and 
 thirty-some minutes, and this is the first time you ve mentioned 
 that you re not a Bishop. [With an increase of severity.} 
 Why didn t you eat this egg? 
 
 AMES [coldly}. You know perfectly well why I didn t. 
 
 Miss STUART. But I thought you would, if I left you alone 
 with it. I ve left you alone with it on purpose two hours. 
 I m afraid you re stubborn. 
 
 AMES. More personalities? 
 
 Miss STUART. Well, doesn t a question of what one eats 
 have to be rather personal ? 
 
 AMES. I think you made it personal when you lost your 
 temper. 
 
 Miss STUART [interrupting}. When I lost my temper? 
 Oh, ohi 
 
 AMES. But you did! [Coming towards her.} You lost 
 your temper and declined to sit in the same room with me. 
 Rather than do that you went out in the night air and sat two 
 hours on a baggage truck! [Turns away to left.} 
 
 Miss STUART [hurriedly}. Please listen, Mr. Ames your 
 name is Ames, isn t it? [There is a stronger hint of humor in 
 her voice.} 
 
 AMES. You seemed to have no doubt of it before you lost 
 your 
 
 Miss STUART [interrupting}. Mr. Ames, let s put it this 
 way: I lost your temper; as for me, it seems at least you 
 ought to distinguish between a loss of temper and a sense of 
 injury. 
 
 AMES [quickly}. Yes, I had the sense of injury. 
 
 Miss STUART. When we found there was only one egg and 
 one sandwich left for dinner, and no other food in reach, I 
 said 
 
 AMES [interrupting}. You distinctly said it wouldn t be 
 enough for two. 
 
 Miss STUART. Yes. That s what I " distinctly " said. It 
 really isn t enough for one, is it? 
 
266 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 
 
 AMES. Need I explain again, I had no intention of asking 
 to share it with you? 
 
 Miss STUART. No. Dont explain again. When I said 
 there wasn t enough for two I meant * 
 
 AMES [interrupting]. It was yours, and you meant you 
 wanted it all, naturally. 
 
 Miss STUART [indignantly ]. Oh! 
 
 AMES. What / minded was your thinking I expected any 
 of it. 
 
 Miss STUART. When I said there wasn t enough for two 
 I meant / expected to eat all of it, did I ? 
 
 AMES. Why, of course. 
 
 Miss STUART [after drawing an indignant breath. Puts egg 
 in basket]. Now, before I go out for two hours more on the 
 baggage-truck, will you please ask that man if there is any news 
 of my train? 
 
 AMES [stiffly]. Certainly. 
 
 Miss STUART. Thank you. 
 
 AMES. Don t mention it. [Goes to doorj right, and speaks 
 off.] What do they wire you about . . . 
 
 STATION-MASTER [voice off right]. Nothin yet about m 
 passenger traffic. 
 
 AMES [turning toward Miss STUART]. He says there s 
 nothing yet. 
 
 Miss STUART [sinking upon the front bench]. Oh! [She 
 sighs with exasperation sits on front bench] You said there 
 was news. 
 
 AMES. There will be in a few minutes, now the wire s 
 working. 
 
 Miss STUART. Well, do you still pretend not to under 
 stand ? 
 
 AMES. Understand what? [Comes down right] 
 
 Miss STUART. That of course I meant men need more sus 
 tenance than women, and of course when I said there wasn t 
 enough food for two I meant / didn t want any that is, I did 
 want it, certainly, but I wouldn t touch it because because 
 you re a man and ought to have it all. 
 
 AMES [in an earnestly interested voice]. Do you honestly 
 mean that? [He sits on the bench, right of Miss STUART, 
 looking at her with great earnestness] 
 
 Miss STUART. Why, of course. 
 
THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 267 
 
 AMES. Are you serious? 
 
 Miss STUART. Why, of course I m serious. 
 
 AMES. You really wanted me to eat it all? 
 
 Miss STUART. Certainly. 
 
 AMES [remorsefully]. I thought you were warning me your 
 hospitality was over when it came to one egg and one sand 
 wich. 
 
 Miss STUART [glancing at the clock]. Ten hours and 
 thirty-seven minutes. You certainly ought to know me well 
 enough to understand better than that! 
 
 AMES. You honestly mean I ought to eat it all because I m 
 a man. 
 
 Miss STUART. Of course. It hurts a man a great deal 
 more not to indulge himself than it does a woman. When 
 there s only a little of anything, it ought always to be given to 
 the man. 
 
 AMES. Because he s the more selfish ? 
 
 Miss STUART. No. Because he has to have his strength. 
 A woman can live " on her nerves." 
 
 AMES. So you think the woman ought to give up the food 
 to the man. [This is serious on his part, and appears to be 
 serious on hers; though one cannot always be sure when she is 
 serious. There is a mysteriousness about her; we wont really 
 know her for a considerable time] 
 
 Miss STUART. I think she d better. If she didn t she 
 might be mistreated ! 
 
 AMES [frowning]. So! Her unselfishness is only self- 
 preservation, is it? 
 
 Miss STUART [with a twinkle]. No. She wants to pre 
 serve them both. If the Indians come the man will have to do 
 most of the fighting; if the waters rise he ll have to build a 
 raft. If it gets very chilly [she glances at the stove] he ll have 
 to build a fire. 
 
 AMES [following her glance]. It is very chilly. I won 
 der [He rises and goes to the door right f calls off.] How 
 about a fire in that stove? 
 
 STATION-MASTER [off right]. It s fixed, if you want to 
 light it. 
 
 AMES. All right. [He crosses to the stove, producing a 
 match which he lights and places within the door of the stove. 
 In a moment a rosy glow comes from the door of the stove, 
 
268 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 
 
 which opens toward right. He watches it and the lady inscruta 
 bly watches him.] 
 
 Miss STUART. It is a new experience. [She loosens her 
 furs as the glow grows stronger from the stove.] 
 
 AMES. My lighting a fire for you? 
 
 Miss STUART [indicating the lunch basket }. No. To see 
 a man making such a fuss about eating when he s starving. 
 
 AMES [returning to her, he smiles]. Suppose we divide it. 
 
 Miss STUART. You might have thought of that before. 
 
 AMES. / might? Why, it was you that said 
 
 Miss STUART. Have you a pocket-knife with a very clean 
 blade? [He hands his knife to her with a blade open.] Yes, 
 I thought you looked like a man who would have. I ll do the 
 dividing, and you ll do the choosing [He sits end of bench. 
 She cuts the egg so that the two parts are anything but equal; 
 the smaller part is about a fifth of the egg. She cuts the sand 
 wich in the same uneven way.] There. Choose. 
 
 AMES. Thanks. [He takes the small bit of egg and the 
 tiny fragment of the sandwich.] 
 
 Miss STUART. Well, eat them. [He does so. His por 
 tions vanish as if hardly realized as they pass. Meanwhile she 
 is cutting the egg and the sandwich again.] 
 
 AMES [as he swallows the two small bits together]. Thanks. 
 Aren t you 
 
 Miss STUART. Oh, yes, I m only [She offers the newly 
 divided portions.], Here. 
 
 AMES. Oh, no. I ve had my share. 
 
 Miss STUART [laughing a little]. That was a test, to see 
 how you d choose. Now it s a fair division. 
 
 AMES. No. I really [He takes off his overcoat and 
 sits on the bench, near her.] 
 
 Miss STUART. Don t let s be ridiculous any more. I im 
 agine neither of us has much right to behave like a child of 
 ten or nineteen for that matter. Here! [She insists upon his 
 taking what she offers.] 
 
 AMES. It doesn t seem fair. [He accepts what is offered 
 and eats.] Murder, but I am hungry! 
 
 Miss STUART. And there s still some coffee in the thermos. 
 Didn t you know it? [She pours it in the cap-cup of the 
 bottle as she speaks, turning the bottle upside down to get 
 the last.] 
 
THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 269 
 
 AMES. No! Is there some coffee left? My, my! [She 
 puts the cup in his hand.] Coffee! 
 
 Miss STUART. Yes, that is lucky. [She puts the remain 
 ing bit of egg upon the remaining bit of sandwich.] Here, 
 this is yours, too, to go with the coffee. Eat it! [He does so 
 before he thinks.] That s it! 
 
 AMES. Oh, lovely! A whole mouthful at once! [He fin 
 ishes the coffee in a gulp; then starts.] That was yours! 
 [Rise*.] 
 
 Miss STUART. No, no, it wasn t. 
 
 AMES. Why, it was! [He goes back of bench to center. ~\ 
 Have you given me all the coffee, too? [He shakes the thermos 
 bottle and turns it upside down.] Well, by George! Did 
 you do that to escape mistreatment? 
 
 Miss STUART. No. It was just the way I was brought up. 
 [Goes left and throws paper napkins, etc., into stove.] 
 
 AMES. You were brought up to make a man be selfish? 
 
 Miss STUART. About food and when he thinks he s sick, 
 yes. That was the old-fashioned way of bringing girls up, 
 wasn t it? 
 
 AMES. I thought that went out a long time ago. 
 
 Miss STUART. It prevailed in my girlhood, you see. 
 
 AMES [seriously, quickly]. Well, that couldn t have been 
 very long ago. 
 
 Miss STUART [putting the thermos bottle in the basket and 
 closing the lid, she smiles faintly]. No? Hasn t the Station- 
 Master any news for us yet ? [ The STATION-MASTER answers 
 for himself. Enters right as she speaks, carrying his lantern 
 and a bucket of coal. Goes left back of benches and down to 
 stove.] 
 
 STATION-MASTER. Not very good, I reckon. . . . Least not 
 as you d think. You won t git no train fer Amity to-night. 
 
 Miss STUART [disturbed, but she has usually somewhere a 
 little humor left for her own misfortune]. Not to-night! 
 
 STATION-MASTER. No m ; an so fur as / know, not before 
 noon, or mebbe three four five o clock in the afternoon to 
 morrow. 
 
 Miss STUART [weakly]. Will there be any food in this 
 part of America to-morrow? 
 
 STATION-MASTER [pouring some coal into the stove]. Not 
 as I know of now. 
 
270 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 
 
 Miss STUART. Good gracious! 
 
 AMES [huskily ]. How about my train? 
 
 STATION-MASTER. Number Twenty-one? If she don t git 
 no later she ll be due by eight or nine in the morning. 
 
 AMES [quickly]. Is there a diner on her? 
 
 STATION-MASTER. On Number Twenty-one? A diner? 
 My gosh! [He sets the coal bucket down by the stove with 
 a bang, and puts shovel full of coal in stove.] 
 
 AMES. Isn t there a buffet? 
 
 STATION-MASTER. Mister, they s a caboose; that s all. 
 
 AMES. Oh, my! 
 
 STATION-MASTER [buttoning his overcoat and, moving to 
 ward right], They s more coal in yonder, if you need it. 
 
 Miss STUART [looking at him incredulously]. Where are 
 you going? [She jumps up, continuing instantly.] Mr. Ames, 
 you d better ask him where he s going. 
 
 STATION-MASTER [easily]. Me? Why you ast me your 
 self. Where you think I m goin ? I m goin home to bed. 
 
 Miss STUART [gravely, quickly]. You are? [Rises.] 
 
 STATION-MASTER. Yes m. I got to sleep same as anybody. 
 
 AMES. What? Why, you can t! 
 
 STATION-MASTER. Why, / ain t got anything more to do 
 around here till jest before Twenty-one s due. [Then, reas 
 suringly.] I ll be back by seven-thirty in the morning, though. 
 
 AMES. But this lady w^here s she going to sleep f 
 
 STATION-MASTER [disclaiming responsibility]. I couldn t 
 tell you. 
 
 AMES. What about your house? Can t she . . . 
 
 STATION-MASTER [looking at Miss STUART]. In the first 
 place, how would she git through the mud ? [Shows his boots, 
 dried mud to the knee.] 
 
 AMES. Why why, we could take her on the baggage- 
 truck. [This, he thinks, is a real idea] 
 
 Miss STUART [graciously]. No, thank you. 
 
 STATION-MASTER. No room for her if she got there. No 
 way to make none, either. 
 
 AMES. What about your brother-in-law s house? 
 
 STATION-MASTER. Bout same as me. Him and his wife 
 and two childern s in one room and the other five childern s 
 in the other. 
 
THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 271 
 
 Miss STUART. No, thank you. 
 
 AMES. Well, but, good heavens . . . 
 
 Miss STUART [soothingly]. Never mind. It s all right. 
 
 AMES [turning back to the STATION-MASTER]. Well, but 
 look here 
 
 STATION-MASTER. Mister, you can make yourself com- 
 fatble enough; it s nice and warm here now; and night-duty 
 when they ain t no trains runnin , why that ain t part o my 
 job. I got a heavy day to-morrow, and I need sleep. Good 
 night, lady! [He goes out briskly up right. Miss STUART 
 goes to stove, left.] 
 
 AMES. Well, good heavens [He goes up nervously, 
 opens the door, steps out and calls after the STATION-MASTER.] 
 Listen you! See here! 
 
 STATION-MASTER [outside]. Good night! 
 
 AMES. But see here [There is no response, and after 
 a few moments AMES closes the door, much disturbed. Miss 
 STUART stands near the stove, observes him; then laughs faintly.] 
 
 Miss STUART. Don t worry about me; I m an old traveler. 
 We can be comfortable enough ; it is warm now ! 
 
 AMES. I ll I ll go take a nap later on the baggage- 
 truck. [Jerks his head toward up left.] 
 
 Miss STUART. How absurd! I nearly froze out there, 
 even in these. [Her furs.] 
 
 AMES [almost pathetically]. But what s to be done? 
 
 Miss STUART. Nothing. When railroads break down pas 
 sengers can t travel, can they? 
 
 AMES. I ought to be able to think of something to do. 
 [Comes down right.] 
 
 Miss STUART. Well, for one thing, now that all the of 
 ficials have gone, I don t think you need to bother about that 
 sign any longer. [She points to " No Smoking."] Don t you 
 usually smoke after dinner? [She laughs on the word din 
 ner 1 with a glance at the lunch basket, and then sits again, 
 throwing back her fur coat.] 
 
 AMES [a little awkwardly]. Oh, thanks. [Comes down 
 right. He brings forth a cigarette-case.] But that won t be 
 of much use, will it ? 
 
 Miss STUART. Well, what else useful can you think of? 
 
 AMES. I can t think of a thing. 
 
272 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 
 
 Miss STUART. Neither can I. So [she laughs faintly, 
 crosses to left center, and sits on front bench] so where are 
 your matches? 
 
 AMES [produces a box of matches, then makes a gesture as. 
 if to offer her his cigarette-easel . Ah do you ? 
 
 Miss STUART [shaking her head]. No; I still stick to the 
 way I was brought up. [She takes off her heavy coat. Not 
 rising.] 
 
 AMES [seriously]. No! Is there still an old-fashioned 
 woman left in America? 
 
 Miss STUART. Yes. "Left" is the word. Left over! 
 
 AMES. How "left over"? 
 
 Miss STUART. Old maids are, aren t they? 
 
 AMES. Old bachelors are! That s what / am. [Lights 
 his cigarette, adding grimly: } An old bachelor, and perhaps 
 an older one than I look, too ! A little, that is. 
 
 Miss STUART [wistfully ]. What s it matter how many 
 times you ve seen the earth go round the sun? That s all we 
 mean when we say " a year," isn t it? Our ages ought to be 
 reckoned another way; not in these foolish " years." 
 
 AMES. What other way do you suggest ? 
 
 Miss STUART. Well, let s call a man as old as he behaves 
 toward a woman ! 
 
 AMES. Then how old will you call a woman? 
 
 Miss STUART. As old as she makes men behave toward her. 
 
 AMES [with a little laugh]. Well, if I m as old as I be 
 have now-a-days toward women, I m dead. 
 
 Miss STUART [smiling ]. But what s the matter with the 
 women you know? 
 
 AMES [laughs ruefully, and walks about as he speaks]. 
 Well, most of those I did know are so married and raising 
 children I hardly ever see em at all. And I just can t stand 
 the new generation. 
 
 Miss STUART [thoughtfully]. Yes there is a new Amer 
 ican girl. I ve got one myself. 
 
 AMES [starinff]. You have? 
 
 Miss STUART. I m bringing up an orphan niece or she s 
 bringing me up; it s hard to say which. In fact, I m bringing 
 up two orphan nieces. [She smiles at a thought.] Only one 
 of em belongs to the new generation, though. You don t like 
 these new young things then? 
 
THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 273 
 
 AMES. Great Lord, no! They smoke and drink and wear 
 men s clothes and short hair 
 
 Miss STUART. Well, boys clothes are better for the out 
 door things they do nowadays, aren t they? 
 
 AMES. That may be, but they ve given up a great thing to 
 get this new liberty I hear they talk about. 
 
 Miss STUART. What great thing did they give up? 
 
 AMES [emphatically ]. Charm! 
 
 Miss STUART. You haven t met a charming one ? 
 
 AMES. There aren t any. How can a brazen little hussy 
 in breeches with a flask of home-made gin in her hip pocket 
 have any charm? 
 
 Miss STUART. Ah but she can, because she has youth, and 
 youth is charm. Don t you care for the youth you see in a 
 young girl? 
 
 AMES [sitting down by her}. I ll tell you what I care for. 
 I care for the graces I used to see in the girls I grew up with. 
 
 Miss STUART. You re sure it wasn t really their youth that 
 gave them the graces? 
 
 AMES. I can show you what I care for! [Very earnestly 
 and decisively.} To-morrow we ll be moving miles and miles 
 apart. . . . 
 
 Miss STUART. Will we? I m afraid you think more of 
 this railroad system than I do. 
 
 AMES. I m serious. Probably after to-morrow morning 
 we ll never see each other again. 
 
 Miss STUART. Why, I feel as if you were my most intimate 
 friend! Life-long! After we finished Italy, wasn t it two 
 hours you talked about religion ? 
 
 AMES. What I m trying to show you 
 
 Miss STUART. Yes; I forgot. 
 
 AMES. I had a temptation to tell you something that would 
 show you. 
 
 Miss STUART [gaily}. Why, you could tell me anything. 
 I couldn t stop you. [Her gesture indicates the surrounding 
 isolation.} 
 
 AMES. Then I will. I ll tell you what I thought about 
 you when I got on that little junk-line train this morning. I 
 hadn t expected to see anybody looking like you getting on at 
 one of these way stations 
 
 Miss STUART. I m a farmer, you know. I have a farm 
 
274 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 
 
 down near Amity. I ve been away to see about a new tenant 
 for part of the land! [Then abruptly.] Oh, I don t mean 
 to stop you! Go on! 
 
 AMES. When you got on the train I thought: "There! 
 There s a lady ! " When these ne ^-generation girls get on a 
 train I usually think: " There! There s a rowdy! " 
 
 Miss STUART. You must have met some strange ones! 
 
 AMES. I haven t met any. Just hearing and looking at 
 em s enough for met But when I looked at you well, I m 
 going to talk as sentimentally as I feel, just for once in my 
 life when I looked at you I caught a a perfume of sweeter 
 days yes, better days than this! And I ll go ahead, now I m 
 started; I m hungry as a bear, in spite of your giving me all 
 your lunch, and I did feel really cross, during our quarrel, but 
 I m glad the sun-spots he thought it was the sun-spots I m 
 glad they ve given me this chance to know you. 
 
 Miss STUART. My dear man, you don t know an earthly 
 thing about me! 
 
 AMES. Oh, yes, I do. There are some people you know 
 all about in a little while. 
 
 Miss STUART. "All about?" Good gracious! 
 
 AMES. No ; not all. You don t know all the lovely things 
 about em, but you do know there aren t any things that arent 
 lovely; you re one of those transparently perfect things, Miss 
 Stuart. 
 
 Miss STUART. What? 
 
 AMES [rises and goes a little to the right]. You are. And 
 that s all there is to it! 
 
 Miss STUART. And only to think of it! 
 
 AMES [turning to her, rather sharply]. To think of what? 
 
 Miss STUART. So much praise bought by one hard-boiled 
 egg and a sandwich! 
 
 AMES [rather brusquely]. Well, some of it is for that, if 
 you want to know it! It seemed a little thing; but it showed 
 that when you were hungry yourself you d force your last bit 
 of food on a stranger. 
 
 Miss STUART. A " stranger " ? Why, by this time I know 
 you better than I do my most intimate friend, Mr. Ames! 
 
 AMES [sits. Then pacing up and down and going o?i with 
 his thought.] I kept looking at you on the train, though you 
 didn t know it 
 
THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 275 
 
 Miss STUART. I was brought up always not to know it. 
 
 AMES [continuing}. I kept looking at you, and I 
 
 Miss STUART [quoting him], " I said to myself, There s a 
 woman I d hate to be cast away in a desert junction with! " 
 
 AMES. I said to myself, " There s the first woman I ve seen 
 in a long time I d like to know! " 
 
 Miss STUART. How long a time? 
 
 AMES. Well, since this new type came in. 
 
 Miss STUART [thoughtfully ]. I m afraid you wouldn t ap 
 prove of my niece! 
 
 AMES. If you re bringing her up I don t believe she d be 
 the new type. 
 
 Miss STUART. Oh, yes, she is! It doesn t matter who 
 brings em up ; they get it from one another. 
 
 AMES. Well, let s forget the new type just now. 
 
 Miss STUART [smiling]. All right. 
 
 AMES. I d rather keep to what I feel about you. 
 
 Miss STUART [nodding smilingly}. Well, keep to it it 
 began promisingly. 
 
 AMES [coming toward her a little way]. I will. I ll speak 
 out! As a man gets older most of his friends marry off or 
 they die off it s the same thing so far as he s concerned! 
 
 Miss STUART [gravely}. Yes; I know it is! 
 
 AMES. Well, a man gets pretty lonely. 
 
 Miss STUART. Men always seem to think that s so sin 
 gular ! 
 
 AMES [quietly}. All I meant to say is [she yawns} it s been 
 a great thing for me to have a woman s companionship for a 
 day. 
 
 Miss STUART. Well, it still seems to be going on. 
 
 AMES. I wish . . . 
 
 Miss STUART. Yes? [She conceals a yawn by turning 
 away quickly. She doesnt wish to yawn, she is interested; but 
 she is beginning to be really threatened by drowsiness. He does 
 not perceive this f and the symptoms are, so far, very slight.} 
 
 AMES [thoughtfully}. Of course you don t know anything 
 about me except to-day 
 
 Miss STUART. I do, a little. 
 
 AMES [surprised}. How? 
 
 Miss STUART. Why, you said your name was William 
 Ames: I supposed you were the William Berry Ames that the 
 
276 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 
 
 papers say is so remarkable. " Remarkable s " the word they 
 always use. 
 
 AMES [frowning]. I m not much in newspapers and isn t 
 it obvious I m not remarkable? 
 
 Miss STUART. Oh, yes; I ve seen it any number of times: 
 " Mr. William Berry Ames, still playing remarkable polo." 
 
 AMES [sharply]. That s my uncle ! [Rises.] It s " still 
 remarkable that he plays polo at sixty-six/ " " Remarkable " 
 because he s sixty-six! They always use the word remarkable 
 about elderly people. And you thought . . . 
 
 Miss STUART [a little disturbed, hastily]. I m so sorry! 
 
 AMES [somewhat upset]. You thought I was that old man! 
 
 Miss STUART [quickly]. Oh, I never heard he was quite 
 sixty-six. 
 
 AMES. So! You didn t see how I could be quite sixty-six! 
 
 Miss STUART [hastily f with apparent seriousness in pla 
 cating him]. But wouldn t it be wonderful if you were! To 
 be sixty-six and look only 
 
 AMES [interrupting]. What age do I look? 
 
 Miss STUART. Ah, let s not go into that. It might be 
 come mutual! 
 
 AMES. I can t get over it: you thought I was my uncle! 
 
 Miss STUART. You must tell him about it. And then tell 
 me sometime if it upsets him too. 
 
 AMES [mollified; his tone changes]. "Sometime." You 
 think we might see each other again after to-morrow? 
 
 Miss STUART. Why not, if you think it would be pleasant ? 
 I should be [She is caught by a yawn and conceals it im 
 perfectly.] I should be very glad 
 
 AMES [sadly]. Oh, you re sleepy. 
 
 Miss STUART. I m not. I m interested. I m interested in 
 everything you ve been saying. I was never more interested 
 in my life. 
 
 AMES. Honestly ? [Sits.] 
 
 Miss STUART. At least, it s been quite a time since I ve 
 had as cheering things said to me as you ve been saying. I 
 like it. 
 
 AMES. Could you stand some more? 
 
 Miss STUART. I think so. 
 
 AMES. Then, do let me see you again after to-morrow, will 
 you? 
 
THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 277 
 
 Miss STUART [after a moment]. Yes. 
 
 AMES. Could I come to Amity to see you sometime? 
 
 Miss STUART. Why, I think so. 
 
 AMES. Could I come before long? 
 
 Miss STUART. If you like. 
 
 AMES [huskily, gravely, quickly]. I think I should like it 
 more than I ve ever liked anything in my life. 
 
 Miss STUART [rather startled]. Why, that s that s saying 
 quite a great deal isn t it? 
 
 AMES. I can t help it. It s the way I feeL 
 
 Miss STUART. Yes, but at these pleasant quieter years, you 
 say you have arrived at haven t you learned more caution? 
 
 AMES. More caution than what? 
 
 Miss STUART. Than to say quite so much as you just did 
 and to an unknown woman! 
 
 AMES [quickly, with feeling that increases]. I tell you 
 you re not unknown. You ve shown me yes, just in the way 
 you fed me, if you like yes, and in the dear, pretty way you 
 took this being " cast away " with me here, you ve shown me 
 you are the old-fashioned, perfect kind of woman I thought 
 had disappeared. Well, I ve found you I don t want to let 
 you go ! My life has been getting so confoundedly lonely I 
 well, why not ? 
 
 Miss STUART [gently]. I don t know you re a little in 
 definite, perhaps? 
 
 AMES. It s a long time since I felt like this and the reason 
 I m lonely s because fifteen or so years ago I didn t speak when 
 something like this came over me. Instead, I went away to 
 think it over, and another man spoke first. 
 
 Miss STUART [with a humor that fights with drowsiness and 
 an inclination to take him seriously]. You needn t be afraid of 
 that now. Farming means a very retired life, with me. No 
 one else will " speak " while you retire to think it over. [She 
 closes her eyes for a moment] 
 
 AMES. I don t want to think it over at all! Listen. Do 
 I seem to you the sort of man you could like pretty well? 
 
 Miss STUART [looking up quickly]. Oh, I think so. [She 
 closes her eyes for a moment again.] 
 
 AMES [so impulsively as to be almost explosive]. Well, if 
 you ll let me hope something might come of it, I ll be any kind 
 of man you want me to be! 
 
278 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 
 
 Miss STUART [opening her eyes quickly}. Aren t you a 
 little susceptible, Mr. Ames? 
 
 AMES. Does it look like it; to still be a bachelor at my age? 
 
 Miss STUART. But it struck me you were almost pro 
 posing to me just then. 
 
 AMES [with great feeling]. Well, I was. I am! 
 
 Miss STUART. Almost. 
 
 AMES. Almost or quite just as you like, Miss Stuart. 
 
 Miss STUART [smiling a little]. Perhaps it had better be 
 " almost." 
 
 AMES [with feeling ] . If it s to be that way almost a pro 
 posal i s there any chance of your almost thinking of it? 
 
 Miss STUART [gently and smiling]. Why I might al 
 most think of it sometime. [Again the symptoms of 
 drowsiness overtake her.] 
 
 AMES [remorsefully]. You are sleepy! 
 
 Miss STUART [with feeble insistence]. I m not! 
 
 AMES [ruefully humorous, rising]. I ought to be ashamed 
 trying to keep you awake with a proposal of marriage! [As 
 he speaks he places a satchel on the end of bench and rolls his 
 overcoat over it for a pillow.] 
 
 Miss STUART. Was that all you made it for to keep me 
 awake ? 
 
 AMES. You know better. Here; lie down. I ll cover you 
 over. 
 
 Miss STUART. I won t take your overcoat. You ll need 
 it. The satchel s a good enough pillow. 
 
 AMES. No. It isn t. Lie down. 
 
 Miss STUART. Take your overcoat away or I ll sit up all 
 night. I will. Take it away. 
 
 AMES [submitting]. All right. 
 
 Miss STUART. When you lie down yourself, put your over 
 coat over you. Will you? 
 
 AMES. If I need it. 
 
 Miss STUART [in a matter-of-fact voice]. No. Promise 
 me. 
 
 AMES. I will. 
 
 Miss STUART [lying down with her cheek against the 
 satchel]. Ah, that s ah! [She sighs with satisfaction.] 
 AMES [gently covers her over with her fur coat and stole. 
 
THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 279 
 
 Then he discovers her muff]. Here. This is a better pillow. 
 [He places it under her head.] 
 
 Miss STUART. Thank you. You re very kind. [She is 
 silent; then says sleepily:] I knew you were. 
 
 AMES. Knew I was what? 
 
 Miss STUART [contentedly]. Kind. 
 
 AMES [muttering]. Who wouldn t be? [He goes to the 
 stove.] 
 
 Miss STUART [with her eyes shut]. I had to be up at four 
 o clock and drive seventeen miles to get my train. I d rather 
 stay awake and listen to you you ll forgive me for being so 
 sleepy won t you? [AMES turns the damper on stove.] 
 
 AMES [smiling, as he looks round]. Yes. I ll forgive you! 
 [He takes his overcoat and spreads it on the second bench; puts 
 a " suit-case " for a pillow.] 
 
 Miss STUART [in a sweet drowsy voice, with her eyes 
 closed]. It certainly didn t seem appreciative going almost 
 to sleep when you were almost proposing but I do appreciate 
 it very much 
 
 AMES [with feeling]. You dear thing! I wasn t "almost 
 proposing " I was all proposing and you know it. 
 
 Miss STUART. Well, it s very nice of you. I "think I m 
 glad you were. But 
 
 AMES. But what? 
 
 Miss STUART. We don t need the light, do we? If you 
 leave the stove door open 
 
 AMES [goes up and snaps off the switch]. There! [A rosy 
 glow from the stove door crosses the benches, falling upon the 
 recumbent lady] 
 
 Miss STUART [cosily]. There. That s better. [AMES 
 goes to the second bench.] You ll put your overcoat over you? 
 
 AMES. Yes. 
 
 Miss STUART. What have you got for a pillow? 
 
 AMES. It s all right. 
 
 Miss STUART. A suit-case? 
 
 AMES. It s plenty. [Miss STUART, without opening her 
 eyes or lifting her head, pulls the muff from beneath her cheek 
 and lets her cheek rest on the satchel. Then, not otherwise 
 moving, she swings the muff behind her to him.] 
 
 AMES. What s that for? 
 
2 8o THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 
 
 Miss STUART. Your pillow. Take it. 
 
 AMES. I won t. 
 
 Miss STUART. You will. 
 
 AMES. Of course I won t. 
 
 Miss STUART [gently and confidently}. You will. 
 
 AMES. You do make me selfish! [He takes the pillow, 
 places it, and sits on the second bench, preparing to lie down 
 and pull his overcoat over him. ] 
 
 Miss STUART [in a very sleepy murmur}. I m sorry I 
 thought you were your uncle. [She is lying on her right side, 
 and she lifts her left hand over the back of the bench to him, 
 the rest of her not moving. He takes it reverently, kisses it 
 lightly; she brings the hand back and puts it under her cheek. 
 She speaks disjointedly and very drowsily.} I only thought so 
 because the papers said he was so remarkable. 
 
 AMES [gently}. I don t mind that now. [Lies down on 
 second bench.} 
 
 Miss STUART. It would be too bad if you met some pretty, 
 very young thing after after it was too late. Most men care 
 more for early youth than they do for [A little yawn inter 
 rupts her.} 
 
 AMES [gently}. Than they do for what? 
 
 Miss STUART. Than they do for anything. Is the muff 
 all right for a pillow? 
 
 AMES [gently}. I never had such a pillow before. 
 
 Miss STUART. Aren t you sleepy, too? 
 
 AMES. Yes; the truth is, I am. It seems strange, when I 
 feel so much that s new to me to be sleepy 
 
 Miss STUART. Oh, no. We aren t a young couple at a 
 college dance getting engaged. 
 
 AMES. No of course not but aren t we almost 
 [Rises and looks at her over the back of bench.} 
 
 Miss STUART. I think you must go to sleep now. 
 
 AMES. Yes, I will. [He stretches himself on the bench.} 
 
 Miss STUART. Are you at all sure? 
 
 AMES. Yes, I am. 
 
 Miss STUART. I know what I say sounds very sleepy, and 
 I am almost asleep, but my mind, you know 
 
 AMES. Yes? 
 
 Miss STUART [more sleepily than ever}. My mind s work 
 ing just as clearly as ever, and I keep thinking you ve said all 
 
THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 281 
 
 this so suddenly perhaps you are a little susceptible perhaps 
 when you see some pretty young thing you ll you ll 
 
 AMES [decisively]. No, I won t. 
 
 Miss STUART [dreamily, in a soft, almost contented voice, 
 and smiling a little] . Perhaps not. 
 
 AMES. May I say just one last thing to you? It seems 
 foolish but it would be pretty lovely to me if you d let me 
 say it. 
 
 Miss STUART. Say what? 
 
 AMES. May I say to you, " Good night, dear " ? 
 
 Miss STUART. I believe you might. Say it. 
 
 AMES [gently]. Good night, dear. [Her left hand goes 
 tip again, his own hand is seen above the back of the bench, 
 clasping it; then she returns it to her cheek.] 
 
 Miss STUART. Good night, dear. [There is quiet. The 
 Act Drop descends for a few seconds, and rises. Everything 
 is as it was, except that the rosy glow from the stove has paled, 
 and a gray light shows outside the window. The clock marks 
 $:45. The light outside the window grows a little stronger; 
 distant trees just coming into new leaf on muddy hills are re 
 vealed there an April landscape. The light continually grows 
 stronger throughout the whole scene. A GIRL S voice is barely 
 heard, shouting in the distance, "Hello there J" (f Hell-ooo 
 there!" Then after a pause, a stamping is heard on the plat 
 form outside, as though someone stamped mud from his shoes. 
 A quick, sharp tread is heard; the knob of the door up right is 
 fumbled then the door is opened and a GlRL of nineteen en 
 ters. She is distractingly pretty, in spite of or it may be 
 partly because of her general style and costume. She wears 
 a soft " sport " hat, beneath which her thick " bobbed " hair is 
 additionally coquettish. She has on a short overcoat, knicker 
 bockers, green stockings and high-laced shoes; the latter cov 
 ered with mud which has also splashed her stockings. She 
 comes in briskly and goes down left, then halts short with a 
 breathed exclamation as she sees the two sleepers, " Well, for 
 the love o J Mike!" This is in a husky whisper. She stares. 
 A light snoring comes from the second bench. She looks long 
 at the first bench, smiles; then controls a tendency to laughter. 
 Then she moves back to the second bench and looks at AMES. 
 After this contemplation she speaks again in the husky whisper: 
 "Pretty good-lookin ole bird, if you do snore!" ,The snoring 
 
282 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 
 
 stops with a little snort. AMES coughs, waking himself. Sud 
 denly he sits up, dazed, and stares at the girl. She chokes down 
 an increasing tendency to mirth during their scene.] 
 
 AMES [confused]. Oh ah, how d ya do. 
 
 THE GIRL (FLORENCE). Sh! Don t wake Aunt Isabel. 
 [After this they both speak in husky whispers] 
 
 AMES. Who? 
 
 THE GIRL, My aunt. [She gestures widely to Miss 
 STUART.] My Aunt Isabel! Don t you know her? 
 
 AMES [rises and looks at Miss STUART]. Yes, indeed! 
 
 THE GIRL. Well, I should think so ! I m her niece, Flor 
 ence. 
 
 AMES [conventionally but in a whisper]. I m glad to uh 
 [Shakes hands.] 
 
 FLORENCE. A man and I ve been all night tryin to get here 
 in a car. He s back in the woods with it now, tryin to get 
 it out of a mud-hole. We ve had a hell of a night! 
 
 AMES. I beg your pardon? 
 
 FLORENCE. It really was. Are you an old friend of hers? 
 
 AMES. I hope to be. [Rubbing his face and eyes with 
 his hands] 
 
 FLORENCE. We ll take you with us when he gets the car 
 out the mud. No use to wake her up till it comes. 
 
 AMES. No. It s cold, isn t it? 
 
 FLORENCE [pointing to the stove]. You might make the 
 fire up if you can do it without waking her. 
 
 AMES. I only need to turn the draft. I got up about two 
 o clock and put on some coal. 
 
 FLORENCE [as he moves toward the stove]. Cigarette? 
 
 AMES. What? 
 
 FLORENCE. Got a cigarette? 
 
 AMES. Oh! [He hands her his case; she takes one] 
 
 FLORENCE. Light? [He lights a match and holds it for 
 her. She smiles at him with brazen coquetry, her hand on his 
 as she lights the cigarette from the match]. She makes a fuss 
 about my smoking. Don t tell her, will you? [She smiles 
 again, her face not far from his; he looks thoughtful.] 
 
 AMES. No. [The fire begins to pick up. FLORENCE turns 
 to AMES suddenly] 
 
 FLORENCE. How long you known her? 
 
 AMES. What? 
 
THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 283 
 
 FLORENCE [emphasizing her whisper}. How long have 
 you known my Aunt Isabel? 
 
 AMES. Yesterday ! 
 
 FLORENCE [she is suddenly overcome with mirth. She lifts 
 both hands in a gesture of " Oh, go way!" and choking with 
 laughter, slaps him with her two palms upon the shoulders. 
 She is unable to control herself; she convulses, leaning against 
 him, then clapping both hands over her mouth, runs spluttering 
 to up right. At the door she checks herself, speaks back to him 
 huskily]. I ll see if he s got the car out the mud! [Laughter 
 breaks from her as she runs out of the door, up right. AMES 
 is bothered and a little fascinated. He glances at ISABEL, then 
 goes slowly to the door up right; looks out. He comes down; 
 goes near the stove and stands, frowning thoughtfully. ISABEL 
 murmurs, she opens her eyes; they fall upon AMES without 
 expression. Then she smiles slowly and speaks.] 
 
 ISABEL. I m awake. 
 
 AMES [starts]. Good morning! 
 
 ISABEL. Good morning. What time is it? 
 
 AMES. It s daylight. Did you ah sleep well? 
 
 ISABEL. Yes. Did you? 
 
 AMES. Yes. I did. 
 
 ISABEL. I was trying to stay asleep, but I thought Was 
 the Station-Master here just now? 
 
 AMES. No; it was your niece. 
 
 ISABEL. What? [She stretches her hand to him; he comes 
 quickly and takes her hand. She rises.] You don t mean 
 it! 
 
 AMES. Somehow she found you were here. She s been all 
 night trying to get a car here, she said. 
 
 ISABEL. Why, the dear thing! Where d she go? 
 
 AMES [moving toward the door up right with her]. She 
 went to see if [The door is flung open by FLORENCE, re 
 turning] 
 
 FLORENCE. It s coming! [Comes down right.] 
 
 ISABEL. Florence! How d you find me? [They go to each 
 other and embrace.] 
 
 FLORENCE. We telephoned all over the world, where the 
 wires weren t down, and this was the only place you could be! 
 
 ISABEL. Florence, this is Mr. Ames. 
 
 FLORENCE [gaily]. Right-o! We ve had quite a chat! 
 
284 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 
 
 We d better take him home with us, hadn t we? [Goes back 
 of first bench to center.] 
 
 ISABEL [turning to AMES with a little tremulous self -con 
 sciousness at which she smiles herself]. Will you? 
 
 AMES [embarrassed]. Ah you re very kind I 
 
 FLORENCE [breezily]. Why, of course we re not going to 
 leave you here! It s only a forty mile drive and we won t get 
 stuck by daylight. You ll never see breakfast in this hole! 
 
 AMES. Well, as you re so kind 
 
 FLORENCE. Of course you re coming! We ll make him, 
 won t we, Aunt Isabel? 
 
 ISABEL [a little coldly]. I hope so. 
 
 AMES [awkwardly , to FLORENCE], Well, since you re so 
 hospitable 
 
 FLORENCE [she slaps him on shoulder]. Hospitable noth 
 ing; we don t see a new man-person twice a year in our neck 
 o the woods, except Johnnie White, and we re used to him! 
 I made the poor kid drive me, Aunt Isabel. [She runs to the 
 door and calls out, "Yay, Johnnie!"] 
 
 ISABEL. " Brazen hussies in boys breeches " wasn t that 
 what you called them? 
 
 AMES [nervously]. Oh, but she s different she s your 
 niece. 
 
 ISABEL. Yes, my great-niece. 
 
 AMES. What? I beg your pardon 
 
 ISABEL [calmly]. I forgot to tell you, she isn t my niece 
 precisely she s my great-niece. Florence s father wasn t 
 
 AMES [rather dazed, but trying to conceal it]. Your she s 
 your 0rrf-niece? Oh, yes [A young man appears in the 
 doorway with FLORENCE. FLORENCE enters first and goes back 
 of first bench to center, looking at AMES.] 
 
 ISABEL. Come in, Johnnie! [He does so. He is a boy of 
 about twenty, dressed for motoring and heavily stained with 
 mud and grease; he carries a woman s fur coat over his arm. 
 He smiles vaguely as he comes to take ISABEL S hand. She 
 goes on.] It was lovely of you to drive all night through the 
 mud to find me. 
 
 JOHNNIE [grinning vaguely]. Well, Florence wanted me 
 
 ISABEL. And we all do what Florence wants; yes. This 
 is Mr. Ames, Mr. White. [JOHNNIE goes to center behind 
 
THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 285 
 
 first bench, tosses coat to FLORENCE, and shakes hands as she 
 goes on.] If you ll help us get our bags in the car 
 
 JOHNNIE. Yes, indeed. [He picks up the bags, getting 
 both arms full. FLORENCE, with a sweet smile, gives the 
 coat to AMES to hold for her.~\ 
 
 ISABEL [continuing smilingly]. We ought to be home by 
 seven; and there ll be food, Mr. Ames! Won t that be 
 [She checks herself as she sees the care with which he is putting 
 FLORENCE into her coat, and goes to JOHNNIE, left center. 
 She hands him her own coat, still smiling. ] Johnnie, dear, if 
 you ll [JOHNNIE drops bags and holds coat for ISABEL.] 
 
 JOHNNIE [politely]. Yes, indeed, Miss Stuart. 
 
 FLORENCE [to AMES, right center]. I think you re a rogue! 
 
 AMES [laughing consciously and rather uncomfortable]. 
 What nonsense! 
 
 ISABEL. Now if we can get the things into the car 
 [JOHNNIE and AMES pick up the bags and lunch basket; AMES 
 gets into his overcoat. ISABEL goes on.] I think you ll have 
 to let me sit by you, Johnnie, going home. I think you ll drive 
 better. 
 
 JOHNNIE [a little blankly]. Yes m. Glad to have you. 
 
 ISABEL. Are we all ready? 
 
 JOHNNIE [going out up right with bags]. Yes m. 
 
 FLORENCE [to AMES]. D you think you can entertain me 
 for forty miles? / do! [She runs out.] 
 
 AMES [right center]. This is very kind of you to take me 
 in, this way I ah, are you coming? 
 
 ISABEL [left center, starts as if to go out, then stops and 
 looks about her wistfully, yet smiling a little]. I just 
 wanted to remember what this room looks like by daylight. 
 Things change so then. [She takes his arm and starts up left.] 
 I ll take your arm just till we get to the car; then you ll have 
 Florence. [As they go slowly up she continues cheerfully:] 
 Yes I forgot to mention it last night; yes, she s my great- 
 niece. It wasn t her father who was my brother, you see 
 
 AMES [feebly]. It wasn t? 
 
 ISABEL [cheerfully, as they reach a point near the door and 
 pause]. No. It was her grandfather. [ISABEL takes a last 
 rather wistfully smiling look about the room as she speaks a 
 little absently.] 
 
 AMES [trying not to speak feebly]. Her grandfather was? 
 
286 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 
 
 FLORENCE [enters door. Takes AMES arm with both of 
 her hands]. Aren t you coming? You re going to sit with 
 me, you know. 
 
 AMES. Well, I [He is rather bewildered and FLOR 
 ENCE pulls him out through door. JOHNNIE enters door and 
 offers his arm to ISABEL.] 
 
 ISABEL. Thank you, Johnnie. [Both exit.] 
 
 [CURTAIN.] 
 
ACT II 
 
 An interior a " living room ff and " sun-room " combined of 
 the house at Miss STUART S farm. It is a cheerful apart 
 ment in imaginative but quiet taste. 
 
 The sun-room does not so much open out of the living-room as 
 form a part of it the upper part as an ample sort of 
 alcove. Very simple pilasters against the living-room wall, 
 up right and up left, mark the lower corners of the sun- 
 room, giving the opening somewhat the effect of a very 
 wide doorway or entrance. From each of these, the sun- 
 room walls (which consist principally of French windows) 
 extend a little distance lip; and the living-room walls ex 
 tend to right and to left, thence down to front. Two of 
 the French windows of the sun-room are practicable doors, 
 one up right and one up left. The back of the sun-room 
 consists mainly of three French windows, through which 
 there is a glimpse of trees just coming into young April 
 leaf. This is only a glimpse, however, as the windows 
 (which are all oblong, and without f( half -moons" or 
 arches at the top) are prettily curtained with figured or 
 embroidered linen. The woodwork of the sun-room is 
 apple green. 
 
 The living-room walls are done in a rather warm shade of tan; 
 there is a fire-place with a Todhunter type of simple man 
 tel, right center; and over it on the wall, a large old- 
 fashioned mirror with gilt frame. Opposite the fire-place, 
 left, are double doors. There is a phonograph in the sun- 
 room, up right, the view of which is obscured by plants 
 and there is a tr baby-grand " piano in the corner of the 
 living-room up left, a closed cabinet stands against the up 
 right wall of the living-room, opposite the piano. The 
 furniture is all comfortable, pleasant to the eye and not 
 new; blue-figured chintzes and easy upholstery. There is 
 a short blue velvet " davenport " or sofa, right center, near 
 the fireplace, and at its right elbow a very dark green con 
 sole table. 
 
 287 
 
288 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 
 
 There is a wire -flower stand with potted flowers up center in 
 the sun-room, two old-fashioned chairs f and a rag carpet 
 medallion on the floor. There are side-lights, in both 
 living-room and sun-room, with shaded bulbs. There 
 are some sprays of apple-blossoms in a jar on the piano. 
 
 The morning sunshine is bright outside the sun-room windows, 
 and the place is cheerful, but not eye-murdering, with 
 light. The fire is burning, left, and facing it is an ft old 
 lady, 1 for she is undeniably both; and with her cap, and 
 old-fashioned gown, rather suggests Whistler s portrait of 
 his mother. She is dainty, but rather fretful. A youngish 
 middle-aged man, on his knees, is rubbing the hearth and 
 brass fender with a rag. He is a house-servant in work 
 ing-clothes; wearing a great old blue apron, his dark 
 trousers and waistcoat; his shirt-sleeves are rolled up and 
 he has omitted a collar and tie. The old lady is FLOR 
 ENCE S aunt, ELLEN. 
 
 AUNT ELLEN [in armchair by fireplace. Wishing him to 
 continue a narration]. Well, and then, after they had their 
 breakfast 
 
 HENRY. Well, he went to sleep leanin on the mantelpiece, 
 and then she had me take him up to bed in the big room. 
 
 AUNT ELLEN. Our having a gentleman visitor, it s quite 
 exciting. 
 
 HENRY. Yes m. 
 
 AUNT ELLEN. Is he going to stay over to-night with us? 
 
 HENRY. No m. He said he had to get the noon train at 
 Clinton on the main line. I got to drive him over, she says. 
 
 AUNT ELLEN. Would you consider him a very nice looking 
 gentleman, Hfenry? 
 
 HENRY [judicially]. Well, to me he looks more like a man 
 that s kind o got somep m layin heavy on his mind like. 
 
 AUNT ELLEN. I should think she d have been dead. 
 
 HENRY. No m; she went over to the empty tenant s house 
 in the buckboard. 
 
 AUNT ELLEN. She s a very remarkable woman, Henry. 
 [She says this slowly and with a kind of placid emphasis, as if 
 she has said it, to the same listener, many times before.] 
 
 HENRY [placidly]. Yes, Miss Ellen. [FLORENCE is 
 heard outside, off up right.] 
 
THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 289 
 
 FLORENCE [off]. Henry! Hen-er-y! Whoa, there! 
 
 HENRY [crosses to center]. It s Miss Florence; she went off 
 horseback for her sleep. [FLORENCE enters up right. She is 
 dressed in riding -clothes: breeches, boots, waist, a short coat, 
 and a dark straw hat; she has a riding crop in her hand. Yet 
 there is a daintiness about her.] 
 
 FLORENCE [as she enters]. Henry, don t you want to ride 
 Tim down to the barn for me? 
 
 HENRY [going up obediently ]. Yes m. 
 
 FLORENCE [coming down]. H lo, Aunt Ellen! [HENRY 
 exits up right.] Had your breakfast? Where s Mr. Ames? 
 [She flings herself in a chair right of table left with one knee 
 over its arm.] 
 
 AUNT ELLEN [frowning at the posture]. I haven t met 
 him. Henry tells me he s resting. 
 
 FLORENCE. Poor thing! He s a right natty ole berry, 
 though, Aunt Ellen. 
 
 AUNT ELLEN [shuddering slightly]. Won t you sometime 
 speak English, Florence? 
 
 FLORENCE [lightly]. None o my friends d understand me 
 if I did. [FLORENCE is always lighter than she is rough; and 
 her tone of voice is prettier than the words she says. An elec 
 tric bell rings faintly off left.] That s Johnnie; I told him to 
 clean up and come over and shoot some tennis. 
 
 AUNT ELLEN [frowning]. When were you last in bed, 
 Florence? 
 
 FLORENCE. When d you think I was? Why, night before 
 last. [She giggles] Same as Aunt Isabel! 
 
 AUNT ELLEN [coldly]. We won t discuss 
 
 FLORENCE [with a suppressed chuckle]. No; I guess we 
 better not ! 
 
 AUNT ELLEN. But you, after being out in an automobile 
 all night with this young Mr. White 
 
 FLORENCE [severely]. Hunting Aunt Isabel! [She goes 
 on at once with amused slyness.] W T hat do you think of Aunt 
 Isabel s conduct, Aunt Ellen ? 
 
 AUNT ELLEN [primly]. I ve told you I never discuss Aunt 
 Isabel. [One of the double doors, left, opens and a middle- 
 aged woman steps in. She is neat and responsible looking; 
 but more of the housekeeper type than a " maid " ; her name is 
 MATTIE. She speaks immediately.] 
 
290 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 
 
 MATTIE. It s Mr. White. 
 
 FLORENCE [not rising, turns her head and calls loudly toward 
 the door]. Come on in, Johnnie! 
 
 AUNT ELLEN [annoyed], Florence, please! 
 
 FLORENCE. If Aunt Isabel can t reform me, you can t, Aunt 
 Ellen. [Calling again}. Johnnie! Come ahead fn/J[ [ JOHN 
 NIE enters left, passing MATTIE, who goes out left at once, 
 closing the door. JOHNNIE wears an old Norfolk jacket, a 
 flannel shirt, white flannel trousers, and tennis shoes. He car 
 ries a racket in a shabby case under his arm and has a cap in 
 his hand. He speaks in a grieved tone as he enters J} 
 
 JOHNNIE. You said you d be ready for Howdy do, 
 Miss Ellen [This is a brief parenthesis to AUNT ELLEN, 
 and he goes on immediately to FLORENCE.] You expect to 
 shoot tennis in boots? 
 
 FLORENCE [rising }. Oh, I ll change./! You_ pretty near 
 dead for sleep? 
 
 JOHNNIE [incredulously ]. Me? Bet you are! 
 
 FLORENCE [carelessly"]. I ll bet you ten dollars I can go 
 till day after to-morrow! 
 
 JOHNNIE. Never close your eyes? 
 
 FLORENCE. Yes, nor my mouth, either! [Goes up 
 center.} 
 
 JOHNNIE [grimly}. I lose! 
 
 FLORENCE. I ll show you how sleepy 7 am! [She is at the 
 victrola in the sun-room and as she speaks she releases a lively 
 dance record, and turns down, extending her arms.} 
 
 AUNT ELLEN [crossly}. Florence! Do you have to dance 
 all the time ? 
 
 FLORENCE [seizin? upon JOHNNIE], Absolutely! Come 
 on! [They begin to dance a very modern d<a?ice.} 
 
 AUNT ELLEN. And that poor gentleman trying to get some 
 rest upstairs! 
 
 FLORENCE. It s time for the ole kid to come down. I want 
 to talk some more to him! 
 
 JOHNNIE [as they go on dancing}. Done up, was he? 
 Well, take men that age, they can t do as much as if 
 
 FLORENCE. No! Think he s some three-year-old? That 
 was a pretty rough trip we brought him. 
 
 JOHNNIE. Hark! I believe you d flirt with George Wash 
 ington if you got a chance! 
 
THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 291 
 
 FLORENCE. Hush up and get off my^oot{_ [AuNT ELLEN 
 shudders.] 
 
 JOHNNIE [plaintive]. Your Aunt Isabel was listenin to 
 you the whole way too! She didn t look to me as if she 
 thought much of your style, either! 
 
 FLORENCE. Xpan t you dance without talkin ? What you 
 think this is: a CEaufauquaT" 
 
 AUNT ELLEN [s he has put on a pince-nez and looks at them 
 sourly over her shoulder}. It certainly isn t dancing, is it? 
 [She is plaintively severe.] 
 
 FLORENCE. I never could remember, Aunt Ellen: Was it 
 you or grandma that walked a minuet with Alexander Ham 
 ilton ? 
 
 AUNT ELLEN [angrily]. It was my great-grandmother! 
 
 FLORENCE. I guess she d have been shocked enough if she d 
 ever seen you dancing when you were young? 
 
 AUNT ELLEN [rising angrily]. Shocked at my dancing? 
 At the waltz f The polka! The schottische? 
 
 FLORENCE. Oh, don t get so upset! [She is a little irri 
 tated and speaks flippantly, but she keeps on dancing.} 
 
 AUNT ELLEN [sharply]. Shame on you! 
 
 FLORENCE [hotly]. What for? 
 
 AUNT ELLEN [rapidly]. To dance, yourself, in that man 
 ner and say anyone would be shocked at my dancing, and for 
 saying I might have danced with Alexander Hamilton! 
 
 FLORENCE [giggling]. Why? Wasn t he nice? 
 
 AUNT ELLEN. Shame! 
 
 FLORENCE. Oh, do sit down ! [// is a tiff, and they speak 
 sharply and quickly.] 
 
 AUNT ELLEN [trembling]. Indeed, I shall not! 
 
 FLORENCE. Stand up, then! Gosh! 
 
 AUNT ELLEN. I will retire from the room! [Going left.} 
 
 FLORENCE. Oh, / apologize. Golly! [HENRY enters up 
 right, leaving the door open.] 
 
 HENRY [as he enters]. She s back. 
 
 FLORENCE [with gloomy scorn, to AUNT ELLEN]. Now I 
 s pose you ll tell her all about it! 
 
 AUNT ELLEN [quickly, but with over-dignity}. I shall 
 not. Excuse me! [Exits left.] 
 
 FLORENCE. Oh, my! [She flings herself in a chair right: 
 of table left.] I wish 
 
292 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 
 
 JOHNNIE [looking off up right and gloomily nodding in that 
 direction to check FLORENCE, who is about to continue speak 
 ing]. Hark! You better hush up f you don t want her 
 to [He means: if FLORENCE doesn t want ISABEL to per 
 ceive that there s been a row. FLORENCE checks herself. 
 JOHNNIE goes to left of table. } 
 
 ISABEL [outside , up right]. Henry? 
 
 HENRY [right center]. I m waitin*. [ISABEL enters 
 cheerfully up right in the sun-room. She wears a driving-coat 
 over her dress, dr wing- gloves, and a "pretty little hat." As 
 she comes in, her air is brisk, as of one fresh from driving on 
 a cool morning, and she speaks as she comes down.] 
 
 ISABEL [center. Beginning to HENRY, interrupting herself 
 to greet JOHNNIE, and then reverting to HENRY]. Henry 
 howdy do, Johnnie White Henry, I want you to drive Mr. 
 Ames to the train. 
 
 HENRY. Yes m, you awready told me. 
 
 ISABEL. Let him know in plenty of time to start but 
 well, not too much time. Not so that he ll have to wait a long 
 while at the station. [With a significance in her own thought 
 that AMES has had a great deal of station waiting lately.] 
 
 HENRY. No m. [Exit up left] 
 
 ISABEL [she turns to FLORENCE as HENRY goes out up 
 right. FLORENCE S attitude and look are of a brooding sort. 
 ISABEL S glance rests momentarily upon her, but she speaks to 
 JOHNNIE], Johnnie White, why is this lady so gloomy? 
 [JOHNNIE shakes his head briefly] What s the matter? 
 [To FLORENCE.] Where s your Aunt Ellen? Hasn t she 
 come down yet? 
 
 FLORENCE [with rueful sulkiness]. Oh, yes; she was here! 
 
 ISABEL [comprehending cheerfully]. Oh, I see. What 
 was it about? 
 
 FLORENCE. She didn t like it because Why, I was only 
 makin fun of o/</-fashioned dancing. Everything old-fashioned 
 is so funny. 
 
 ISABEL [center]. Isn t it! I used to say that to my grand 
 mother. Did you apologize? 
 
 FLORENCE. Yes. I did. 
 
 ISABEL. Did you say, " I apologize golly " ? 
 
 JOHNNIE [surprised]. Why, Miss Stuart! How d you 
 guess Florence said that? 
 
THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 2935 
 
 ISABEL [back of FLORENCE]. When you live with em, 
 Johnnie, you get to know their habits. Do you know what 
 she s thinking now? [She puts her hand on FLORENCE S 
 shoulder, FLORENCE still being seated.} 
 ~ JOHNNIE [shaking his head}. No m; I certainly don t. 
 
 ISABEL. She s wondering why people are always so queer 
 when they get older. 
 
 JOHNNIE [with slightly sour significance}. Well, she might 
 ask Mr. Ames about that. He must be anyway pretty near 
 something way long over thirty or something, isn t he, Miss 
 Stuart? 
 
 ISABEL. Yes, I m afraid he must be almost that near the 
 end ! But still I rather doubt if she will ask Mr. Ames about 
 it, Johnnie. No; hardly. [Crosses center. Smiling to him 
 as he grins in rueful comprehension.} 
 
 FLORENCE. Oh, I like old men. [She comes out of her 
 brooding fit as she rises.} Don t you think Mr. Ames is ter 
 ribly intriguing? [Seriously and quickly.} 
 
 ISABEL. " Intriguing"? No, I think he seems honest 
 well, quite honest, at least! 
 
 FLORENCE. But he has such a distinguished looking face. 
 
 ISABEL. Well, he has an uncle who s distinguished ; that is, 
 he s always spoken of as remarkable because he plays polo at 
 sixty-six. The uncle, I mean, Florence, of course. 
 
 FLORENCE. This man s a man that really interests me. I 
 think from his looks he has the power to think. [Severely.] 
 Very few people have the power to think in this world, you 
 know, Aunt Isabel. 
 
 ISABEL [back of table}. Oh, yes; fewer and fewer every 
 day! It s quite natural for [Turning unexpectedly to 
 JOHNNIE.] Have you the power to think, Johnnie White? 
 
 JOHNNIE. No m. You know what she means, don t you? 
 
 FLORENCE [coldly, absently}. Never mind. 
 
 ISABEL [in an impressed whisper, to JOHNNIE], She s 
 thinking. [Crosses center.} 
 
 FLORENCE. Aunt Isabel, I really would like him to stay 
 over a day or so. 
 
 ISABEL. He said he had to go on to New York at noon. 
 I m afraid he made quite a point of it. 
 
 FLORENCE [rises and crosses center}. Oh, well, you know 
 men always can stay if they want to. 
 
THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 
 
 ISABEL. That s why it s better not to urge them; they may 
 only make it clearer they don t want to. 
 
 FLORENCE [at the door}. Oh, Mr. Ames might change his 
 mind later. [Crosses to door, left.] 
 
 ISABEL. Before you begin with that, dear, could you please 
 first go and apologize to your Aunt Ellen? 
 
 FLORENCE. Oh, all right. [Moodily.] 
 
 ISABEL [by the fireplace}. Try it without a golly! 
 
 FLORENCE. All right, I ll go and kid her to death. [Exit 
 left.] 
 
 ISABEL [turns to JOHNNIE, sitting on sofa, right}. Don t 
 you seem to " intrigue " Florence at all, Johnnie? 
 
 JOHNNIE. No m. She just takes a notion. [Crosses to 
 center.] 
 
 ISABEL. You mean she just gets this way. 
 
 JOHNNIE. Yes m; when there s somebody around she s 
 fixin to make em get mush over her. Yow ve noticed that, 
 haven t you, Miss Stuart? 
 
 ISABEL. I fancy I may have, just possibly! 
 
 JOHNNIE. Then she rubs that power-to-think business 
 all over me t because the faculty found out I wasn t intellectual 
 or something, so I had to abandon my college career. [He is 
 very serious.} 
 
 ISABEL [sitting on the sofa and concealing a tendency to 
 laugh}. Come on. I see you want to say something more to 
 me. 
 
 JOHNNIE [swallowing. Sits on sofa left of Miss STUART], 
 Yes m. Miss Stuart, you re a woman that s had a good many 
 men go mush over you; so with your experience, why, the 
 truth is, I may not have all the brains in the world, but she 
 hasn t, either, but she gets these fits when she thinks she has; 
 and what I want to say is simply: why, you know how it is, 
 when there s some new man around, she treats me more like 
 some door-mat than a person. 
 
 ISABEL. I understand you perfectly, Johnnie. Go ahead. 
 
 JOHNNIE. I just wanted to say so because you ve had 
 prob ly more experience of life than I ve had, no doubt. 
 
 ISABEL. How long do you expect to feel this way about 
 her, Johnnie? 
 
 JOHNNIE [swallowing]. Well, if everything turns out all 
 right though it don t look so much like it right now, but if 
 
THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 295 
 
 it does, and she finds out I m her her well, her real mate, 
 as it were, why, I expect to go on and on with her and on 
 and on and on and [He seems to be going on, though 
 slowing down.] 
 
 ISABEL. " On and on and on " until you re just any age 
 oh, twenty-eight or even twenty-nine, maybe? 
 
 JOHNNIE. Yes m. Indefinitely. 
 
 ISABEL. Suppose you were past thirty, Johnnie. Suppose, 
 like Mr. Ames, you were even well, whatever age we ll say 
 Mr. Ames is. 
 
 JOHNNIE [slightly amused and incredulous]. What age 
 me? I guess prob ly I d be sittin around somewhere, if I was 
 alive. 
 
 ISABEL. But you d still like Florence to be about nineteen, 
 wouldn t you? 
 
 JOHNNIE. Well, about the way she looks now, yes m. 
 That s a good deal why I like her: the way she looks. 
 
 ISABEL [smiling]. It isn t fair, is it? 
 
 JOHNNIE. Ma am? 
 
 ISABEL. You see, when you re twenty you like us to be 
 nineteen, and when you re fifty you re apt to like us to be 
 nineteen! Well, we can t manage it, you see! We can t stay 
 nineteen, much as we want to please you! 
 
 JOHNNIE [smiles]. Oh, well, I guess I d feel just the 
 same about Florence if she was a thousand. 
 
 ISABEL [looking at him quickly]. Would you? If she were 
 a thousand? 
 
 JOHNNIE [laughing a little ruefully}. I guess I would! 
 [As if he d prob ly have to.] 
 
 ISABEL. You think so? 
 
 JOHNNIE [becoming serious]. Well, if I did, I guess then 
 she d know what sort of a man I am. 
 
 ISABEL [thoughtfully and rather slowly]. Yes; she ought 
 to! 
 
 JOHNNIE [going on]. And she d see how I really feel about 
 her. 
 
 ISABEL [smiling quickly]. Yes; so she would! It s quite 
 an idea! [Rises.] 
 
 JOHNNIE [rises]. Course I don t think anything ll come o 
 the way she acts over this Mr. Ames. For one thing, I b lieve 
 he d have too much sense. 
 
296 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 
 
 ISABEL. Do you ? You can never be sure of that, Johnnie I 
 
 JOHNNIE. Well, she begged him a lot to stay over till to 
 morrow and he said he couldn t; just like he did when you 
 asked him, Miss Stuart. 
 
 ISABEL. Yes, that looks intelligent of him, if he sticks to 
 it and goes. 
 
 JOHNNIE. And, anyhow, he only said one personal thing to 
 her all the time, and it was kind of a joke. 
 
 ISABEL [quickly]. He did say a personal thing to her? 
 
 JOHNNIE. It was when you went to hurry the cook with 
 breakfast. Mr. Ames asked Florence oh, well, it wasn t so 
 frightful " personal." 
 
 ISABEL. What was it, Johnnie? 
 
 JOHNNIE. Well, she said she s posed she d be as old as her 
 grandfather before she got any breakfast and he asked her if 
 she knew how old her grandfather was. 
 
 ISABEL. He did? He asked her that? What did she tell 
 him? 
 
 JOHNNIE. She didn t know. [Anxiously.] Do you think 
 that was pretty personal? I don t see 
 
 ISABEL [crosses center]. Why, yes; I believe I do. I be 
 lieve I think it was quite " personal " indeed asking her how 
 pld her grandfather was! [MATTIE enters, left.] 
 
 ISABEL [quickly on her entrance]. What is it? 
 
 MATTIE. The gentleman. I heard him stirrin round ; you 
 said to let you know. 
 
 ISABEL [rather eagerly]. Yes? 
 
 MATTIE. I think he s comin down. 
 
 ISABEL [going toward her quickly]. Mattie, it seems to 
 me you told me once you didn t think this was a becoming hat. 
 
 MATTIE. No m. You ast me, and I says I never could like 
 it on you, ma am. 
 
 ISABEL. Good gracious! You might be right! [She hur 
 ries away up through the sun-room and off up left.] 
 
 JOHNNIE. Didn t hear Miss Florence stirrin around or 
 anything, did you? 
 
 MATTIE [with a glance toward where ISABEL departed]. 
 Yes, sir. She s changin her things again too! [Going to 
 exit left.] 
 
 JOHNNIE [rather sharply as she opens the door]. Will you 
 
THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 297 
 
 ask her how long she thinks I [He is checked by an approach 
 seen through the open door; mutters] oh! [and turns right. 
 AMES enters right, passing MATTIE, who waits for him to 
 pass; then exit right. AMES has changed his clothes for tweeds; 
 he looks freshened but preoccupied. } 
 
 AMES [in greeting]. Ah Mr. White? Haven t you been 
 to bed at all? 
 
 JOHNNIE [smiling]. No. J yii get rested up some? 
 [They shake hands] 
 
 AMES [crossing to the fire, right]. Oh, yes; quite a little. 
 I suppose our two ah comrades aren t down yet. Miss 
 Stuart must be pretty much exhausted, I m afraid. 
 
 JOHNNIE. She doesn t act like it. Right after you went 
 up to bed she drove off to one of her farms on business. [Sits 
 right of table left] 
 
 AMES. She did? 
 
 JOHNNIE [casually; not boasting for her]. Drivin herself 
 in a buckboard. 
 
 AMES. Why, I declare! 
 
 JOHNNIE. Oh, Miss Stuart s considered a pretty remarka 
 ble woman, you know. 
 
 AMES [struck by this, frowns somewhat thoughtfully]. She 
 is. She s considered remarkable? 
 
 JOHNNIE [shaking his head, seriously]. Yes, indeed! 
 She s the most remarkable of her family. 
 
 AMES [thoughtful]. I feel myself rather at a loss; I seem 
 to be here so so unexpectedly, as it were and such a a 
 stranger. I m rather ah confused about the family. Miss 
 Stuart s father and mother, I take it, aren t living? 
 
 JOHNNIE. Golly, no! I dunno when they died! 
 
 AMES [set back a little]. A considerable time ago, I sup 
 pose. 
 
 JOHNNIE. Well, yes I Must a been! 
 
 AMES [rather wistfully, yet trying to sound careless and 
 casual]. You don t remember them, I take it. 
 
 JOHNNIE [carelessly]. Me? Golly, no! 
 
 AMES. Ah the present family, then 
 
 JOHNNIE. It s just Miss Stuart and Miss Ellen Stuart and 
 Florence. 
 
 AMES. Miss Ellen Stuart I haven t met. [Sits on sofa.] 
 
298 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 
 
 JOHNNIE. She s Florence s aunt. 
 
 AMES. Her aunt? 
 
 JOHNNIE. Yes, I always get mixed up on relations, too. 
 [He sits on the small of his back, crossing his legs; and decides 
 to try a wicked shot.} I don t know how old my grandfather 
 was when he died, any more n Florence did hers! 
 
 AMES [unconscious of the effort just made}. It seems to 
 me that last night Miss Stuart spoke of two orphan nieces she 
 was bringing up. 
 
 JOHNNIE. Bringin up? Florence is one, but Miss Stuart 
 couldn t a meant she was bringin Miss Ellen up. She s 
 about a hundred or a hundred and ten, maybe! Anyhow, 
 she must be around sixty. 
 
 AMES. I must have been mistaken. Then there are just 
 these three ladies in the family. 
 
 JOHNNIE. Three s all. They do need a man around. 
 
 AMES. Uh yes. It would ah seem so. [They look at 
 each other with some coldness. FLORENCE is heard singing off 
 left.} 
 
 JOHNNIE. This un comin needs more n one the way she 
 acts lately! [FLORENCE enters, left, singing till she gets into 
 the room, then she stops suddenly. She wears a most becoming 
 tennis costume, but accompanies it with white high-heeled slip 
 pers. She has a pair of white tennis shoes in one hand, and a 
 racquet and a net bag of tennis balls in the other. There are 
 five or six balls, not all new. AMES rises and goes a little to 
 right.} 
 
 FLORENCE [crosses to center, back of table. To AMES]. 
 Oh! You re here, too! 
 
 JOHNNIE [muttering ironically, not moving}. So m I here, 
 too! 
 
 AMES [gallantly}. I m glad you didn t know it, if that s 
 why you kept on singing. 
 
 FLORENCE [going over to him}. I told you in the car you 
 were a quick worker! [She doesn t smile.} I ve taken a 
 frightful fancy to you! 
 
 JOHNNIE [before AMES can speak}. One of the mail 
 service aviators had to land in their back meadow here, last 
 month. She pulled that on him before his wheels touched 
 ground. 
 
 FLORENCE. I didn t! 
 
THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 299 
 
 JOHNNIE [placidly stubborn]. You did. You had to holler 
 to make him hear it! 
 
 FLORENCE [turning seriously to AMES for sympathy]^ 
 These boys, nowadays, they think life s nothing but jazz. la 
 this life people meet a girl, but so often they don t see she 
 prob ly has thoughts other people couldn t think! I have to 
 lead two lives: one outdoors with mere adolescents, but the 
 other: that s a life apart. You understand what I mean, don t 
 you? 
 
 AMES [smiling ]. I think so. 
 
 FLORENCE. I thought you would. That s why you in 
 trigue me so. [Softly.] You re a great kid ! [She slaps him 
 on arm.] 
 
 JOHNNIE. Oh, listen! [FLORENCE glances at him.] 
 
 FLORENCE. Mr. Ames, don t you believe that very few 
 people in this life have the power to really think? 
 
 JOHNNIE [sliding to the floor from his chair]. Oo-ooh, 
 Mike! 
 
 FLORENCE [annoyed, turning]. Cut the rough stuff, you 
 caterpillar. [Her tone is severe but quiet.] 
 
 JOHNNIE [rising to his knees and seeming to paddle with his 
 racquet at the tennis shoes in her hand]. You goin to wear 
 four shoes at the same time, centipede? 
 
 FLORENCE [sitting]. I never can bear to put flat shoes on 
 till the last minute. And then [She removes one slipper.] 
 It s so troublesome gettin em on 
 
 AMES. May I help you? 
 
 FLORENCE. Oh, if you would 
 
 JOHNNIE [embittered, up center]. Oh! That s why you 
 brought em! I see! 
 
 FLORENCE [giving him a cold quick glance, but speaking to 
 AMES. He kneels before her]. It s outrageous of me to let 
 you take so much trouble! [Then leaning toward him, she 
 speaks softly.] 
 
 JOHNNIE. Oh, my! [He goes out of the picture, stepping 
 out up right.] 
 
 FLORENCE [softly]. Mr. Ames, please stay over till to 
 morrow. 7 ask you to. 
 
 AMES. You re very kind. I couldn t let your aunt think 
 I m so vacillating. You see, I told her I had to be in New 
 York this evening. 
 
300 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 
 
 FLORENCE. But you just said you had to go, didn t you? 
 because you wanted to be polite about making an unexpected 
 visit ? 
 
 AMES [laughing]. Yes; something like that. But after 
 telling your aunt that I couldn t stay 
 
 FLORENCE. But aren t there any reasons you d like to stay? 
 
 AMES [thoughtfully]. Yes, there are. 
 
 FLORENCE. Then I ll fix it for you. I ll say you sent a 
 wire to New York letting em know you reached here, and I ll 
 write a message on one of our telegraph blanks to you. It ll 
 be the answer from New York telling you there isn t any reason 
 for you to leave. [She is pleased with her idea.] 
 
 AMES [laughing, but a little nervous over her idea]. Oh, 
 no! 
 
 FLORENCE. I will! I ll have a man bring it in. Don t 
 you spoil it. 
 
 AMES. I couldn t 
 
 FLORENCE. Yes, you could! And when my telegram 
 comes, if you give me away [She is interrupted by JOHN 
 NIE S return. JOHNNIE has been just beyond the threshold 
 up right, looking off out doors, and now comes in and down 
 a few steps.] 
 
 JOHNNIE. I got it! 
 
 FLORENCE [she checks AMES, who is about to expound his 
 protest]. Hush! [To JOHNNIE.] You got what? 
 
 JOHNNIE. Got a wish I just made. [He points to door 
 tip left, then claps his hand over his mouth as if undesirous the 
 lady entering should hear him; he is facing that way. ISABEL 
 enters up left in the sun-room. She has taken off her hat 
 and coat; is in a very pretty morning dress, and carries some 
 "work" in her hand; a "work bag! She comes in looking 
 at JOHNNIE, who has his hand over his mouth] 
 
 ISABEL. What s the matter, Johnnie White? [He jerks 
 his head toward AMES and FLORENCE, who are down right 
 center. For an instant ISABEL lets it be seen that she is the 
 least bit taken aback.] Oh! [She immediately smiles, as if 
 pleased] Oh! [She comes down as she speaks] Your shoes 
 are too large again, dear? [The slightest check before 
 "large."] 
 
 AMES [looking up at ISABEL with a little embarrassment]. 
 Ah she I was helping her to ah change. 
 
l\ 
 
 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 301 
 
 ISABEL [smiling ]. You were? 
 
 AMES. That is, I am. She mentioned some difficulty in 
 ah doing it herself, and I 
 
 ISABEL [sunnily]. I should think you would! Who 
 wouldn t? And who wouldn t make it as long as possible, 
 too! [She turns to a chair, left center. ] 
 
 AMES [ritufff]. It s ah done. [As he has taken off 
 FLORENCE S second slipper he has unconsciously put it under 
 his arm, where it still is] 
 
 ISABEL. Is it? Already? 
 
 JOHNNIE [sharply, to FLORENCE], C m on, here! 
 
 FLORENCE. All right, I m coming; what s the hurry? 
 
 JOHNNIE [FLORENCE goes up as he speaks. JOHNNIE has 
 gone down to the sofa she has occupied, and has picked up the 
 bag of tennis balls. He immediately goes up, after FLORENCE. 
 He calls out. ] Go ahead ! [All in a breath. ] Betcha dollar 
 I beat you t the tennis court! [Both rush for the door up 
 right. He swings her back up right. FLORENCE strikes at 
 him with her racket] 
 
 FLORENCE [giggling as she runs after him~\. No fair, you 
 got a start. [ISABEL is looking at AMES, w ho is standing, still 
 in some embarrassment, near the fireplace, unconscious of the 
 slipper under his arm; he is looking up at the departing couple. 
 The other slipper is on the seat of FLORENCE S chair.] 
 
 ISABEL. Aren t they extraordinary, Mr. Ames? [AMES 
 turns.] Aren t they extraordinary, these young things! Not 
 tidy, though. She s left her slippers on the sofa. [Glancing 
 at the slipper, then again at him; she begins to sew some lace 
 into cambric] 
 
 AMES [still embarrassed and not catching this]. It seems 
 to me you re rather extraordinary yourself, my dear [he 
 pauses an instant, then hastily adds] lady. [So that his 
 phrase is " my dear lady! 1 ] 
 
 ISABEL [as if a little suspiciously]. I? Do you think so? 
 In what way? 
 
 AMES. Sleeping a few hours on a wooden bench, motoring 
 forty miles of mud hills, then driving off in a buckboard in 
 stead of collapsing! 
 
 ISABEL [looking at him]. Oh, a country life keeps people 
 quite robust. It s "remarkable!" [Then looking at her 
 work.] As I said, though. I m afraid Florence is untidy, 
 
302 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 
 
 sometimes. [With a little gesture toward the slipper, ] You 
 see where she s left that pair of slippers. 
 
 AMES [glancing at it absently]. Pair? Ah there s only 
 one. 
 
 ISABEL [bending her head over her work] . So ? Could you 
 find the other? [Sits right of table left.] 
 
 AMES. Oh, certainly. [He glances absently about, then 
 realizes, with a start, that the slipper is under his arm; she 
 seems oblivious of everything except her lace-making. He 
 hastily puts the slipper under the chair; straightens up and 
 looks at her again. She seems as before. He stoops, look 
 ing about.] Ah I think it s under the Oh, yes. Here 
 it is. [He puts it with the other one and comes to 
 center.] 
 
 ISABEL. Will you set them on the hearth, please? 
 
 AMES. Certainly. 
 
 ISABEL [with a matter-of-fact amiability ]. Then it ll be 
 easy to find them if she comes back soon to have them put on 
 again. 
 
 AMES. Oh, ye [He begins to say " Oh, yes," but checks 
 himself uncomfortably. He places shoes at fireplace, then goes 
 to right center and is conscious of them as rather damnatory; 
 and a pause follows in which he glances back and down at 
 them twice.] 
 
 ISABEL. I m sorry you felt you couldn t stay over till to 
 morrow, but since you insisted you couldn t [Inquiringly, 
 as if giving him a chance to alter his mind.] 
 
 AMES. I I m afraid I ought to get back. 
 
 ISABEL [with a submissive nod, regretting]. Very well. 
 I ve arranged for you to go. 
 
 AMES. Ah thank you. [Moving toward her.] Ah 
 Is that lace you are making? 
 
 ISABEL. Do you like it? 
 
 AMES [putting on a pair of glasses, rather hastily looking at 
 the lace and, as hastily, slipping the glasses back into his waist 
 coat pocket again as he speaks]. It s very lovely yes. You 
 must have remarkable eyes to do that. 
 
 ISABEL [after a look at him]. Yes, my eyes are quite good. 
 [Using "quite" to mean "rather" as elderly people speak of 
 pleasant faculties still remaining.] 
 
 AMES. Is it a what they call a doyley? 
 
THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 303 
 
 ISABEL [glancing at him thoughtfully]. I wonder if I 
 oughtn t to make a little cap of it. 
 
 AMES [perplexed]. A cap? 
 
 ISABEL. Don t you think it s a pretty fashion a lace cap 
 on the head? 
 
 AMES. You mean like the Breton peasant women? 
 
 ISABEL. No; I was thinking of our grandmothers 
 
 AMES. But ah 
 
 ISABEL [letting it touch her hair a moment}. Would you 
 like me in it? [Her tone is entirely "natural/ as if she 
 considered the possibility seriously.] 
 
 AMES [trying not to be at all flustered]. Of course I should 
 like you in anything. 
 
 ISABEL. Are you sure you would? 
 
 AMES. Why, how can you ask me? 
 
 ISABEL [working]. As sure as you were last night? 
 
 AMES. Yes, indeed. 
 
 ISABEL. And you would like me in a cap? 
 
 AMES. Well, wouldn t it seem a little 
 
 ISABEL. Do you mean you think it would seem a little 
 premature? 
 
 AMES. Decidedly, I [Breathlessly correcting himself.] 
 Of course it would. I meant [Goes back of table to left.] 
 
 ISABEL. You mustn t flatter me too much. 
 
 AMES [with almost plaintive inquiry], "Flatter" you? 
 
 ISABEL [smiling]. I ll keep off the cap as long as I can. 
 Really, there s no excuse for caps now. I suppose women used 
 to wear em because in those days there were so few supplies. 
 
 AMES [blankly]. Supplies? 
 
 ISABEL. Yes like imports from Paris. And, besides, they 
 didn t approve of em, poor things! 
 
 AMES. Pardon me. Who didn t approve of what? 
 
 ISABEL. Our grandmothers didn t approve of accomplishing 
 marvels with cosmetics. You know the miracles they do to 
 faces nowadays. 
 
 AMES. Miracles? [Sits left of table.] 
 
 ISABEL. It s remarkable ! No; there s no excuse for a 
 woman to wear a cap these days not till she has to just abso 
 lutely give up! [Then at her work.] Don t you think so? 
 
 AMES. Oh oh, yes! 
 
 ISABEL. Oh, it s just struck me [Rues.] I ought to be 
 
304 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 
 
 entertaining you, oughtn t I? But we haven t any family 
 photograph album. 
 
 AMES. What a lucky family! 
 
 ISABEL. I could show you some daguerreotypes, though, 
 Yes {rising suddenly upon a thought] you ought to see some 
 of our heirlooms. [She gives him a fleeting faint smile, and 
 leaving her work on the table, left center, goes to the closed 
 cabinet against the wall up right; opens the doors, and brings 
 forth an old mahogany case. She brings this down to the 
 table, left center, opens it, takes out a folding daguerreo 
 type. ] 
 
 AMES {rather surprised]. Daguerreotypes? 
 
 ISABEL [stands back of table]. Yes. We don t show them 
 to every visitor, of course. Sit down. [She hands him the 
 daguerreotype.] There. You like my father ? 
 
 AMES [rather touched, yet rather apprehensive]. Is that 
 your father? He must have been a very fine-looking man. 
 Is that a a stock he s wearing? 
 
 ISABEL. Yes. I did think stocks were so becoming, didn t 
 you? [Handing him another daguerreotype.] That s my 
 Aunt Margaret, father s sister, at ninety-one. We all live 
 very long on my father s side. 
 
 AMES. Ah very intelligent face. 
 
 ISABEL. Daguerreotypes have a charm, haven t they? I 
 wonder people stopped taking them. 
 
 AMES [becoming more preoccupied]. I don t think I ever 
 saw any daguerreotypes taken much after the Civil War. 
 
 ISABEL. No; I don t think I have, either. [Handing him 
 another. ] That s my Uncle Charles, in his uniform. He was 
 a colonel. 
 
 AMES. In the Civil War? 
 
 ISABEL. Oh, no, in the Mexican War. 
 
 AMES [more disturbed, but concealing it fairly welt]. Ah 
 he must have been a very fine-looking man. 
 
 ISABEL. Yes, indeed! [She smiles as she hands him an 
 other.] Here s one of a little girl that is, a young girl. 
 Does anything about her strike you as familiar? 
 
 AMES [looking at her, not at the daguerreotype, and trying 
 to conceal a foreboding]. Familiar? 
 
 ISABEL. Yes. See if you don t guess who it is. 
 
 AMES {vaguely}. "Who is it?" {He looks at it; then 
 
THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 305 
 
 suddenly looks closer; starts slightly, draws his head back from 
 it, staring incredulously.] 
 
 ISABEL. Can t you guess who it is? 
 
 AMES [huskily]. Why, it cant [He looks appre 
 hensively to her and back again with painfully growing con 
 viction] 
 ^ ISABEL. Why can t it? 
 
 AMES. Isn t it your mother? 
 
 ISABEL [in a tone that smilingly chides him for being so 
 slow] . No-o 
 
 AMES [with some plaintiveness]. Why, there weren t any 
 taken after why, it couldn t be 
 
 ISABEL [with a little archness]. Oh, but this girl you see, 
 , she was only a child, really. 
 
 AMES [feebly trying to be hearty]. Oh, yes; that s all she 
 was. I see. She wasn t 
 
 ISABEL [sunnily]. No. Not over sixteen or seventeen, no. 
 Don t you see any resemblance? 
 
 AMES [with a slight struggle]. Well, it s charming enough 
 to 
 
 ISABEL. It s a sister of mine. 
 
 AMES. It is? Your sister? 
 
 ISABEL [musingly]. Yes, she was quite a lot older than I 
 am and married a missionary and they were lost in a typhoon. 
 
 AMES. Oh I m sorry. 
 
 ISABEL [reassuringly]. Oh, it was quite a time ago. [She 
 smiles and puts the pictures back in the box.] There! I just 
 wanted to see if you d see the resemblance: I won t put you 
 through all the others. [She takes up her work and sits again 
 as she speaks.] 
 
 AMES [huskily]. Thank you! [Then hurriedly] Thank 
 you for showing em to me! [He rises, wipes his forehead 
 hastily f and moves toward the fireplace, taking out his cigarette 
 case] Thank you. May I smoke here? [She nods.] I 
 ah I ah [Crosses to console table f right center. Lights 
 cigarette] 
 
 ISABEL [cheerfully and working]. Daguerreotypes and 
 things like that bring back such dear old times to us, don t 
 they? 
 
 AMES [unguardedly]. I suppose they [Hastily] They 
 doj of course! [He takes out two cigarettes.] Yes, they do 
 
306 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 
 
 bring them back. [She gives him a glance, and bends over her 
 work. Seated right of table left. ] 
 
 ISABEL. "Where are the snows of yesteryear?" Yes, but 
 where are the yesteryears themselves? "The wind has blown 
 them all away ! " Do you remember when all the young men 
 made " New Year s Calls " and all the girls and their mothers 
 kept " Open House " those dear jolly old times? 
 
 AMES. Oh, yes, indeed. I ve heard they 
 
 ISABEL. Even politics seemed simpler then. It was easier 
 when we let men do all that for us, though they did get so 
 many things wrong, poor things! 
 
 AMES. Oh, I don t know ; we elected Roosevelt, and 
 
 ISABEL [with a spiritedness, as of patriotic indignation}. 
 Yes, but if women had voted when Mr. Tilden ran against 
 Hayes and Wheeler, you surely don t believe there d have 
 been all that excitement over the election, do you? 
 
 AMES. I I don t 
 
 ISABEL [earnestly]. You know that was a terrible thing. 
 
 AMES. About Tilden and Hayes and Wheeler? 
 
 ISABEL. Don t you think it was? 
 
 AMES. Yes, I suppose it [He does not finish but hastily 
 substitutes:] Oh, yes; it was, of course. 
 
 ISABEL. My poor father used to get excited over that to 
 the day of his death! 
 
 AMES [relieved]. Oh, your father did! [Crosses right.] 
 
 ISABEL. Well, I thought it was wrong, too. [He stares 
 at her, again perplexed; she sews] 
 
 AMES. You ah 
 
 ISABEL [casually }. What? 
 
 AMES [apologetically]. Nothing. That is, I had nothing 
 in mind to say. [Goes up right.] 
 
 ISABEL [musing, smiling]. I suppose my father felt it so 
 much because he knew Mr. Tilden. 7 never met him. [As 
 if she had met others like him] But I should like to see Mr. 
 Cleveland s expression if he could see women voting ! Or Gen 
 eral Harrison s! 
 
 AMES. General Harrison s expression? Do you mean 
 Harrison who was President in ah eighteen ah [Goes 
 to right center back of sofa] 
 
 ISABEL. Yes; President Benjamin Harrison. Good gra 
 cious! I didn t mean his grandfather, President William 
 
THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 307 
 
 Henry Harrison, who was President in eighteen-forty or some 
 thing! 
 
 AMES [hastily, laughing feebly]. No, no. I knew you 
 didn t mean him/ 
 
 ISABEL. Well, no! [She sews, and takes up the theme as 
 if musing absently. ] Most of them used to be Generals before 
 they ran for President, didn t they? 
 
 AMES. You mean like General Harrison? 
 
 ISABEL. Yes. General Harrison, General Garfield 
 
 AMES. Oh yes. 
 
 ISABEL. And most of all, General Grant. 
 
 AMES [feebly ]. Yes, General Grant. 
 
 ISABEL [laughing absently as she sews]. We d hardly re 
 member him of course. [She looks up at him as if disquieted 
 by a thought, though she smiles nervously.] You you never 
 did see him, did you? [As if diplomatically getting at his 
 age.] 
 
 AMES. General Grant? No. 
 
 ISABEL [as if relieved, smiling a little, as if at an absurdity 
 as she looks back at her work]. Of course I supposed not. 
 
 AMES. No. I never did. [She looks up at him innocently, 
 carelessly, then seems to become aware of something unusual in 
 his look at her.] 
 
 ISABEL. What is it? 
 
 AMES. I ah nothing! 
 
 ISABEL. Oh, yes; I can tell: You re thinking about some 
 thing that bothers you. At least you looked as if you were 
 puzzling about something. Weren t you? 
 
 AMES [hurriedly ]. Indeed, I wasn t; not at all! 
 
 ISABEL. I m sure you are wondering about something. 
 
 AMES. No. I m not. Not about anything at all. [Crosses 
 right to front of sofa.] 
 
 ISABEL. Yes, but you are. I wonder if I know what 
 you re wondering about. 
 
 AMES [too quickly. Sits on sofa]. No, you don t. That 
 is, I meant to say you don t, because I m not, so you couldn t. 
 
 ISABEL. But I think I do. 
 
 AMES. Indeed, you re mistaken. Pm not wondering about 
 anything. Not about anything*. 
 
 ISABEL. Aren t you even wondering anything about me? 
 
 AMES. No, no; certainly not. [Rises.] Nothing at all. 
 
3 o8 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 
 
 That is, I m not wondering. Of course I m thinking about 
 you 
 
 ISABEL [quickly}. What are you thinking about me? 
 
 AMES. Nothing. Nothing at all. 
 
 ISABEL [nodding], I see. You re thinking about me but 
 you aren t thinking anything in particular about me. 
 
 AMES. Yes. No! 
 
 ISABEL. I understand perfectly. 
 
 AMES. No, but you don t. 
 
 ISABEL. Yes. You meant Yes and no. Didn t you? 
 
 AMES. Well, I [Crosses back of table to left.} 
 
 ISABEL. Of course you did. That clears it all up, you 
 see; "yes and no." [Smiling*] I m glad you made it so 
 plain. 
 
 AMES [thoroughly confused and rather dismayed]. But 
 what? What was it I made plain? 
 
 ISABEL. What you were thinking about me. It s perfectly 
 natural you would wonder a little about that, too. 
 
 AMES. But I didn t. I assure you I didn t wonder 
 
 ISABEL [interrupting]. Now could you help wondering 
 about what you re wondering about? 
 
 AMES. But I m not! Indeed I m not! 
 
 ISABEL [laughing]. Why, of course you are! You re won 
 dering just how romantic I am. That s what you re won 
 dering! 
 
 AMES [much relieved. Sits]. Oh! Oh, well, perhaps I 
 was wondering a little about that! Yes, I I admit it. You 
 are romantic, you say? 
 
 ISABEL. I was when I was a child. 
 
 AMES [with some eagerness]. What were you romantic 
 about then? 
 
 ISABEL. When I was a child? 
 
 AMES. Yes. What did you find to be romantic about? 
 What uh in a general way, I mean. 
 
 ISABEL [lightly thoughtful]. Oh well, I suppose the same 
 things you were being romantic about at the same time that is, 
 about the same time I suppose. [She does not smile and 
 speaks without stress.] 
 
 AMES [smiling nervously f trying to be easy]. Oh, yes. 
 
 ISABEL. I think there was a great romantic influence upon 
 the whole country about that time, don t you? 
 
THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 309 
 
 AMES. Just about then ? [Slight stress on ff then."] 
 
 ISABEL. Yes. I think what did it was the World s Fair. 
 
 AMES. You do? Well, there was the San Francisco Fair 
 and the St. Louis one and the the one at Buffalo and and, 
 yes, wasn t there one once in Chicago in ah, in 
 
 ISABEL. Yes, and one in Philadelphia in 1876. 
 
 AMES. But I meant: which one was the one you meant 
 made everybody so romantic? 
 
 ISABEL [easily as she sews again}. I was speaking of the 
 one when I was a child. 
 
 AMES. Oh, yes, that one. [He is uncomfortably going on, 
 if he can think what to say.] 
 
 ISABEL {looking up innocently]. I know what you re trying 
 to do. 
 
 AMES. Why, we were just talking along. I wasn t trying 
 to to to 
 
 ISABEL. Why, yes, you were. 
 
 AMES. No, no, I 
 
 ISABEL. Yes. You keep on trying to find out how ro 
 mantic I still am! 
 
 AMES. Oh! Oh, well 
 
 ISABEL. Oh, I don t mean that I m as romantic as you are, 
 Mr. Ames! The most romantic woman isn t so romantic as 
 the least romantic man. 
 
 AMES. What? 
 
 ISABEL. It s very simple. You see, men don t get older. 
 
 AMES. Men don t? 
 
 ISABEL. No, they don t. They don t get older and they 
 stay young and romantic. 
 
 FLORENCE [outside]. Mr. Ames! Mr. Ames! 
 
 ISABEL. Don t they? Stay romantic? 
 
 AMES. Well, I I 
 
 ISABEL. For instance, when you re interested in anyone, 
 don t you prefer to be alone with them ? 
 
 AMES. Yes, I do I am we are 
 
 FLORENCE [outside]. Mr. Ames! Mr. Ames! 
 
 ISABEL. Doesn t she mean you ? 
 
 AMES. Oh, yes, your charming little niece. 
 
 ISABEL. Charming! Yes! 
 
 AMES. Oh, that doesn t mean that I like all of them. I 
 believe I mentioned last night. 
 
3 io THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 
 
 ISABEL. Yes, I believe you did. 
 
 AMES. But there is something about this one that . 
 
 ISABEL. Yes! 
 
 AMES. Yes, indeed ! She s your 
 
 FLORENCE [outside]. Mr. Ames! Mr. Ames! 
 
 ISABEL. She s calling you, isn t she? 
 
 AMES. So it seems. 
 
 ISABEL. Hadn t you better 
 
 AMES. Yes. I ll just tell her perhaps I d better. 
 
 ISABEL. Yes, do. 
 
 AMES. Yes, yes, I [Goes up center, looking off right.] 
 
 FLORENCE [outside}. Mr. Ames! [ISABEL rises and goes 
 to left center, listens for a second, and then crosses to door, 
 left.} 
 
 AMES. Just a moment! Your aunt and I oh, have you 
 finished your game? [ISABEL exits door, left.] 
 
 FLORENCE [outside]. I m coming. 
 
 AMES. She s coming. [Turns and stares at ISABEL S va 
 cant chair. Goes up center, looks off left. Goes to door down 
 left and looks off.] Well, I [FLORENCE enters up right] 
 FLORENCE [has her racquet but not the net of balls]. I 
 knocked all the balls as far as I could in the shrubbery. He 
 has to hunt till he finds em. [Comes down left center.] 
 Then I ran and fixed about that telegram. 
 
 AMES [apprehensively]. Oh, no. I really cant 
 
 FLORENCE [lightly]. Don t worry! If you don t like it 
 when it comes, you can just say it isn t important and tear it 
 up, can t you? 
 
 AMES. I suppose so. [Disturbed] 
 
 FLORENCE. Attaboy! [Crosses right] 
 
 AMES [nervously, pacing up and down left]. But I 
 
 FLORENCE [seriously]. Is anything bothering you? [She 
 sits on sofa, right] 
 
 AMES [with a rather hurried laugh]. Why, of course not! 
 
 FLORENCE. Did Aunt Isabel say 
 
 AMES. She said she said I understood her to say that 
 she wasn t your aunt exactly 
 
 FLORENCE [carelessly]. No, she s my great-aunt. 
 
 AMES. Yes; so she said. 
 
 FLORENCE. Why? 
 
THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 311 
 
 AMES. Of course there are a great many young great-aunts. 
 
 FLORENCE [carelessly]. Young ^raz-aunts? I don t see 
 how they could be. 
 
 AMES {looking at her plaintively]. Oh, I meant compara 
 tively, like your Aunt Isabel. 
 
 FLORENCE. Oh, I s pose Aunt Ellen knows how old Aunt 
 Isabel is, but you know how some women are. 
 
 AMES [hurriedly}. You mean these miracles? 
 
 FLORENCE. No; I mean they don t usually tell. I don t 
 see why people get so sensitive about things like that; I ll tell 
 anybody that wants to know, what / am ; I m nineteen ; 7 don t 
 care! Golly! 
 
 AMES [right]. Well, it s a subject I m interested in; al 
 ways been interested in, I mean. I mean in a general way, of 
 course. 
 
 FLORENCE. What you gettin at? Do you always do this 
 when you re alone with people; talk about other women and 
 their ages? 
 
 AMES [hastily]. No! No, indeed, I don t! 
 
 FLORENCE [coldly]. If you re so anxious about it, why, 
 I m on right confidential terms with Aunt Isabel and I could 
 ask her right out how 
 
 AMES [vehemently]. No! You mustn t think of such a 
 thing. You really mustn t! 
 
 FLORENCE. I won t. That is, I won t if you re nice to 
 me. Don t / intrigue you any? 
 
 AMES. You do! Don t you see how much you do? 
 
 FLORENCE. I never have had a chance at a man of experi 
 ence. You wouldn t ever think that I suffer terribly, would 
 you? 
 
 AMES. You do? [Sits on sofa left of FLORENCE.] 
 
 FLORENCE. I suffer fearfully! 
 
 AMES. What from? 
 
 FLORENCE. Well, from thoughts. I suffer because nobody 
 understands em and so I can t tell em. I don t know what 
 makes me tell you all these things, like this [smiles at him 
 trustingly] but it s nice, our getting intimate this way, isn t 
 it? [Going almost straight on.] Do you remember where 
 you left my slippers? 
 
 AMES [with secret alarm]. Your slippers? 
 
312 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 
 
 FLORENCE. Will you see, please? I thought maybe you d 
 be so awfully kind as to [She sweetly lets the inference be 
 made as she projects a foot. 1 
 
 AMES [uneasily]. I rather think your aunt said she was 
 coming back. 
 
 FLORENCE. Don t you remember what you did with em? 
 [A sweet, slight reproach.] 
 
 AMES. I think I put them 
 
 FLORENCE [looking about]. They haven t been taken out, 
 have they? 
 
 AMES [right center]. I don t think so. I didn t see any 
 one 
 
 FLORENCE. Why, there they are on the hearth! 
 
 AMES. Oh, yes, so they are! 
 
 FLORENCE. Would it be too outrageous of me to 
 
 AMES. Oh, no, indeed! [Rises and starts left.] 
 
 FLORENCE. No, over there. [AMES crosses to fireplace. 
 Gets slippers.] 
 
 AMES [glancing apprehensively left]. I ll be only too de 
 lighted! [He kneels.] 
 
 FLORENCE [as he helps her to exchange the tennis shoes for 
 the slippers]. My, it s a relief to be with a man that under 
 stands the deeper side of life a few minutes now and then! 
 [None of FLORENCE S speeches should be exaggerated in man 
 ner or " pointed."] 
 
 AMES [nervously], I m glad you like it. 
 
 FLORENCE. Is that all? Couldn t you make it any 
 stronger? Don t you think I m a grand little thing? [She 
 bends toward him, apparently earnest.] 
 
 AMES [smiling wanly but speaking with warmth]. I do. 
 
 FLORENCE. You do what? 
 
 AMES. I do indeed! [JOHNNIE enters up right with the 
 net of tennis balls.] 
 
 FLORENCE [earnestly]. Att&boy/ You re sure you " do in 
 deed"? 
 
 JOHNNIE [up right center, speaking all in a breath]. Why 
 don t you try the lady with a pair o nines, Mr. Ames; we got 
 a good stock o nine-B s on the top shelf in the store-room! 
 [AuNT ELLEN enters left. She comes in rather quickly; her 
 expression is gracious; but she is astonished to find AMES on his 
 knees before FLORENCE. She halts sharply, speaks quickly; and 
 
THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 313 
 
 at once turns to go out indignantly by the way she has come.] 
 
 AUNT ELLEN. Excuse me! [Turns back left.] 
 
 AMES. Oh [He would rise, but FLORENCE checks him.] 
 
 FLORENCE. My other slipper! 
 
 AMES [hastily]. But I [He sees ISABEL through open 
 door left.] Oh, gracious! [Rising. ISABEL enters, left] 
 
 ISABEL [smilingly and smoothly as she enters]. Ellen, 
 dear, I ve been looking for you ; to meet Mr. Ames. [Laugh 
 ing commiseratingly, she comes to them] Poor Florence, is 
 she having trouble with her new slippers again? [ISABEL 
 points to tennis shoe AMES has under his arm; he immedi 
 ately throws it on sofa] I m afraid you ll think we re terrible 
 people to make use of our visitors, Mr. Ames. 
 
 AMES [who has risen]. Oh, no, not at all, not at all, 
 indeed ! 
 
 ISABEL [has crossed to right of him, ELLEN is left center]. 
 I m afraid we do, though. You ll make up your mind never 
 to come here again! [With a gesture indicating ELLEN.] 
 I think I told you I wanted you to meet my other ah 
 [She is speaking with inconsequent cheerfulness and tapers the 
 sound off as he turns toward ELLEN. ISABEL, smilingly nod 
 ding toward ELLEN.] Ellen, dear, this is Mr. Ames. 
 
 AMES. Ah, ah [He bows.] 
 
 AUNT ELLEN [non-committal]. How do you do? 
 
 ISABEL. Mr. Ames, Ellen is my other niece. 
 
 AMES. Your other how do you do! [With a blank ex 
 pression. He makes an inarticulate sound and stands in an 
 instantaneously arrested attitude] 
 
 ISABEL [easily]. Now you know my whole family; my 
 niece and my great-niece. They re both the greatest comfort 
 to me. 
 
 AMES [hastily]. Oh, yes. Thank you! 
 
 ISABEL [lightly turning from him]. And, Florence, if 
 you ve finished with the the footwear [ELLEN sits by the 
 table, left center] 
 
 AMES. Oh, yes, we ve finished. 
 
 ISABEL [sunnily including JOHNNIE and speaking as if she 
 were trying to think of something entertaining for them]. 
 Then wouldn t wouldn t you three like to wouldn t you 
 three like to dance or something? 
 
 AMES. What? 
 
3H THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 
 
 ISABEL [crossing to ELLEN near the table, left center} . You 
 must all go right on entertaining yourselves just as if we 
 weren t here. We love to look on, don t we, Ellen? 
 
 AUNT ELLEN [with a glance toward FLORENCE S feet}. 
 Yes, when they behave. [Sits left of table ISABEL sits right of 
 table.} 
 
 ISABEL [laughing to ELLEN on this, then at once speaking to 
 the other group}. Can t you think of anything to amuse your 
 selves? [Then as with a quick afterthought, not seriously said, 
 yet perhaps meant.} You don t mind our being here, do 
 you? 
 
 FLORENCE [jumping up}. Of course not! Turn on that 
 record ! 
 
 ISABEL. Yes. Music, Johnnie! [JOHNNIE goes up.} 
 
 AUNT ELLEN [grimly, to ISABEL, who is taking her seat by 
 the table}. But they don t dance; they only waggle. It s fear 
 ful! [JOHNNIE pauses.} 
 
 ISABEL. Oh, but they love it so; they mustn t be disap 
 pointed. [To the others.} She doesn t really mind; you can 
 dance. [She sits, taking up her " work"} 
 
 FLORENCE. Attaboy! [She seizes AMES hand.} 
 
 AMES [nervously}. I don t know these new dances! 
 
 ISABEL. She ll teach you. Music, Johnnie! [ JOHNNIE 
 turns on the record.} 
 
 FLORENCE [forcing AMES to dance}. C m on! I never 
 heard of a man that couldn t dance with me! Ouch! [She 
 hops, her foot slightly injured, but keeps on dancing.} 
 
 AMES [as she cries out}. Murder! 
 
 ISABEL [under cover to him; he is close to her}. Walk. 
 Just walk. That s all you need to do. [He does better upon 
 this.} That s it; just walk. 
 
 FLORENCE [to AMES]. Isn t it divine? [HENRY enters 
 Up right.} 
 
 ISABEL [indulgently, to AUNT ELLEN]. Isn t it delightful 
 to see them so happy? [HENRY comes down to ISABEL. He 
 has a folded telegraph blank in his hand. She observes him.} 
 It isn t time for Mr. Ames train, Henry? 
 
 HENRY. No m. [He shows the blank.} 
 
 ISABEL. Oh! Something for me? [She rises and extends 
 her hand for the blank.} 
 
THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 315 
 
 FLORENCE [seeing this]. Oh, murder! [Under her 
 breath. They stop dancing, left center.] 
 
 ISABEL [as HENRY hands her the blank]. What is it? 
 
 HENRY [as ISABEL examines the blank]. I don t rightly 
 know, ma am. I was told about it in such a hurry. [He 
 glances nervously at FLORENCE.] I may not a got my instruc 
 tions just exactly. 
 
 ISABEL [puzzled]. Your "instructions"? Oh, this isn t 
 really a telegram. No; there s no envelope and date, and it s 
 written in such a bad backhand I can hardly oh ! [She speaks 
 as though with a sudden revelation, comprehending, and 
 glances quickly at FLORENCE.] Oh, I see. [Rises.] I 
 don t think it s for me, Henry. [Hands telegram to 
 HENRY.] 
 
 FLORENCE. Here, let me! [She comes to the rescue, seizes 
 the blank, hands it swiftly to AMES, who stands dismayed.] 
 You see, Mr. Ames wired his partners from here and so this 
 must be from them. Of course it s a telegram; isn t it, Mr, 
 Ames? 
 
 ISABEL [gently insistent]. Is it, Mr. Ames? 
 
 AMES [desperately]. I can t read it! 
 
 ISABEL. It is a difficult handwriting. [She knows it is 
 FLORENCE S hand, though somewhat disguised.] 
 
 FLORENCE [taking the blank hastily]. I can read most any 
 hand. Why, yes, it s perfectly plain. It says: " No business 
 in the office to-day. If you wish to remain where you are no 
 reason whatever for returning to New York. Signed Wither- 
 spoon and Ames." He told me himself he had a partner named 
 Witherspoon. [Goes back of table. JOHNNIE stops phono 
 graph.] 
 
 ISABEL [to AMES]. Oh, then it is a real telegram? [She 
 knows, of course, it isn t.] 
 
 AMES [as FLORENCE turns quickly toward him]. Why, it 
 ah seems to be. 
 
 ISABEL. Oh, then you ll you ll stay? [// he stays it ap 
 pears that he stays upon FLORENCE S urgence.] 
 
 AMES. Why I I 
 
 ISABEL [covering her real feeling]. Mr. Ames won t be 
 going to the station, Henry. [HENRY exits up left. FLOR 
 ENCE has carelessly set the blank upon the table, after reading 
 
3 i6 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 
 
 it, her fingers resting upon it, but AUNT ELLEN draws it away 
 to look at it, FLORENCE turning as if to reclaim it.] 
 
 AUNT ELLEN [rather excitedly]. But there isn t even an 
 envelope; it isn t a real telegram; the writing s queer but it 
 looks exactly like Flor [She finishes the word, but ISABEL 
 cuts her off loudly on " Flor."} 
 
 ISABEL [pushing the bell-button, on left wall]. Music, 
 Johnnie! Isn t it lovely? Now you can dance all day! [She 
 turns to center as she speaks, and limps suddenly. And says 
 ff Oh, oh! " as if in pain. JOHNNIE has started the vocalion at 
 her first word. It plays softly. FLORENCE has seized AMES 
 hand with a jubilant " Hooray! " as the music starts. But they 
 pause as AUNT ELLEN speaks. ~\ 
 
 AUNT ELLEN. What s the matter with you? 
 
 ISABEL. Nothing oh! [She limps again.] 
 
 JOHNNIE [coming down anxiously]. What is the matter, 
 Miss Stuart? 
 
 ISABEL. Nothing. I m afraid I sat a little too long on a 
 baggage truck in a cold wind last night, that s all. It s nothing. 
 
 FLORENCE. Oh, rheumatism; that s nothing! [FLORENCE 
 retains AMES hand; moves as if to begin dancing. MATTIE 
 enters, left, her right hand behind her.] 
 
 AMES [plaintively, to FLORENCE]. Just a [He means 
 ff Just a moment," but breaks away from FLORENCE and crosses 
 to center to speak to ISABEL.] I hope it s nothing very 
 
 ISABEL. No no it isn t it s just a just a touch. You 
 mustn t stop dancing. [FLORENCE crosses to center, takes 
 AMES up center to dance.] 
 
 JOHNNIE [taking her arm decisively]. Here! I ll look 
 after you, Miss Stuart; I d prefer to. [He gives FLORENCE 
 a bitter look.} 
 
 ISABEL. Thank you, Johnnie. [To MATTIE.] Did you 
 find them, Mattie? 
 
 MATTIE [hurriedly]. Ya don t want to put em on here, 
 do you? 
 
 ISABEL [quiet pathos.] No, I ll [As if to go out 
 left.] 
 
 JOHNNIE. Put what on? 
 
 ISABEL. Nothing. 
 
 MATTIE [bringing her hand from behind her, showing an 
 old pair of rather large, flat black slippers. Not displaying 
 
THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 317 
 
 them pointedly to audience]. Them. I don t mind lendin* 
 em to you, but 
 
 ISABEL [quickly, checking her]. I thought perhaps they 
 might help me, but not not ["Not now and here" she 
 means; the scene is hurried] 
 
 JOHNNIE [taking the slippers, speaks quickly and em 
 phatically]. Why not? Why, certainly! You let me put 
 em on for you, Miss Stuart. I d prefer to! I d very much 
 prefer to! Here! You better lie down. [He is conducting 
 her to the sofa, her limp increasing a little] 
 
 ISABEL [trustfully]. Do you think I d better lie down, 
 Johnnie? 
 
 JOHNNIE [severely, to MATTIE], Whyn t you fix those 
 pillows for her? [ISABEL lies down. MATTIE hastily obeys 
 the suggestion] She s all tired out. And I guess she s had 
 enough to make anybody tired! [He takes off her slippers] 
 
 AMES. What is the matter, Miss Stuart? 
 
 JOHNNIE [quickly, sharply]. Why, she s been made awful 
 tired and she s got rheumatism and everything) 
 
 ISABEL. Oh, no; not quite! 
 
 JOHNNIE [to MATTIE]. Put that wrap over her. 
 
 AMES [starting to stoop to fix her slippers]. Won t you let 
 me 
 
 ISABEL [stopping him]. Oh, no! You must go on 
 dancing. 
 
 AMES. But I [AMES stares all the time incredulously 
 at ISABEL. So does AUNT ELLEN, across left] 
 
 ISABEL. I m so much trouble, Johnnie [Pointing to the 
 slippers] Aren t they awful! 
 
 JOHNNIE [as he puts them on]. No m, they re not. I 
 prefer em myself! I very much prefer em! [He puts her 
 other slippers defiantly under his arms] You just lie back and 
 rest, Miss Stuart. I ll look after you. 
 
 ISABEL. Thank you, Johnnie. [She lies on sofa, head at 
 right of sofa, facing center] 
 
 FLORENCE. Louder, Mattie! [MATTIE opens vocalion to 
 its loudest. FLORENCE seizes AMES, and they dance] 
 
 JOHNNIE. If you can rest with all this going on? [AMES 
 and FLORENCE dance over to left front of table, go around table 
 and come to center] 
 
 ISABEL. That s right! That s right! [Referring to the 
 
3i8 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 
 
 dance. ,] Isn t it lovely to see the young people so happy? 
 [AMES and FLORENCE start to whirl around in center, AMES 
 looking at ISABEL. ISABEL, as if beating time, saying tf One, 
 two, one, two."~\ 
 
 [CURTAIN.] 
 
 NOTE. This final scene will have to be worked out carefully in 
 rehearsal, beginning slowly; and the sequence, as shown here, may 
 need altering when it is worked out. The effect is to bring the cur 
 tain down not on a " curtain line " but upon a scene of movement 
 and sound conveying the " situation." Johnnie is only earnest and 
 indignantly sympathetic with Isabel here, but the appearance of 
 things is: both gentlemen are anxious about Isabel and that Florence 
 is amazed. 
 
ACT III 
 
 SCENE 
 
 The scene is the same interior shown in the Second Act, the 
 time is late in the afternoon toward evening of the same 
 day. The outdoor light, seen through the sun-room win- 
 dows, has a rosier amber than in the Second Act. A fore 
 running of the approaching sunset; but the stage is still 
 bright with light. 
 
 DISCOVERED 
 
 AUNT ELLEN, as in Act II, sits by the fireplace, which sends out 
 a warm glow; she is crocheting. MATTIE, on hands and 
 knees, is facing the cabinet up right. The doors of the 
 cabinet are partly open, revealing shelves of old boxes; old 
 ornaments of various kinds, small vases, silver porringers, 
 etc.; two or three old pistols; rolled papers old and tied 
 with red ribbon; some old books. MATTIE is pawing 
 carefully among these, apparently puzzled. 
 
 Scene to be played quietly and inconsequently; rather quickly. 
 
 [MATTIE discovered rubbing the inside of the left door of the 
 cabinet. AUNT ELLEN comes down, center.} 
 
 MATTIE. It certainly ain t here, Miss Ellen. 
 
 AUNT ELLEN. But that s where it ought to be. Did she 
 tell you to scrape that date off? 
 
 MATTIE. I wasn t to say, Miss Ellen. Anyway, it s only 
 half the date was to be scraped off. 
 
 AUNT ELLEN. It s very singular! But the rest of it is 
 more singular. [ISABEL enters, left.} Did you ask Aunt 
 Isabel? 
 
 ISABEL. Did she ask me what, Ellen? [She limps to 
 center.} 
 
 AUNT ELLEN. Oh, the poor thing. She s limping worse. 
 It s very singular! 
 
 319 
 
320 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 
 
 ISABEL. What is? 
 
 AUNT ELLEN. It s very singular, the Family Bible s miss 
 ing. 
 
 ISABEL. Oh, is that all! [ISABEL limps to sofa.] 
 
 AUNT ELLEN. Is that " all " ? Do you realize the date of 
 my birth is written in that Bible? 
 
 ISABEL [sits on sofa, lightly }. Oh, yes; yours is there, too, 
 isn t it? I ve always thought fathers were an inconsiderate class 
 of men. When they have a baby they only think of them 
 selves; they go and write down the date in a Bible, even when 
 the baby s a girl. They don t stop to think. 
 
 AUNT ELLEN [looking at her with an approach to sus 
 picion}. What is the matter with you? 
 
 ISABEL. Do you think something does seem the matter with 
 me? Do you really ? [She is pleased with the idea that 
 ff something " may really be the matter with her.} 
 
 AUNT ELLEN. You haven t got upset this way for quite a 
 long while now; but it certainly isn t the first time, is it, 
 Mattie? [ISABEL has her lace with her and begins to work. 
 AUNT ELLEN doesn t turn her head to make this inquiry, but 
 continues her crocheting.] 
 
 MATTIE [quickly and casually}. No m; it happens every 
 time she has a shooter. Last one was that Philadelphy man- 
 widower ; she half-killed him horseback ridin ; and before him 
 that awful youngish one from Buffalo; and then that old 
 one 
 
 ISABEL [quickly, to check MATTIE S list of suitors}. Never 
 mind the old one. Ellen, there s another Bible upstairs. 
 
 AUNT ELLEN. But I m used to reading my daily chapter 
 from this one. 
 
 ISABEL. Don t you suppose you d find much the same ideas 
 in both of em? 
 
 AUNT ELLEN [sharply}. Aunt Isabel! 
 
 ISABEL. Yes, Ellen? 
 
 AUNT ELLEN. I suppose you treat me like a child because 
 I m only your niece! 
 
 ISABEL [reproachfully}. Ellen, have I ever taken advan 
 tage of my position as your aunt? 
 
 AUNT ELLEN [querulous}. A great many people have very 
 little respect for nieces; and as I m only your half -niece 
 
 ISABEL [taking her up indulgently]. As you re only my 
 
THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 321 
 
 half-niece you have only half as much respect for me as you 
 ought to have? 
 
 AUNT ELLEN [severely going on]. I don t pretend to 
 fathom your purpose in concealing the Bible from me 
 
 ISABEL [shaking her head]. Oh, I m not sure that nieces 
 ought to be allowed to look at all the pictures in any old 
 Family Bible. . . . But of course I don t admit I did hide it. 
 
 AUNT ELLEN [incensed, becoming stately as she goes left], 
 I decline to be treated like a child! [Exits left.] 
 
 MATTIE. She s on! [Coming down center.] 
 
 ISABEL. She s what? 
 
 MATTIE. She knows the Good Book never walked out o 
 there by itself. 
 
 ISABEL [turning eagerly in her chair]. Did you do just 
 what I told you to? 
 
 MATTIE [with a gesture to a chair, left center. She tells it 
 quickly without "acting"]. Yes m. I waited till he was 
 settin in here alone a bit ago so I come in and begun to look 
 around, and I says to myself like, the way you told me, " Weil, 
 that s funny," I says, talkin to myself. " It s funny where 
 sech a thing as that could get to. A great big old Family 
 Bible!" I says. " What d you say was missin ?" he says. 
 So I says, " Excuse me. It s nothin . . . Only the Family 
 Bible; we always keep it in here." [With a gesture to 
 the cabinet.] " So I know it must be around somewheres," I 
 says. Well, he jumped right up. "My goodness!" he says. 
 " Let me help you look for it ! " he says. 
 
 ISABEL. Yes, Mattie? Did he look all over the room? 
 
 MATTIE [calmly]. He pretty near took up the floor. 
 Then he went out in the hall and looked under the stairs and 
 under everything else. " Maybe somebody s usin it fer jest 
 a while/ he says, " and they ll bring it back here where they 
 got it." "Well," I says I put this in myself; you didn t tell 
 me to "well," I says, "they might bring it back here, 
 yes ; or somebody might of put it up in the attic." " In the 
 attic? " he says. " I hardly got time to go up there, though," 
 I says. " I do take a terrible interest in Bibles," he 
 says. " Do you think there s any objection to my goin up in 
 the attic to see? " he says. " Oh, no, sir," I says, " none at all." 
 " Somebody might a put it there, as you say," he says. They 
 often do," he says, " and if you think Miss Stuart wouldn t 
 
322 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 
 
 mind ..." " Oh, no," I says, " I know she wouldn t. You 
 just go ahead," I says. 
 
 ISABEL. Mattie ! And he did? 
 
 MATTIE. Yes m. I reckon he s still up there. 
 
 ISABEL. On the whole, he seems quite excited about it, 
 then? 
 
 MATTIE. Well, I never see a man show so much energy 
 tryin to find the Good Book. 
 
 ISABEL. We all ought to be glad this has happened, Mattie. 
 
 MATTIE. Why ought we? 
 
 ISABEL. We ought to be glad to have such a religious man 
 in the house. 
 
 MATTIE [dryly, going left]. Yes m. [Reflectively.] I 
 must say I don t blame you fer hidin it with all your ages 
 and the family scandal wrote out in it! 
 
 ISABEL. What " scandal" ? 
 
 MATTIE. About your poor father, ma am. 
 
 ISABEL. Good gracious, Mattie, it isn t a scandal for a man 
 to marry a second time! 
 
 MATTIE. Yes m. At his terrible age, it was. 
 
 ISABEL. Well, I never reproached him for it, because I 
 shouldn t have been born if he hadn t! Have you seen my 
 other case of needles, Mattie ? [Rises."] 
 
 MATTIE. No m. What I don t understand s why you 
 wanted him to know it was missin . [She hopes to be told.] 
 
 ISABEL. No, that s very true. You don t understand that, 
 Mattie. [Crosses left.] 
 
 MATTIE [opening the door to go out]. No m. [Blankly.] 
 
 ISABEL. When he comes down oh, there s that case of 
 needles! [She sees it on the table, left center, and steps to 
 ward it.] 
 
 MATTIE [warningly]. Sh! He is down! 
 
 ISABEL. Down where? [She abandons her intention of 
 getting the needles, though she is near them. She turns and 
 goes quickly back, with almost no lameness to the sofa and 
 resumes her work. MATTIE stares, astonished.] 
 
 MATTIE. I thought you was limpin this afternoon. 
 
 ISABEL [whispering across to her]. Sh! I am! It comes 
 and goes. Is he there? 
 
 MATTIE [peering out of the door and looking back, whis 
 pering]. He s lookin under the hall sofy again! [She coughs, 
 
THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 323 
 
 steps back, and AMES enters, left. AMES comes in quickly, 
 with the frown of a person intent on a serious search; his eye 
 is on the cabinet, and he has come into the room to go there. 
 He checks himself at sight of ISABEL by the fire. MATTIE 
 observes them both with interest. ] 
 
 AMES [center]. Oh! Oh! How do you do? 
 
 ISABEL [working]. How do you do? 
 
 AMES. I hope you re better ? [He glances at the cabinet.] 
 
 ISABEL. Oh, yes; it comes and goes; you know. [Touches 
 her knee.] 
 
 AMES [in a sympathetic tone]. No, I don t; I ve never had 
 it, so far. 
 
 ISABEL [rising and looking about]. Not "so far." 
 
 AMES [rather eagerly]. Are you looking for something? 
 
 ISABEL. Yes, I had it a little while ago, too ; it s stupid of 
 me ! [Rises.] 
 
 AMES [eagerly, quickly, hoping she means the Bible]. 
 Can t you remember where you put it? Did you have it in 
 here? 
 
 ISABEL. Yes. [She moves slowly and her lameness is now 
 somewhat more apparent. MATTIE, kept by her curiosity, at 
 the door, observes her with enlarging eyes and an opening 
 mouth. ISABEL goes on.] Yes, I m sure I had it in here if 
 I could only think where I put it. [Crosses left.] 
 
 AMES [eagerly]. Let me look. You really shouldn t move 
 about much, I m afraid. [He is already looking about.] 
 
 ISABEL [plaintively]. You re so kind! It is a little bother 
 some, at times. [There is a faint sound like a choke from 
 MATTIE, not mirth, but a moral amazement. ISABEL turns 
 toward her, at this.] That s all, Mattie. I shan t want you 
 for anything more. 
 
 MATTIE. Yes m. [Exits left.] 
 
 ISABEL [concentrating]. If I could only think it seems 
 to me I left it somewhere over on this side of the room. [The 
 left side.] 
 
 AMES [dubiously]. I hardly think so. [He glances be 
 hind a large wall chair.] I already have looked all over this 
 [Crosses to left to lower end of table.], 
 
 ISABEL [with a little triumphant emphasis]. Why, there 
 it is! On the table all the time!! 
 
 AMES [blankly ]. On the table? 
 
324 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 
 
 ISABEL [pointing to the little case of needles ]. Yes. Just 
 where I left it, of course! [He picks it up.} 
 
 AMES [blankly]. This? Is this what you mean? 
 
 ISABEL [laughing at him}. Yes! My needles. What did 
 you think I meant? 
 
 AMES. I? I didn t know exactly. 
 
 ISABEL. Then what were you looking for? 
 
 AMES [quickly]. I was looking for your needles, too. I 
 didn t know they were what you wanted, I mean to say, but 
 I wanted to find them if you were looking for them. 
 
 ISABEL. I see. You didn t know you were looking for 
 them, but you were. I ll take them, please. 
 
 AMES. Oh, yes. [He hands them to her. They are about 
 center, down.] 
 
 ISABEL. Thank you. [She has stretched out her arm to 
 take the needles, looking at him gravely. Something in her 
 look arrests him and he unconsciously retains his grasp of the 
 little red case; so that for a moment or two their fingers are 
 almost in contact upon it. Their eyes meet, and her expression 
 for that moment becomes one of an almost revealed mockery. 
 He starts slightly; the mockery deepens, and she laughs.} 
 
 AMES [nervously}. What are you laughing at? 
 
 ISABEL [turning to go back to sofa}. It was so peculiar, 
 your looking for something without knowing what you were 
 looking for! [She changes to a sudden little gasp.] Oh! 
 
 AMES. Are you in considerable pain? [Comes to her.} 
 
 ISABEL. It just comes and goes. [She laughs again, gasps 
 again, laughs once more as she goes to the chair.} 
 
 AMES [nervously}. Won t you lean on me? 
 
 ISABEL [as before}. No, no! 
 
 AMES [anxiously}. Can t I get you something? 
 
 ISABEL [sinking into sofa}. No; there isn t any in the 
 house. 
 
 AMES [coming toward her}. I m so sorry. 
 
 ISABEL [smiling}. It s gone now. It comes and goes. 
 That is, it comes but it does go; you know like most other 
 things in the world! [Looking up at him charmingly, wist 
 fully for a moment.} 
 
 AMES. I must say your eyes 
 
 ISABEL. Yes? My eyes? I think I remember your speak 
 ing of them this morning. 
 
THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 325 
 
 AMES. Your eyes 
 
 ISABEL [looking back at her work, speaks with a change to a 
 matter-of-fact tone]. Ah, what were you going to say about 
 them? 
 
 AMES [set aback }. I was going to say [He assumes a 
 solicitous tone.] 1 was going to say, don t you think you ought 
 to get advice about using them for such fine work ? 
 
 ISABEL. They ve held out so well. I think now they ll last 
 my time. Do you have any trouble with yours? [Casually. } 
 
 AMES. I? Oh, no. I use glasses sometimes for very fine 
 print. 
 
 ISABEL. I m so sorry. 
 
 AMES [laughing nervously]. Oh, it isn t because of my 
 a [" Age" he means to say, but cuts it off.] I mean it just 
 happened. 
 
 ISABEL [consolingly]. I know. Even very young people 
 get these little astigmatisms. They don t mean anything. 
 
 AMES. There s something I haven t had a chance to ex 
 plain to you 
 
 ISABEL. Please don t explain anything especially if it s 
 about a telegram. 
 
 AMES. But that telegram wasn t 
 
 ISABEL [declining to listen]. No, no! Poor man, you had 
 to stay, didn t you? [Affirmative. ] 
 
 AMES [seriously]. I wanted to! 
 
 ISABEL [with light indulgence]. Of course. [AMES turns 
 to center.] What have you been doing for the last hour or so? 
 
 AMES. I? [He unconsciously looks upward, thinking of 
 the attic.] I ve just been looking about. [He goes to the 
 cabinet up right. MATTIE has left one of the doors ajar.} 
 You have so many interesting things. [He quickly and sur 
 reptitiously opens the door wider as he speaks and takes a hur 
 ried survey of that half of the shelves revealed by the open door. 
 ISABEL turns her head only a little, and applies herself to her 
 work. She knows what he is doing without looking directly at 
 him.] 
 
 ISABEL [as if absently]. Florence was with you? 
 
 AMES [absently]. No; she went fishing in your brook with 
 young Mr. White. [He wishes to open the other door of the 
 cabinet.} 
 
 ISABEL. Fishing? [She turns her head; and he moves 
 
 
326 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 
 
 down, away from the cabinet, with apparent carelessness. } 
 Did she wear her rubber boots? 
 
 AMES [absently repeating}. "Her rubber boots"? [Then 
 with a sudden start, comes down right.} I don t know! I 
 don t know what her "foot-wear" was; I m really not in the 
 boot-and-shoe business: I m a lawyer! 
 
 ISABEL [consolingly, as she rises ]. She won t be gone long. 
 [She goes toward up left as she speaks.} I m so glad you 
 changed your mind about them. 
 
 AMES. About them? [Front of sofa.} 
 
 ISABEL [nearing the door up left}. Yes, about the new 
 generation: the "brazen little hussies"! You frightened me 
 last night about them! 
 
 AMES. Why, how d I frighten you? 
 
 ISABEL. Why, I was afraid you mightn t like my great- 
 niece. Under the circumstances, you see well, that would 
 have been too bad, wouldn t it? [She gives him a glance of 
 quick smiling mockery over her shoulder, and passes out of the 
 door up left. He stares after her, perplexed; passes his hand 
 hurriedly over his brow; then goes to the cabinet; opens its 
 other door and stoops to look within; ISABEL reenters down\ 
 left, having gone out only to see if he would go to the cabinet. 
 She sees him there as she comes in.} 
 
 ISABEL [apologetically}. I m afraid [AMES turns to 
 her.} I m afraid I left my work here. [She comes down to 
 ward right.} 
 
 AMES [embarrassed, moving hastily away from the cabinet}. 
 Ah I was your work? Let me find it for you. [In his 
 nervousness he goes to the table, left center, to look for it.} 
 
 ISABEL. Oh, no. Don t bother. I think I left it on the 
 sofa. [She reaches the chair.} Yes. [She sits on sofa.} I 
 think I ll stay here, after all, if you re sure I won t be inter 
 rupting you. 
 
 AMES. Interrupting me! Why, I m not doing anything. 
 What in the world do you mean? 
 
 ISABEL. You spoke of our having interesting things. I 
 didn t want to interrupt your looking at them. 
 
 AMES. Oh! [A puzzled "Oh, that s-what-you-meant" is 
 what he expresses.} 
 
 ISABEL [placidly}. I noticed you were interested in that 
 cabinet. 
 
THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 327 
 
 AMES [somewhat relieved}. Yes; so I was. [He goes to 
 it and completes his investigation. ] Yes, indeed. [He sees 
 that the Bible is not there, and adds, in a blank tone :} Yes, 
 it s a very interesting old piece. 
 
 ISABEL. Do you think so ? 
 
 AMES. I m not an expert on periods, but I d call it a very 
 fine, quaint old piece. 
 
 ISABEL [with a little too much serenity ]. Yes, they had it 
 made for a present to me on my fifteenth birthday. 
 
 AMES. Oh, oh! I see, it s a reproduction. It was made 
 for you your fifteenth birthday ? 
 
 ISABEL. Yes; it had an inscription with the date on it. 
 
 AMES [trying to conceal his sudden great interest}. It had? 
 An inscription with the . . . where? [He looks quickly over 
 the top and sides of the cabinet as he speaks.} Where s there 
 any da where s there any inscription? I don t see an in 
 scription. 
 
 ISABEL. I think it s inside the door on the left. 
 
 AMES [swinging the door open instantly and putting on his 
 glasses}. On the left. Yes. It says: "To Isabel Stuart. 
 On her sixteenth birthday, June thirteenth." [He begins the 
 reading rapidly but slows up and looks more and more closely 
 at the inscription, which is in small gilt letters; and the con 
 cluding words are slow with bafflement. He repeats:} 
 " Fifteenth birthday. June thirteenth." That s all it says. 
 The rest seems to have been uh scraped off. 
 
 ISABEL [lightly}. Oh, that was only the year they gave it 
 to me. I suppose the figures have been worn off with time. 
 Do you think it s an interesting piece of cabinet making? 
 
 AMES [blankly, giving up the figures}. Yes, very. A very 
 interesting piece indeed, I should say ! 
 
 ISABEL [as if a little absently}. Have you ever noticed how 
 disappointing most fine quaint old pieces are when you come to 
 look inside of em? 
 
 AMES. Yes, that s true; they often are. [Glances at 
 cabinet.} 
 
 ISABEL. We try to do better with that one; we keep relics 
 in it; daguerreotypes, all sorts of things the Family Bible 
 and [Then, as by a casual thought.} Oh Mattie tells 
 me it s missing by the way. She said you were so kind about 
 it. 
 
328 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 
 
 AMES [flustered}. She did? She said [Comes to 
 center.} 
 
 ISABEL [smiling gratefully}. She said you helped her look 
 for it. 
 
 AMES. Oh, that was nothing. Nothing at all! 
 
 ISABEL. She said you were so kind. 
 
 AMES. Oh, no! Not at all! 
 
 ISABEL [with benevolent appreciation}. It s a little thing, 
 of course, to stop and help a servant like that, but it s the little 
 things that show our characters. We learn that in Sunday- 
 school, don t we? It was so thoughtful of you to stop and 
 help poor Mattie like that! 
 
 AMES [hurriedly}. Oh, no; you mustn t praise me for it. 
 It was nothing at all. 
 
 ISABEL [smiling wistfully and observing him as if rather 
 wondering}. Do you think you seem a little different to-day, 
 from last night? 
 
 AMES. Oh, no. Not at all. 
 
 ISABEL. Don t you notice it? 
 
 AMES. Why, no, of course not. Not at all. 
 
 ISABEL. Last night you were well, you were quite 
 fluent! But all day you ve hardly said anything except " Oh, 
 no, not at all, of course not " or " Nothing, oh, nothing at all." 
 
 AMES. Oh, no, not at that is to say, I 
 
 ISABEL [rises sympathetically}. Is it because you can t 
 think of anything else to say? 
 
 AMES. Oh, no, not at no! No, it isn t because of that; 
 not at not a bit! 
 
 ISABEL [solicitously}. You do seem to be thinking. I can 
 see you re doing that; but why don t you tell me what you re 
 thinking? 
 
 AMES. Because I m really not. 
 
 ISABEL. You re not thinking? 
 
 AMES. No. Not about anything, I mean. 
 
 ISABEL. Is it something you won t tell me, or something 
 you cant tell me? 
 
 AMES. It s nothing. It s nothing at nothing whatever! 
 Nothing whatever! 
 
 ISABEL [sympathetically}. Can t you think of anything else 
 to say? 
 
 AMES [desperately, yet feebly}. Why, yes, of course. Of 
 
THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 329 
 
 course I can. Anything at all; anything. [Goes around table 
 and crosses to left center.] 
 
 ISABEL. You don t think I ve changed since last night, do- 
 you? You aren t disappointed in me, are you? 
 
 AMES. Why, of course I m not. Not at certainly not. 
 Why, no; not 
 
 ISABEL. " Not at all! * "Certainly not! " And you 
 haven t changed, have you? 
 
 AMES. Why, no not at 
 
 ISABEL [going nearer to him, reproachfully]. Not at all! 
 Why, of course not! Not at all! Nothing whatever! [She 
 turns up.] 
 
 AMES [flustered]. What on earth do you mean? 
 
 ISABEL. Why, that s what you were going to say, wasn t it? 
 You haven t changed, have you? [Finishing with quick re 
 proach] 
 
 AMES. Why, of course not. Not at no! I wouldn t! 
 
 ISABEL [approvingly]. That s all I meant! You wouldn t! 
 When you ve done a thing, you re the sort of man that stands 
 by it, no matter what! 
 
 AMES [astounded, breaking out]. My soul! I believe 
 you re making fun of me ! 
 
 ISABEL. Why, of course I m not! Not at all! 
 
 AMES [with plaintive vehemence]. But you say one thing 
 and you seem to mean something else, and you seem to mean 
 one thing and you say another! No wonder I can t say any 
 thing but "Not at all" and "Nothing at all"! [Crosses 
 right.] 
 
 ISABEL. But, don t you see, I m just trying to get us better 
 acquainted with each other! I think we ought to be, don t 
 you? 
 
 AMES [subsiding to feebleness]. I should think it would be 
 a good thing, yes, indeed. 
 
 ISABEL. Let me see. I ve told you why I never married. 
 Isn t there something in particular isn t there something else 
 you d like to know ? Can t you think of anything at all ? [At 
 each one of these interrogatories he seems about to speak; then 
 checks himself and dumbly shakes his head. She insists] 
 You re sure there isn t anything? [She comes down closer, 
 facing him. He shakes his head again] And you feel pro* 
 foundry happy? 
 
330 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 
 
 AMES [with a manful effort]. Yes, indeed! 
 
 ISABEL [with a culmination of bitterness but not in a bitter 
 tone]. I believe that s the noblest effort I ever heard any man 
 make! [Emotion chokes her a very little bit.] 
 
 AMES. Effort? 
 
 ISABEL [covering her emotion by speaking quickly, but her 
 voice shakes a little. She goes up center]. Yes! It was! 
 But don t be afraid! Mr. Ames! I really didn t expect you 
 to be different from other men; you ve done your best and you 
 shall have your reward! 
 
 AMES. What "reward"? 
 
 ISABEL [a little chokingly, as she looks off up right]. I 
 think Johnnie White s bringing it. I think it s a message. 
 [She turns aside with some pathos.] 
 
 AMES. What " message " ? [JOHNNIE enters gloomily up 
 right. He wears an old knickerbocker suit, rough, muddy 
 shoes, and he leaves an old rod and basket near the door. He 
 comes down center and looks coldly at AMES.] 
 
 JOHNNIE [with a movement of his head to up right, speaks 
 to AMES deliberately]. She s uh she s sittin out on a limb 
 of a willow tree that sticks out over the water and she wants 
 you to come and look at her. 
 
 AMES [frowning]. Who s sitting on a limb and wants me 
 to come and look at her? 
 
 JOHNNIE. Her. 
 
 AMES. "Her"? 
 
 JOHNNIE [coldly]. I expect you know I mean Florence by 
 this time, Mr. Ames. 
 
 AMES [incredulous"]. She sent you for me? 
 
 JOHNNIE [with the same even gloom]. She got herself out 
 on this limb and she looked over and took a look at herself in 
 the water. Then she said, " Well, I do look right cunning out 
 here, don t I ? " " Are we goin to do any fishin ? " I asked 
 her. Then she said, " I wish Mr. Ames was here." " What 
 for? To look at you on that limb?" I asked her. "I ll 
 go get him for you." " Don t let him know I sent for him," 
 she told me. " No, I won t," I told her. " He wouldn t even 
 guess when he comes out and looks at you that you want him 
 to! Oh, no; he wouldn t!" That limb she s sittin on, it s 
 pretty old, and it might not hold her up too long, so don t you 
 guess you d better go, Mr. Ames? 
 
THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 331 
 
 AMES. I ? 
 
 ISABEL [gently]. Yes, please do. 
 
 AMES [a little sharply, to JOHNNIE]. I think it would be 
 much better if you d go back and get her down from that limb 
 and go ahead with your fishing, Mr. White. [Turns away to 
 right.] 
 
 JOHNNIE [still in gloom ]. Fishin ? She never meant that 
 kind. I think you better go, because from what I know of 
 her she ll sit there either till you come and see how cunning 
 she looks or else falls in the water. 
 
 ISABEL. Won t you please go and bring her in? 
 
 AMES [doggedly]. Oh, certainly, if you ask me. [He goes 
 abruptly up right.] 
 
 ISABEL [hurriedly, graciously]. Of course I don t mean for 
 you to hurry back with her. [To piano.] 
 
 AMES [with some coldness]. Thank you! [Exits up right. 
 ISABEL looks after him rather pathetically] 
 
 JOHNNIE. She s she s goin to get him, Miss Stuart. [Up 
 center.] 
 
 ISABEL [turning down blankly. Sits right of table left. 
 JOHNNIE comes down center]. What? 
 
 JOHNNIE. She s made up her mind, and there s just one 
 thing my life s taught me and that is when a girl like her 
 really starts after an older man well, you know she s goin to 
 make him lift her down from that tree. 
 
 ISABEL [quietly]. Oh, yes, certainly. 
 
 JOHNNIE [with a sudden change, coming to her solemnly]* 
 Miss Stuart; I d like to see a great deal more of you in the 
 in the future as it were than we have in the in the past 
 as it were. 
 
 ISABEL [quiet wonder]. Why, what are you talking about, 
 Johnnie ? 
 
 JOHNNIE. What I ve been thinkin , why, you take a per 
 son s character, especially you take a woman s character, and no 
 matter what s the difference between her age and some younger 
 man that thinks a lot of her character age, because she s settled 
 down and quit her foolishness the way you have, Miss Stuart, 
 well, it s the difference between a character like that and one 
 that s got to make a collection of every old man she sees t no 
 matter what his age is, so what I mean; why, this bein used 
 just for a messenger boy, I better cure myself and get over it, 
 
332 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 
 
 and the best way d be to find some character I could look up to 
 and get a sacred feeling about. 
 
 ISABEL [incredulous]. Do you mean me, Johnnie? 
 
 JOHNNIE. Yes m; that s why I d like to see more of you in 
 the future as it were. Will you ? 
 
 ISABEL. Johnnie White, what are you up to? 
 
 JOHNNIE. Well, you ve read Henry Esmond or have you? 
 
 ISABEL. Yes. 
 
 JOHNNIE. Well, he had that sacred feeling the way a 
 younger man does about a woman some older than he was, 
 wasn t he, didn t he? [Affirmative. ] 
 
 ISABEL [she jumps up}. You funny, funny boy! You 
 think you ll make Florence jealous! 
 
 JOHNNIE [earnestly]. No m; I don t care much whether 
 she is or not, not much. I mean it! 
 
 ISABEL [laughing] . You mean you re a little cross with her 
 for a few minutes, till she brings you around. 
 
 JOHNNIE. No m, I mean it! I expect it would do her 
 good D you see the way she looked at me when I said I 
 preferred to, this morning? But what I mean is, about you, 
 why, I mean it! 
 
 ISABEL [still amused}. You don t mean you ve got a sacred 
 feeling about me, Johnnie White! 
 
 JOHNNIE. Well, there aren t many people d understand 
 but I d like to think I ve got a kind o sacred feeling about you, 
 instead of just a messenger boy, because I look up to you, be 
 cause you re so different from her. Won t you let me? 
 
 ISABEL [laughing, but rather touched}. What nonsense! 
 
 JOHNNIE [pathetically in earnest}. Yes, but won t you? 
 You know how she acts. Wont you let me? 
 
 ISABEL [with amused indulgence, putting her arm lightly, 
 affectionately, round his shoulders]. Why, yes, if you want 
 to, you dear thing! [FLORENCE enters briskly up right just 
 on the moment, but halts abruptly. She wears a " fishing cos 
 tume " of a most effective kind.] 
 
 JOHNNIE [fervently]. I do want to! [He takes her other 
 hand.] 
 
 FLORENCE [laughing rather loudly, with some disquiet of 
 mind]. Well; of all the foolish sights what are you two 
 doing? 
 
 JOHNNIE [giving her a very short glance over his shoulder, 
 
THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 333 
 
 speaks very gently and solemnly to ISABEL]. Let s sit over 
 there. [He means the sofa, across the room. They are left 
 center. He leads her. ISABEL is controlling amusement, but 
 is rather tenderly pleased and touched by JOHNNIE S ab 
 surdity.] 
 
 ISABEL [as they move toward right]. Where is Mr. Ames? 
 
 FLORENCE. He s bringin my fishin traps. [Then sharply.] 
 What is the ? 
 
 JOHNNIE. Lean on me. I prefer it! 
 
 FLORENCE. Is Aunt Isabel s rheumatism worse? 
 
 ISABEL. Oh, no! [Emphatically on "oh."] 
 
 JOHNNIE [quietly]. No. It isn t lameness. [He looks 
 continually at ISABEL.] 
 
 FLORENCE. Then what is it? 
 
 ISABEL [as they reach the sofa]. Did you want me to sit 
 here with you, Johnnie? 
 
 JOHNNIE [solemnly]. Yes. Let s sit here. This is the 
 place I meant. [They sit] 
 
 FLORENCE. Well, of all the foolish looking people I ever 
 saw [She is moving up center as if to go out, but stops as 
 JOHNNIE speaks. Then goes down right to chair below fire 
 place] 
 
 JOHNNIE. She couldn t understand. It s the difference in 
 your character. She couldn t ever understand. [ISABEL cov 
 ers her ?nouth with her hand and clenched kerchief] 
 
 FLORENCE [puzzled and beginning to be annoyed]. What 
 are you two it really was a little queer, Aunt Isabel ! 
 
 ISABEL. What was queer, dear? 
 
 FLORENCE [laughing rather uncomfortably]. Why, to walk 
 in here and find you locked in an embrace with Johnnie White ! 
 
 ISABEL [choking down her amusement]. Oh, dear! Did 
 you see that, Florence? 
 
 FLORENCE [still laughing thinly]. And after last night 
 well, I guess the less said about that the better ! 
 
 ISABEL. Yes, indeed, dear! 
 
 FLORENCE [getting sharper]. It seems to me your conduct 
 is certainly open to interpretation. 
 
 ISABEL. Yes, Florence, I m afraid I m a wild thing! 
 
 FLORENCE. Why, you ve got poor Mr. Ames so upset he 
 isn t normal. 
 
 ISABEL. Isn t he? [With more serious eagerness] 
 
334 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 
 
 FLORENCE. I happened to be on the branch of a tree and 
 he just said to " come down and go in the house, you were 
 worrying about me." [She imitates a brisk, rather peremptory, 
 tone.] 
 
 ISABEL [quickly"}. Did he? 
 
 FLORENCE [not "ugly" but reproachful}. I don t believe 
 you want anybody to be nice to me; you just want to flirt with 
 every man in the world, yourself! [Starts up right.] 
 
 ISABEL. But I don t know em all! 
 
 JOHNNIE. She couldn t understand! 
 
 FLORENCE [very sharply, as this repetition goads her}. I 
 couldn t understand what? [Comes back down right] 
 
 JOHNNIE [to her coldly]. Did you ever read Henry Es 
 mond? 
 
 FLORENCE. No, I didn t! [Sits on arm of armchair] 
 
 JOHNNIE. I expect not. You aren t intellectual particu 
 larly, Florence. It s by William Makepeace Thackeray. 
 
 FLORENCE. Well, what o that? 
 
 JOHNNIE. Oh, nothing. Only he was kind o carried away 
 with a light weight for a while. 
 
 FLORENCE. This William Makepeace was? 
 
 JOHNNIE [serenely]. No. Henry Esmond was. It didn t 
 last very long. Some novels are a good deal like life. [To 
 ISABEL.] She couldn t understand. 
 
 FLORENCE [raising her voice incredulously]. Are you in 
 earnest? 
 
 JOHNNIE [ignoring her]. If she lived to be a hundred she 
 couldn t understand, could she? 
 
 ISABEL [whimsically, gently, to him]. I don t believe she 
 could ! [AMES enters up right, carrying FLORENCE S rods and 
 basket] 
 
 FLORENCE [stung]. No! Well, if I do live to be a hun 
 dred I hope I ll understand how to behave at that age! [AMES 
 turns to go out again, right, as if to avoid a family scene, 
 saying, " I beg your pardon."] 
 
 ISABEL [seeing him]. Oh, don t go, Mr. Ames. [AMES 
 comes down center.] It s nothing. [She is gently cheerful] 
 
 JOHNNIE [to FLORENCE]. Aren t you ashamed any? 
 
 FLORENCE. Me? For saying if / live to be a hundred I 
 hope I ll know better than to let mere adolescents talk mush 
 to me! Golly, no! 
 
THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 335 
 
 ISABEL [to AMES]. I m afraid she means her great-aunt. 
 
 FLORENCE. I should say I do!! [Crosses center.] Why, 
 last month there was a three-times widower hangin round here ; 
 he wasn t four minutes under eighty, and a week before it was 
 a child about nineteen. Last night it was Mr. Ames and now 
 it s Johnnie White; and they began with a fond embrace! I 
 saw it! 
 
 ISABEL [to AMES]. Yes, she did! 
 
 FLORENCE. Sometimes she doesn t act more n sixteen! 
 [Crosses right, back of sofa.] 
 
 ISABEL [rises]. There, Mr. Ames, you have me! 
 
 AMES. I beg your pardon ! 
 
 ISABEL. My portrait! Drawn by my great-mecel I flirt 
 with three-times widowers and with children of nineteen and 
 with you and with Johnnie White, and Johnnie and I began 
 with a fond embrace. To finish it! I m a hundred years old 
 and I m sixteen years old! So there, my friend, you know me! 
 [She curtsies to him, and moves rather quickly toward the 
 door, left, limping a little.] 
 
 JOHNNIE [quickly, with a movement toward her]. Won t 
 you come back and sit here some more? 
 
 ISABEL [checking him, smiling]. No; not now. But you 
 can run home and change your clothes and come back to 
 dinner. 
 
 JOHNNIE [solemnly eager]. Can I? 
 
 ISABEL. Yes, you can ; and I ll be waiting for you, Johnnie 
 White! [She gives AMES a, little sudden bob of a nod, which 
 seems to daze him, and exits quickly, left. AMES sits blankly 
 right of table left.] 
 
 FLORENCE [right]. Well, of all the darn conduct I ever in 
 my life 
 
 JOHNNIE [center. Coldly]. Of course it s mysterious to you; 
 you couldn t even be expected to understand. [Goes up center, ,] 
 
 FLORENCE [coming a step toward him, irritated, speaking all 
 in a breath }. What is the matter with you? [Follows 
 JOHNNIE up center.] 
 
 JOHNNIE. Nothing you d be able to under 
 
 FLORENCE [almost shouting]. Stop it! If you say that to 
 me again 
 
 JOHNNIE. I want to say just one last thing to you! 
 
 FLORENCE. Oh, you do, do you? 
 
336 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 
 
 JOHNNIE. It s simply just only this : Hark! A man really 
 does like to have somebody to look up to! 
 
 FLORENCE. Well, you don t haf to be silly about everybody 
 you look up to, do you? 
 
 JOHNNIE [with a pleasant thought about it and the manner 
 assuming that this thought is beyond her}. Well, I don t 
 know. I might. Why, yes. Yes I think a man might feel 
 a good deal that way. 
 
 FLORENCE [incredulously]. What? 
 
 JOHNNIE [easily, having put her in her place]. Excuse me, 
 I think that s about all I care to say for the time being. [He 
 goes up and gets his rods and basket] 
 
 FLORENCE. Why, you darned little 
 
 JOHNNIE [with easy superior carelessness, but not smiling]. 
 I may see you later in the evening for a moment or so, if I 
 have time. [Near door up right] 
 
 FLORENCE [quickly, sharply]. Why, you just told her you re 
 coming back to 
 
 JOHNNIE [in the same tone as his last speech]. To dinner 
 yes yes. I said 1 may see you across the table or somewhere, 
 prob ly ; thanking you for your kind attention, I beg to remain, 
 et cetera, et cetera. [Exits up right without smiling. Start to 
 dim outside lights.] 
 
 FLORENCE. Why, you [Then turns indignantly to 
 AMES. Comes down center] Did you ever know any other 
 girl that had an aunt like my aunt? 
 
 AMES [shaking his head seriously]. No no I never did! 
 
 FLORENCE [gesturing to the door of JOHNNIE S exit]. Why, 
 even that poor little child it s terrible! What do you think 
 about her? 
 
 AMES. "W T hat do I" I don t know; I don t know! I 
 don t know anything about her! Not a single thing! [The 
 scene is rather quick] 
 
 FLORENCE [viciously]. Well, I think I know one thing 
 about her. 
 
 AMES. You re her niece and you think you know one thing 
 about her! 
 
 FLORENCE. I believe she s been a coquette from the day she 
 was born! 
 
 AMES [repeating], " From the day she was " [He jumps 
 up sharply.] Have you happened to see the Family Bible? 
 
THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 337 
 
 FLORENCE. What Family Bible? 
 
 AMES. Your family s. The one they keep in here ! 
 
 FLORENCE. Well, for heaven s sake, what would I be doin 
 with it? 
 
 AMES. I don t know. 
 
 FLORENCE. What do you want it for? 
 
 AMES. What do I want it for! [He recovers himself. ] 
 I wanted to see if it s a first edition! I collect first editions! 
 
 FLORENCE. You collect first editions of the Bible? 
 
 AMES. Why, no. 
 
 FLORENCE. I thought not. [Sits on sofa.] Mr. Ames, do 
 you believe an older man s feeling for a younger woman 
 is deeper than a younger woman s feeling for an older 
 man? 
 
 AMES. I don t know. 
 
 FLORENCE. Won t you sit here? 
 
 AMES. Very well. [Sits on sofa, left of FLORENCE.] 
 
 FLORENCE. Before I settle down or anything, I think I 
 ought to have the experience of a serious affair with some older 
 man. [Start to dim the stage lights here, very slowly.] 
 
 AMES. Oh! 
 
 FLORENCE [giving him a lovely smile]. Oh, dear. I wish 
 I had my slippers on instead of these. [She holds up her 
 booted feet plaintively.] 
 
 AMES [rising nervously]. Oh, I think you look very well 
 in boots! 
 
 FLORENCE [frowning] . They re so heavy. I do wish I had 
 my [She is interrupted by the opening of the door, left. 
 MATTIE enters there, bringing a pair of pretty patent leather 
 slippers. FLORENCE, staring.] Well, for heaven s sake; just 
 as I was sayin* I wanted em. [AMES sees the slippers in 
 MATTIE S hand, turns and strides hurriedly up to the sun- 
 room. FLORENCE goes on.] How in the [She checks her 
 self and at a thought speaks decisively.] Mattie! That s no 
 mere coincidence! 
 
 MATTIE [bringing the slippers and setting them on the floor 
 before FLORENCE]. No m. Your Aunt Isabel told me to 
 listen at the door 
 
 FLORENCE. What? [AMES turns sharply and stares at 
 MATTIE.] 
 
 MATTIE [going on casually]. Your Aunt Isabel told me to 
 
338 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 
 
 listen at the door till I heard you begin talkin about changin 
 your footwear and then to bring em in for you. 
 
 FLORENCE. She told you to listen at the 
 
 MATTIE [casually }. Yes m; she says to be perfeckly honora 
 ble and pay no attention till I heard the word " slippers," and 
 she says the rest of the conversation wouldn t be worth my 
 while, anyway. [Exits left.} 
 
 FLORENCE [frowning, puzzled. Stares thoughtfully at the 
 closing door, then turns front}. Well, if that isn t queer! 
 [Emphatically.} 
 
 AMES. No! It s no queerer than anything else! [Coming 
 down right.} 
 
 FLORENCE. Well, after all, now that my slippers are here 
 
 AMES [nervously}. I don t think I d I don t think I d 
 better ! 
 
 FLORENCE [rising, concentrating disapprovingly}. Well, 
 what do you think? 
 
 AMES [with vehemence}. Nothing! [He goes up to the 
 sun-room. The light outside has grown rosier and inside it is 
 a little darker. The glow from the fireplace brightens. AUNT 
 ELLEN enters, left. She has changed her dress for a dark silk, 
 which has a suggestion of state about it.} 
 
 AUNT ELLEN [left}. Florence, do you consider that an 
 appropriate costume for the drawing-room? 
 
 FLORENCE [right. Peevishly}. It ain t one! 
 
 AUNT ELLEN. " Ain t " ? " Ain t " ? 
 
 FLORENCE. No, it ain t! It ain t a drawing-room; it s a 
 living-room ! If people can t be young again, anyhow they can 
 be modern ! 
 
 AUNT ELLEN [turning to go out again, left}. I will with 
 draw from the room until you 
 
 FLORENCE [picking up her slippers}. Murder! Don t go 
 I apologize, gosh I apologize without the gosh I m going 
 Oh, murder, I m tired! 
 
 AUNT ELLEN. Tired! Why, you haven t been doing any 
 thing compared to your Aunt Isabel. 
 
 FLORENCE [going slowly and wearily up left with a gloomy 
 sigh}. It seems to me as if I just spent my life dressing! It s 
 all so savorless! [Suddenly she begins to sing brightly, breaks 
 into a skip, calls back sweetly:} "See you later, William!" 
 [Exits up left, skipping and singing. AMES is surprised. 
 
THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 339 
 
 AUNT ELLEN looks after FLORENCE, disapprovingly, very 
 slightly shaking her head.] 
 
 AUNT ELLEN. You must overlook it, William. Good 
 gracious! I mean [She corrects herself hastily.] Mr. 
 Ames ! 
 
 AMES. Oh, don t bother. 
 
 AUNT ELLEN [left center]. She belongs to a very different 
 generation from the one you and I grew up with. 
 
 AMES [right center. Set aback by her "you and I"]. Ah 
 yes. Yes, indeed! 
 
 AUNT ELLEN [going slowly toward right]. You and I 
 were taught a very different behavior toward our elders. 
 
 AMES [gloomily]. Yes, the the previous ah generations 
 had a very different training, though this one certainly has 
 charm, too. I wonder how many of uh us, though, can 
 remember just what we were like in our own youth. 
 
 AUNT ELLEN [somewhat surprised]. Why, I recall my 
 own, perfectly. 
 
 AMES [brightening]. That s remarkab-ully [He changes 
 the word to " remarkably " with a slight vocal struggle in the 
 midst of it] Pleasant. Your ah aunt, Miss Stuart does, 
 too, and about public events she remembers wonderfully; we 
 were reminiscing this morning; all about Hayes and 
 Wheeler and Samuel J. Tilden. Do you happen to remember 
 that campaign? 
 
 AUNT ELLEN [looking at him over her shoulder; she is 
 touching some music sheets on the piano]. Why, of course. 
 
 AMES [rather dismayed]. Well, she said she thought it was 
 a terrible thing, Hayes and Wheeler s not getting elected, 
 
 AUNT ELLEN [with spirit]. They were elected. Anybody 
 that says they weren t is a a despicable Democrat! 
 
 AMES [hastily]. Oh, I think they were myself. [Feebly 
 hopeful] I only wondered I wasn t just able to recall what 
 year that campaign was -. [He puts a rising, plaintive inter 
 rogative upon this] 
 
 AUNT ELLEN. It was in 1876, the same year as the Phila 
 delphia Exposition. 
 
 AMES. In 1876 oh, yes; it was ah a historical refer 
 ence I see. 
 
 AUNT ELLEN. Historical? I went to that exposition my 
 self. 
 
340 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 
 
 AMES [he looks at his watch with another feeble murmur of 
 plaintive laughter]. I m afraid I I suppose I d better be 
 yes ah, I suppose I d better [He goes awkwardly left and 
 glances upward, thinking of going to his room upstairs.] I d 
 better ah I suppose I d better make ah [At the door.] 
 Well, I 
 
 AUNT ELLEN [inquiring rather shortly]. Yes? 
 
 AMES [wiping his forehead hurriedly]. Well thank you. 
 Uh [Exit, dazedly, left. AUNT ELLEN sits at the piano 
 and begins to play rather softly; she has a fine " touch " and 
 plays with feeling. The light outdoors is the final rosiness of 
 sunset; the firelight sends forth a broad rosy glow; but the rest 
 of the scene is darkened as she plays through an old-fashioned 
 melody. She has played about a dozen bars when a figure 
 enters up left in the sun-room. It is ISABEL, but she is not 
 distinctly seen. The glow up, beyond the sun-room windows, 
 is behind her, and it is not until she reaches the table, left center, 
 that the firelight falls upon her. She has changed her dress 
 for another suggesting <a gayer " smartness " than that previ 
 ously worn in the act. She still suggests the slight lameness. 
 She is carrying a large and heavy old book. When she reaches 
 the table, the firelight falls on her and we should get a gleam 
 of jewels. She opens the Bible upon the table, and lets it re 
 main open.] 
 
 AUNT ELLEN [as ISABEL reaches the table]. Is that you, 
 Isabel? [She does not turn her head.] 
 
 ISABEL. Yes, go on playing, dear. [She crosses to the fire 
 place, using her cane, and sits, gazing into the fire. There is 
 a pause, the piano continuing, and then their talk goes on 
 through the playing] 
 
 AUNT ELLEN. My old tunes are better than Florence s, 
 aren t they? I think music was best of all in my day. 
 
 ISABEL [gently]. No. It was best in my day. [Crosses 
 right] 
 
 AUNT ELLEN. No ; I think it began to fall off by the time 
 you came along. Music was best when My day was the 
 best. 
 
 ISABEL [sits in armchair at fireplace]. Florence will say 
 that some day. Music is best in each one s " day." What a 
 pleasant thing that is; that we all of us see, afterward, that 
 our first youth was best: 
 
THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 341 
 
 AUNT ELLEN. It isn t pleasant to see anything afterward. 
 
 ISABEL. Well, then, we can always look forward to 
 something can t we? 
 
 AUNT ELLEN [struck by this}. Oh! [Her hands pause on 
 the keys and she glances round for a moment at ISABEL.] Oh, 
 I understand what you mean. He was in here a while ago 
 trying to find out. You know what / mean. 
 
 ISABEL [serenely]. He didn t ask you, though. 
 
 AUNT ELLEN. No. You can see he d be nice under any 
 circumstances. 
 
 ISABEL [with a little regret]. "Nice"? Why, he s the 
 bravest man I ve ever seen. He s too plucky to withdraw 
 some remarks he made to me last night! 
 
 AUNT ELLEN [plays a bar or two; then gravely]. I won 
 der if I oughtn t to stop calling you " Aunt " Isabel. 
 
 ISABEL. Why? I am your aunt. 
 
 AUNT ELLEN. My half-aunt. 
 
 ISABEL. Isn t that plenty? 
 
 AUNT ELLEN. I ve always liked calling you " Aunt Isa 
 bel " for one reason ; nobody d think I m too old to be alive 
 while I ve still got an aunt. But it mightn t be consistent now. 
 
 ISABEL. Why mightn t it? 
 
 AUNT ELLEN [very seriously, not playing for the moment]. 
 Well, if anything should happen I really shouldn t know how 
 to begin calling Mr. Ames " Uncle William." 
 
 ISABEL. Never mind, dear. It wont happen. 
 
 AUNT ELLEN [stops playing and turns]. I never could 
 call Mr. Ames " Uncle." [She is very serious.] 
 
 ISABEL [thoughtfully]. You might call him "Nephew." 
 [Rises.] 
 
 AUNT ELLEN. Pooh! [She plays softly.] 
 
 ISABEL. Why not? Isn t Florence what all men want? 
 Think of father ; mother was only nineteen or so when he mar 
 ried her, and he was sixty-five. 
 
 AUNT ELLEN. Poor grandfather s weakness in marrying 
 a girl as your mother was oughtn t to be. [She plays again.] 
 
 ISABEL [sits on sofa]. Yes; but there it is. We re like 
 Portia s caskets, we women, and the men come to choose with 
 out knowing what they ll find. Silver-and-gold, that s first 
 youth, and it ought to have been written of that silver-and-gold 
 casket: "Who chooses me shall choose what every man de- 
 
342 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 
 
 sires " ! But if any man comes to choose me well, a woman 
 past twenty-eight is a thousand I ll show him only lead ! 
 
 AUNT ELLEN. I never heard before of a woman that 
 teased a man to make him think she was older than she was. 
 And if it isn t to make him feel better when he finds out 
 
 ISABEL. No, I ve just told you why. 
 
 AUNT ELLEN. Oh, you can give all the pretty reasons you 
 want to, but I know. You thought you d test him, and 
 you ve been punishing him for even daring to wonder how old 
 you are. [ISABEL rises to protest, saying, ff Oh, I "] And 
 he s beginning to suspect. Think how pretty dancing was in 
 my day. [She begins to play an old waltz.] 
 
 ISABEL. They were pretty, the old waltzes. 
 
 AUNT ELLEN [her memory of the music faltering]. How 
 did that go there? [She tries to remember by singing it.~\ 
 La, la, la 
 
 ISABEL [rising]. No, it s this. [She hums it and beats 
 time, moving a few waltz steps but keeping to a hint of 
 her lameness.] Yes. That s it. [She hums and begins 
 to waltz slowly in the same manner as before. ISABEL falls 
 a little and <a little more into the spirit of the waltz, never 
 wholly abandoning the hint of lameness; the waltz-time is 
 rather slow but quickens a little and almost imperceptibly. 
 ISABEL moves in and out of the firelight glow as she dances 
 and her scarf floats, following her. JOHNNIE WHITE enters, 
 at the door, left, and stands looking on without surprise. 
 ISABEL sees him, but only nods <and continues. He wears a 
 dinner coat.] 
 
 JOHNNIE. Don t you want a partner? 
 
 ISABEL [coming toward him]. Johnnie White, do you 
 know the old waltz? 
 
 JOHNNIE. Yes m. [Without losing her step she lets her 
 left hand fall lightly upon his shoulder; he catches her step and 
 they dance. The waltz-time is now a little quicker, and AUNT 
 ELLEN plays it with great pleasure. ISABEL dances with a 
 greater abandon until she has almost forgotten the hint of 
 lameness. The sun-room is so dark that the opening of the 
 door up left is unperceived. AMES, who has changed to a 
 dinner coat, enters there, and stands dumbfounded. FLORENCE 
 enters just behind him and comes forward.] 
 
 FLORENCE [exclaiming loudly. Crosses to up right above 
 
THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 343 
 
 fireplace]. Well, for heaven s sake! What are you doin now? 
 
 ISABEL [startled as she sees AMES]. Oh! [She at once 
 remembers her lameness. They stop dancing down right. 
 ISABEL goes to center. JOHNNIE stays down right, below fire 
 place^ 
 
 ISABEL. I I m afraid I forgot myself for the moment 
 I you oughtn t to have tempted me, Johnnie. It might be 
 dangerous 
 
 AMES [striding down to her]. Will you dance with me 
 Isabel? 
 
 ISABEL [a little breathless}. What? 
 
 AMES. Will you dance with me Isabel? [ISABEL looks 
 at him incredulously.} 
 
 ISABEL. Dance with you, Mr. Ames? 
 
 AMES. Yes. I remember the old waltzes. 
 
 ISABEL. But perhaps you don t realize how old they are 
 or how lame I am? 
 
 AMES. I don t care. Won t you dance with me? 
 
 ISABEL. Yes. [She puts her left arm on his shoulder, as 
 she did with JOHNNIE, and with a much more pronounced 
 lameness than before, and in very slow time, they begin to 
 waltz, AUNT ELLEN playing softly. As they dance.} So you 
 and I are in the fashion again. They say everybody dances all 
 the time nowadays. 
 
 AMES [with profound earnestness}. I don t know anything 
 except when I saw you dancing I wanted to dance with you. 
 I do. 
 
 ISABEL. Do you? No matter how slowly? 
 
 AMES [crossly}. Yes, I do! 
 
 ISABEL. But Florence would like to dance with you again. 
 
 AMES. What nonsense! 
 
 ISABEL [suddenly radiant}. Can t you play any faster than 
 that, Ellen? Why don t you turn the lights up, Florence? 
 [AuNT ELLEN plays suddenly with greater spirit. FLORENCE 
 snaps on the lights and is revealed to be laughing inextin 
 guishably.} 
 
 FLORENCE [slapping JOHNNIE S back with her other hand in 
 her extreme jocosity}. My! But those ole-fashioned dances 
 are funny! Don t they look crazy! 
 
 ISABEL [happily calling to her}. Do we? [She discards 
 her lameness entirely during the next few measures. The two 
 
344 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 
 
 dance like happy experts of eighteen. They look at each other 
 like lovers. FLORENCE ceases to laugh and becomes mystified. 
 So does JOHNNIE. They stare, with their mouths open. 
 Finally FLORENCE speaks with the emphasis of complete puz 
 zlement.] 
 
 FLORENCE. Well, just look at em lookin at each other! 
 
 JOHNNIE [grinning, but speaking indignantly to her]. Ain t 
 you got any sense? [AuNT ELLEN lifts her left hand from 
 the keys in a passionate gesture, not ceasing to play with her 
 right. As her back is obliquely to front and right her left 
 hand is toward FLORENCE and JOHNNIE.] 
 
 FLORENCE [inquiring poignantly the meaning of the ges 
 ture]. What? [AuNT ELLEN repeats the passionate gesture. 
 FLORENCE is more mystified and also somewhat petulant.] 
 Well, I [JOHNNIE seizes her hand and drags her quickly 
 off up right] 
 
 ISABEL [not stopping]. I m afraid we must stop. 
 
 AMES. No! 
 
 ISABEL. I mustn t wear you out. [Upon this, without 
 looking at them, AUNT ELLEN abruptly stops playing in the 
 middle of a measure. She does not look at them at all, but 
 goes quickly up and straight off left without turning. They 
 are unconscious of her, and seem even unconscious that the 
 piano has stopped or that they have ceased to dance. They 
 have come to a halt directly up of the table left center and 
 close by it, looking at each other] 
 
 AMES [speaking angrily the instant they and the music stop], 
 I want to tell you just this: you ve been mocking me every 
 second since we first met in that God-forsaken railroad station. 
 
 ISABEL. No! 
 
 AMES [fiercely]. You have! Every instant! 
 
 ISABEL. Never ! Never once ! Never ! Never ! 
 
 AMES. You were at it half the day yesterday and as much 
 of the night as you could stay awake and all day to-day! But 
 it won t do! 
 
 ISABEL. When did you decide I was mocking you? 
 
 AMES. I thought so all day, but I knew it when I saw 
 you dancing with that boy! 
 
 ISABEL. Do you mind my dancing with boys? 
 
 AMES. No! I m not jealous. [His tone is as angry as 
 before] But it came over me! You ve just mocked me! 
 
THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 345 
 
 ISABEL. Can t you imagine a woman s being a little nervous 
 about one man s knowing how often the earth s gone round the 
 sun since she was born? 
 
 AMES [with feeling]. Am I the one man? 
 
 ISABEL. That s why women are afraid of everybody s know 
 ing; it might reach the one man. That s the reason a woman 
 cares about her age; he might care! [She touches the open 
 Bible on the table.] Look, Mr. Ames! I ll turn my back 
 while you re looking. [She walks away from him slowly. 
 AMES puts one hand on Bible but keeps looking at ISABEL.] 
 
 ISABEL [as he does this, her voice tremulous]. On the left 
 hand page you ll find all of papa s descendants by his first wife. 
 On the right-hand page you ll see where the poor old darling 
 married again such a heathenish time afterward 
 
 AMES. That s what I thought. That s why I was looking 
 for your Bible. 
 
 ISABEL. Underneath is where you ll find me. [Her voice 
 trembles a little more.] Have you found me? 
 
 AMES [with great feeling under his laughter]. Yes, I have! 
 [Closes Bible.] 
 
 ISABEL [weakly]. Oh, you didn t look? [AMES crosses to 
 ISABEL, holds out his arms as if to embrace her.] 
 
 AMES [tenderly]. Let s sit by the fire, shall we? [Crosses 
 right. He touches the switch key and the only light is the fire 
 light. She sits slowly on sofa, looking up at him, and he takes 
 a chair near by. Then FLORENCE is heard laughing gaily off 
 up left, and a moment later she is heard again.] 
 
 FLORENCE [affecting reproach, off up left]. All right for 
 you, Johnnie White. I ll tell your mother on you! 
 
 ISABEL [softly]. The fire s pleasant, even in April, isn t it? 
 
 AMES. Yes. Do you think you could say to me good night, 
 dear, without the good night? 
 
 ISABEL. I think I could if you re sure you don t mind any 
 thing you didn t see in the Bible, dear. 
 
 AMES. You infant! 
 
 ISABEL. Oh! [AMES takes her hand, kisses it, and then 
 lifts her hand to his cheek. ISABEL gives a little exclamation 
 of delight.] 
 
 [CURTAIN.] 
 
SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY FOR THE STUDY OF 
 DRAMA IN AMERICA 
 
 Charlton Andrews 
 
 The Drama To-day, Philadelphia, 1913 
 
 William Archer 
 
 A Talk with Mr. Brander Matthews, Pall Mall Budget, 
 September 20, 1894, P- 7 
 
 George Pierce Baker 
 
 Dramatic Technique, Boston, 1919 
 Modern American Plays, New York, 1920: 
 Augustus Thomas, As a Man Thinks 
 David Belasco, The Return of Peter Grimm 
 Edward Sheldon, Romance 
 
 Louis Kaufman Anspacher, The Unchastened Woman 
 Edward Massey, Plots and Playwrights 
 
 David Belasco 
 
 The Theatre Through Its Stage Door, New York and 
 London, 1919 
 
 T. Allston Brown 
 
 A History of the New York Stage, New York, 1903, 3 
 Vols. 
 
 Richard Burton 
 
 The New American Drama, New York, 1913 
 How to See a Play, New York, 1914 
 
 Sheldon Cheney 
 
 The New Movement in the Theatre, New York, 1914 
 The Art Theatre; a discussion of its ideals, its organiza 
 tion and its promise as a corrective for present evils in 
 the commercial theatre, New York, 1917 
 347 
 
348 SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY 
 
 Henry Austin Clapp 
 
 Reminiscences of a Dramatic Critic, Boston and New 
 York, 1902 
 
 Barrett H. Clark 
 
 The British and American Drama of To-day, New York, 
 1915 
 
 Mary Caroline Crawford 
 
 The Romance of the American Theatre, Boston, 1913. 
 
 Thomas H. Dickinson 
 
 The Case of American Drama, Boston and New York, 
 
 1915 
 
 Chief Contemporary Dramatists, First Series, Boston, 
 
 1915, contains the following American plays: 
 
 Clyde Fitch, The Truth 
 
 W. V. Moody, The Great Divide 
 
 Augustus Thomas, The Witching Hour 
 
 Percy MacKaye, The Scarecrow 
 
 Chief Contemporary Dramatists, Second Series, Boston, 
 1921, contains the following American plays: 
 
 Eugene Walter, The Easiest Way 
 
 G. P. Peabody, The Piper 
 
 G. C. Hazleton and J. H. Benrimo, The Yellow 
 
 Jacket 
 
 John Drew 
 
 My Years on the Stage, New York, 1922. (In prepara 
 tion.) 
 
 Walter Pritchard Eaton 
 
 The American Stage of To-day, Boston, 1908 
 
 At the New Theatre and Others: The American Stage; 
 
 Its Problems and Performances, 1908-1910, Boston, 1910 
 
 Daniel Frohman 
 
 Memories of a Manager, New York, 1911 
 
 Daniel Frohman and Isaac F. Marcosson 
 
 Charles Frohman: Manager and Man, New York, 1916 
 
SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY 349 
 
 Clayton Hamilton 
 
 The Theory of the Theatre, New York, 1910 
 Studies in Stagecraft, New York, 1914 
 Problems of the Playwright, New York, 1917 
 Seen on the Stage -, New York, 1920 
 
 Norman Hapgood 
 
 The Stage in America, 1897-1900, New York, 1901 
 
 Archibald Henderson 
 
 The Changing Drama, New York, 1914 
 
 Arthur Hopkins 
 
 How s Your Second Act, New York, 1918 
 
 Laurence Hutton 
 
 Plays and Players, New York, 1875 
 
 Curiosities of the American Stage, New York, 1891 
 
 Arthur E. Krows 
 
 Play Production in America, New York, 1916 
 
 A. E. Lancaster 
 
 Historical American Plays, The Chautauquan, Volume 
 XXXI, Cleveland, 1900 
 
 Ludwig Lewisohn 
 
 The Drama and the Stage, New York, 1922 
 
 Kenneth Macgowan 
 
 The Theatre of Tomorrow, New York, 1921 
 
 Percy MacKaye 
 
 The Playhouse and the Play, New York, 1907 
 The Civic Theatre, New York, 1912 
 Community Drama, Boston, 1917 
 
 Burns Mantle 
 
 The Best Plays of 1919-1920, Boston, 1920 
 The Best Plays of 1920-1921, Boston, 1921 
 
 Brander Matthews 
 
 The Historical Novel and Other Essays, New York, 1901 
 
350 SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY 
 
 The Development of the Drama, New York, 1903 
 
 Inquiries and Opinions, New York, 1907 
 
 A Study of the Drama, Boston, New York, and Chicago, 
 
 1910 
 
 A Book about the Theatre, New York, 1916 
 
 These Many Years, New York, 1917 
 
 The Principles of Playmaking, New York, 1919 
 
 Brander Matthews and Laurence Hutton 
 
 The Life and Art of Edwin Booth and His Contem 
 poraries, Boston, 1907 
 
 Hiram K. Moderwell 
 
 The Theatre of To-day, London, 1914 
 
 Montrose J. Moses 
 
 Famous Actor-Families in America, New York, 1906 
 
 The American Dramatist, Boston, 1917 
 
 The Drama, 1860-1918, Chapter XVIII of Part II, The 
 
 Cambridge History of American Literature, New York, 
 
 1921 
 
 Representative Plays by American Dramatists, New York, 
 
 1918-1921. Vol. I, 1765-1819: 
 
 Thomas Godfrey, The Prince of Parthia 
 
 Robert Rogers, Ponteach; or, the Savages of America 
 
 Mrs. Mercy Warren, The Group; A Farce 
 
 Hugh Henry Brackenridge, The Battle of Bunkers 
 
 Hill 
 
 John Leacock, The Fall of British Tyranny; or, 
 
 American Liberty 
 
 Samuel Low, The Politician Out-witted 
 
 Royall Tyler, The Contrast 
 
 William Dunlap, Andre 
 
 J. N. Barker, The Indian Princess; or, La Belle 
 
 Sauvage 
 
 M. M. Noah, She would be a Soldier; or, The Plains 
 
 of Chippewah 
 
 Vol. II, 1815-1858. (In preparation) 
 Vol. Ill, 1856-1917: 
 
 Charles Burke, Rip Van Winkle: A Legend of the 
 
 Catskills 
 
 George Henry Boker, Francesca da Rimini 
 
SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY 351 
 
 Oliver Bell Bunce, Love in *]6. An Incident of the 
 Revolution 
 
 Steele MacKaye, Paul Kauvar; or, Anarchy 
 Bronson Howard, Shenandoah 
 Augustus Thomas, In Mizzoura 
 Clyde Fitch, The Moth and the Flame 
 Langdon Mitchell, The New York Idea 
 Eugene Walter, The Easiest Way 
 David Belasco, The Return of Peter Grimm 
 A Study Course on the American Drama, Specially Pre 
 pared for the American Drama Year of the Drama 
 League of America, 1916 
 
 George Jean Nathan 
 
 The Popular Theatre, New York, 1918 
 The Critic and the Drama, New York, 1922 
 Another Book on the Theatre, New York, 1915 
 
 William Lyon Phelps 
 
 The Twentieth Century Theatre, New York, 1918 
 Essays on Modern Dramatists, New York, 1921 
 
 John A. Pierce 
 
 The Masterpieces of Modern Drama. Abridged in Nar 
 rative with Dialogue of the Great Scenes; prefaced with 
 a critical essay by Brander Matthews, New York, 1915. 
 2 Vols. 
 
 Channing Pollock 
 
 The Footlights Fore and Aft, Boston, 1911 
 
 Arthur Hobson Quinn 
 
 The Early Drama. 1756-1860, Chapter II of Part I, 
 The Cambridge History of American Literature, New 
 York, 1917 
 Representative American Plays, New York, 1917: 
 
 Thomas Godfrey, The Prince of Parthia 
 
 Royall Tyler, The Contrast 
 
 William Dunlap, Andre 
 
 James Nelson Barker, Superstition 
 
 John Howard Payne ) n , 7 TT 
 
 Washington Irving \ Charles " 
 
352 SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY 
 
 Richard Penn Smith, The Triumph at Plattsburg 
 
 George Washington Parke Custis, Pocahontas; or, 
 
 The Settlers of Virginia 
 
 Robert Montgomery Bird, The Broker of Bogota 
 
 Nathaniel Parker Willis, Tortesa the Usurer 
 
 Anna Cora Mowatt Ritchie, Fashion 
 
 George Henry Boker, Francesco da Rimini 
 
 Dion Boucicault, The Octaroon, or Life in Missis 
 
 sippi 
 
 Joseph Jefferson, Rip Van Winkle 
 
 Steele MacKaye, Hazel Kirke 
 
 Bronson Howard, Shenandoah 
 
 William Gillette, Secret Service 
 
 Clyde Fitch, Her Great Watch 
 Langdon Mitchell, The New York Idea 
 Augustus Thomas, The Witching Hour 
 William Vaughn Moody, The Faith Healer 
 Percy MacKaye, The Scarecrow 
 Edward Sheldon, The Boss 
 Rachel Crothers, He and She 
 
 Oral Sumner Reed 
 
 The Plays of Samuel Woodworth, The Sewanee Review, 
 Sewanee, 1919, Vol. 27 
 
 P. I. Reed 
 
 The Realistic Presentation of American Characters in 
 Native American Plays Prior to Eighteen Seventy, Ohio 
 State University Bulletin, Vol. XXII, May, 1919 
 
 Arthur Ruhl 
 
 Second Nights, New York, 1914 
 
 Oliver Sayler 
 
 The Real Eugene O Neill, The Century, New York, 
 1922, Vol. 103, p. 351 
 
 E. H. Sothern 
 
 The Melancholy Tale of "Me"; My Remembrances, 
 New York, 1916 
 
SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY 353 
 
 L. C. Strang 
 
 Players and Plays of the Last Quarter Century, Boston, 
 1902. 2 Vols. 
 
 Augustus Thomas 
 
 The Print of My Remembrance, New York, 1922. (In 
 preparation) 
 
 J. Ranken Towse 
 
 Sixty Years of the Theatre, New York and London, 1916 
 
 John A. Weaver 
 
 Eugene O Neill and P oily annaly sis, Vanity Fair, New 
 York, 1921, Vol. 1 6, p. 43 
 
 William Winter 
 
 Shadows of the Stag e, New York, 1892-1895 
 
 Other Days; Being Chronicles and Memories of the 
 
 Stage, New York, 1908 
 
 The Wallet of Time, Containing Personal, Biographical 
 
 and Critical Reminiscences of the American Theatre, New; 
 
 York, 1913. 2 Vols. 
 
 Vagrant Memories, New York, 1915 
 
AN INITIAL FINE OP 25 CENTS 
 
 WED 
 
 LD 21 A-40m-ll, 63 
 (E1602slO)476B 
 
 General Library 
 
 University of California 
 
 Berkeley 
 
YB 75^32 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY