REPRESENTATIVE ONE-ACT 
 PLAYS BY AMERICAN 
 AUTHORS- UNjy. 
 
 SELECTED, WITH BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 
 BY 
 
 MARGARET GARDNER MAYORGA, M.A. 
 
 BOSTON 
 LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY 
 
 1927 
 
/H73 
 
 r 
 
 Copyright, 1919, 
 BY LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY. 
 
 n grAto reserved 
 
 PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 
 
DEDICATED 
 TO MY MOTHER 
 
 75351.9 
 
PREFACE 
 
 THIS collection contains twenty-four of the most significant 
 one-act plays of the Little Theatre movement in America. 
 Some of them have not been previously printed ; others have 
 been out of print for some time or are inaccessible. I have 
 made the collection in the hope that by bringing them to 
 gether in one volume they will not be immediately lost. 
 Although the war has for a moment scattered many of the 
 Little Theatres and stunted the growth of the new play form, 
 it is because the art is now at a pause that it may be more 
 easily surveyed. 
 
 While there are many who believe that one-act plays are 
 more or less frivolous and ought to be enjoyed rather than 
 analyzed, I have taken the liberty, in this collection, of being 
 serious. Too often the frothy one-act play has been ex 
 ploited and the sincere effort overlooked, but it is indeed true 
 that beneath the movement as a whole there exists a purpose 
 worthy of serious consideration. 
 
 During the last few years, both here and abroad, there has 
 been discussion of the one-act play which has been feeling 
 toward the establishment of the one-act form as a new and 
 distinct type. The few who have written about it are agreed 
 that the one-act play is properly analogous to the short-story, 
 that it is quite as rigid a form, and that it is as different a type 
 from the longer play as the short-story is from the novel. It 
 cannot, if a good one-act play, be either expanded into three 
 acts or condensed from the longer play without a loss. Be 
 cause of this integrity, the one-act play is an art form, tend 
 ing toward a perfect whole, and therein lies its contrast to the 
 playlet of vaudeville and to the curtain raiser. The one-act 
 
 vii 
 
viii PREFACE 
 
 play is not the familiar vaudeville sketch ; upon this point 
 the vaudeville managers are quite as insistent as are the 
 managers of the Little Theatres. The vaudeville managers 
 have been extremely wary of the intrusion of the new 
 type. In return, the managers of the Little Theatres have 
 had small desire to produce the vaudeville playlets. 
 
 But to understand the new play one must know something 
 of the theatres which have cultivated it : the so-called "Little 
 Theatres." To the uninitiated the term is vague, and even 
 those who are acquainted with it use it more or less loosely. 
 Speaking generally, the Little Theatre may be said to be an 
 organization of earnest workers interested more in the future 
 of the drama than in their own pecuniary gains. The size 
 of the theatre is of no vital consideration, although it happens 
 that the type of drama which is now prevalent can be most 
 successfully presented in a small playhouse. Specifically, 
 the Little Theatres are those small playhouses which are 
 dotting the land from coast to coast, termed variously : 
 amateur, social, community, but more often "Little", 
 and in which some local company produces at regular inter 
 vals and with a sincere purpose its repertory of plays. There 
 are the private clubs, such as the Plays and Players of 
 Philadelphia ; private theatres, such as the Bramhall Play 
 house of New York ; high school organizations, such as Our 
 Little Theatre of South Bend, Indiana; college workshops, 
 as at Harvard; theatre societies (without a box office), such 
 as the Provincetown Players ; theatre workshops, such as 
 the New York organization of that name; Little Theatres 
 nominally and little theatres in size. Since the first venture 
 of 1906 there have arisen some eighty of them. 1 More often 
 than not these companies produce the one-act play, both 
 because it is more easily sustained than a longer play of 
 corresponding aim, and because it is an experiment on a 
 smaller scale. In spite of the fact that many of the plays 
 
 1 For a list of these, see Appendix of Constance D Arcy Mackay : " Little 
 Theatres in the United States ", and Appendix of Thomas H. Dickinson : 
 "The Insurgent Theatre." 
 
PREFACE ix 
 
 have been handicapped by crude scenery and cruder acting, 
 some have emerged full of promise for the one-act form. 
 
 In making the selection for this volume, I have made no 
 attempt to include only the best one-act plays ; such a col 
 lection would need to exclude many which, in aim if not in 
 execution, are exceedingly significant. For in a new move 
 ment we are interested far more in the potentiality of growth 
 than in the first offspring, however perfect some of the first 
 may be. 
 
 But in tracing the veins of development, I encountered the 
 necessity of inventing in some places a new terminology. 
 Although connotations will immediately present themselves 
 to many, some further definition may not be amiss. The 
 term "dramatic episode" has hitherto been variously used, 
 but never to designate a distinct type ; the term "impression 
 istic episode " has not been previously employed. 
 
 I have used ^dramatic episode" to designate the play 
 which presents a single and complete static situation, as op 
 posed to the tragedy or the comedy which presents a series of 
 situations or the developing situation \ In the Zone is an 
 example of the type. It presents ofte complete episode in 
 the passage of a tramp steamer through the war zone. The 
 play opens upon a group of sailors assembled in the fore 
 castle and closes upon the same group. Although each man 
 has added another experience to his life during the progress 
 of the play, he is essentially the same person when the cur 
 tain falls as he was when it arose. (There has been no develop 
 ment of character. Similarly, the action of the group is no 
 farther advanced at the end of the play than it was at the 
 beginning. It is conceivable that the entire episode might 
 recur. The play is not one of development, but of exposition^ 
 /In the same manner the "impressionistic episode" is a play 
 of exposition, but it differs from the "dramatic episode" 
 in that it is subjective where the "dramatic episode" is 
 objective. It is the play of mood; it is the "dramatic 
 episode" shown to us through the personality of the author. 
 The other terms are familiarly employed and need no explana- 
 
PREFACE 
 
 tion, although it might prove wise to mention that I have 
 used "fantasy" rigidly for the play which tends to the 
 dominance of fancy, and "poetic drama* , whether in verse 
 or prose, for the play of imagination. 
 
 The classification represents every type of play which has 
 been produced in the Little Theatres, and the space devoted 
 to each type in the volume is approximate to its importance 
 in Little Theatre history. The arrangement of grouping was 
 necessitated by the aim to represent types rather than 
 theatres or sections of the country, and has no reason in its 
 arrangement other than that it seemed to be psychological. 
 The plays have all been produced by Little Theatres in this 
 country, some many times ; and probably there is no Little 
 Theatre audience which will not immediately recognize at 
 least one of its own plays. 
 
 It is to be hoped that the selection may in some way give 
 satisfaction to the generous friends who have so kindly 
 helped in its compilation. Authors have willingly sent plays 
 for my perusal; managers and producers have everywhere 
 helped me to find the authors. But particularly am I in 
 debted to those whose plays are here included. I have to 
 thank the New York centre of the Drama League, among 
 others, for the opportunity it gave me of reading rare and 
 scattered publications. Special acknowledgment must be 
 made to the publishers, and especially to Mr. Roland Holt, 
 for their permissions to reprint without which the book 
 would not have been possible. For valuable suggestions I am 
 indebted to Mr. Clayton Hamilton and Mr. D. L. Clark of 
 Columbia University, Dr. Edgar A. Hall and Mr. Emory 
 Holloway of Adelphi College, Miss Rica Brenner and Miss 
 Gertrude A. Smith. My personal gratitude must further 
 extend to all those whose single acts have brought this work 
 to its completion. 
 
 M. G. M. 
 JUNO, 1919. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PREFACE 
 
 THE ONE-ACT PLAY 
 
 ffantasg 
 
 SAM AVERAGE. Percy Mackaye 
 
 Six WHO PASS WHILE THE LENTILS BOIL. 
 
 Stuart Walker 
 
 poetic Drama 
 
 " VOICES." Hortense Flexner .... 
 THE MERRY MERRY CUCKOO. Jeanette Marks 
 
 Impressionistic SpisoDe 
 
 SINTRAM OF SKAGERRAK. Soda Cowan . 
 WILL o THE WISP. Doris F. Halman . 
 "BEYOND." Alice Gerstenberg 
 
 ot ITDeas 
 
 A GOOD WOMAN. George Middleton 
 FUNICULI FUNICULA. Rita Wellman 
 
 HUNGER. Eugene Pillot 
 
 Dramatic Episode 
 
 IN THE ZONE. Eugene G. O Neill 
 THE BRINK OF SILENCE. Esther E. Galbraith . 
 ALLISON S LAD. Beulah Marie Dix 
 
 MRS. PAT AND THE LAW. Mary Aldis 
 
 farce 
 
 LIMA BEANS. Alfred Kreymborg 
 
 THE WONDER HAT. Ben Hecht and Kenneth Sawyer 
 Goodman * 
 
 PACK 
 
 vii 
 xiii 
 
 3 
 21 
 
 51 
 61 
 
 77 
 
 93 
 
 111 
 
 121 
 137 
 
 157 
 
 175 
 201 
 213 
 231 
 
 251 
 269 
 
xii CONTENTS 
 
 Satire 
 SUPPRESSED DESIRES. George Cram Cook and Susan 
 
 GlaspeU . .. ....... 299 
 
 WHERE BUT IN AMERICA. Oscar M. Wolff . . . 323 
 
 t A QUESTION OF MORALITY. Percival Wilde . . . 341 
 
 MARTHA S MOURNING. Phoebe Hoffman ... . 357 
 
 RYLAND. Thomas Wood Stevens and Kenneth Sawyer 
 
 Goodman . . . . 371 
 
 THE LAST STRAW. Bosworth Crocker .... 397 
 HATTIE. Elva De Pue ....... 419 
 
 jflBcloDrama 
 
 DREGS. Frances Pemberton Spencer .... 439 
 
 Bppenfcfr 
 
 BIBLIOGRAPHIES : 
 
 1. The Little Theatre Movement . , . . 453 
 
 2. The One-Act Play . . . . . . .453 
 
 3. Bibliographies of One-Act Plays .B . . . 454 
 
 4. Selective List of Available One-Act Plays by 
 
 American Authors 455 
 
 n 
 f 
 
A 
 
 THE ONE-ACT PLAY 
 
 FTER the manner of the short-story, the one-act play 
 
 may be spelled with the hyphen, for the form has 
 
 developed certain compact qualities during the last twenty- 
 five years which make it j seem to parallel the short-story 
 form. 
 
 The one-act play, however, is not new. Short plays, 
 like tales, have always existed, although the short humorous 
 play shows a continuous development which the short 
 serious play lacks. Indeed, it is possible to trace back the 
 one-act farce as far as the Commedia dell arte, and probably, 
 although the intervening history may involve more or less 
 conjecture, even to the "satyric" play of the Greeks. In 
 the Commedia dell arte, at least, the skits and pranks of 
 Harlequin, Punchinello, and their companions were pre 
 sented in a short farcical form. In fact, the Commedia 
 dell arte consisted almost entirely of one-act farces. From 
 Italy the farce passed to Spain and France, from France 
 to Germany and to England, and thence, finally, to America. 
 Among the one-act plays of the Little Theatre to-day is 
 found the direct descendant of the form. 
 
 From the one-act farce the short comedy arose. It 
 may have developed because of the fact that Moliere could 
 not write a farce without basing it upon life, and that he 
 occasionally wrote plays of one act. However that may 
 be, the one-act plays of Moliere are the first to show the 
 comedy spirit. Among his contemporaries was Noel Haute- 
 roche, whose one-act plays, which were truly more comic 
 than farcical, were among the earliest to be generally recog 
 nized and used in the Comedie (1672). His work, although 
 
 xiii 
 
xiv THE ONE-ACT PLAY 
 
 it shows the strong influence of the old farce, is based pri 
 marily upon French life. After Hauteroche, La Fontaine 
 further developed the one-act comedy, and after him there 
 follows a long line Dancourt, Dufresny, Le Grand, Le Sage, 
 Lafont, Destouches, Boissy, and others, to the present time 
 all of whom have used the one-act form as a comic type. 
 
 England, too, has had a definite one-act humorous play, 
 beginning probably with Haywood s Interludes and extend 
 ing through Robert Cox s Drolleries to Lacy s British Drama 
 and the curtain raisers of the present day. In Germany 
 also, and in Spain particularly, there has been a correspond 
 ingly continuous development of the short humorous form. 
 
 The serious play of one act, however, fails to show such 
 continuous development. Its appearance, until the latter 
 part of the nineteenth century, has been sporadic. The 
 reason for this may be found in the fact that formerly the 
 shorter form was not held in such high repute as the longer, 
 but was considered well enough for buffoonery which would 
 tire were it extended, or for humorous dialogue which con 
 tained little action and of which the dramatic possibilities 
 were soon exhausted. In its early form it might be likened 
 to the conversational sketch with sometimes incidental 
 horse play between two people of our vaudeville stage. 
 In proportion as the short form had come to be associated 
 with the slap-stick drama, it was considered not a serious 
 form, nor the most worthy. 
 
 Although there did develop a short religious drama, this 
 arose from the people, and was looked upon rather as a form 
 of religion than of art. This drama included the mysteries, 
 miracle plays, moralities, and passion plays which grew 
 up from the primitive soil of all nations. These plays 
 constituted, moreover, a growth and a death in themselves, 
 and show no extraneous development. There were also 
 the short and serious school plays of England and of Hol 
 land, but neither did these foster a continuous one-act 
 drama. Although throughout the nineteenth century there 
 were sporadic appearances in England of a one-act play which 
 
THE ONE-ACT PLAY xv 
 
 was not comic a romantic drama, a historic drama, a 
 dramatic sketch present records show that scarcely one 
 a year was produced during the century. Should future 
 research bring to light even several times that many, it 
 could not be said that the serious one-act play was a devel 
 oped type. The mass of curtain raisers were farce, comedy, 
 travesty, extravaganza, burlesque, burletta, comic opera, 
 operetta, and comedietta. Nor was the serious one- 
 act play which did exist known outside of England; it 
 could not have influenced France and Germany in the 
 recent development. In Germany, Hans Sachs employed 
 the short play, but his influence was popular, not literary, 
 and it did not institute a genre. The more or less continuous 
 serious play of Spain has also not been known outside of 
 the country. Nor have any of these nineteenth-century 
 plays in any country aspired to a literary art. 
 
 Yet with the twentieth century, there has appeared almost 
 simultaneously in Germany, England, France, and in 
 America, a serious and literary one-act form. It has not 
 been caused by the American vaudeville melodrama, for 
 where this is either a patched and pasty cardboard produc 
 tion or the result of condensing a full-length play into a 
 playlet, the new one-act play is sufficient unto itself, and 
 has for its purpose, in addition to dramatic appeal, perfection 
 of form. 
 
 Where, then, was the inception of the literary one-act 
 play, a form which Maeterlinck, Sudermann, Barrie, Shaw, 
 Hauptmann, and many others considered worthy of their 
 pens ? It seems that some definite force must have entered 
 the theatre at the end of the nineteenth century to cause 
 a simultaneous and prolific growth of such plays from many 
 nations, where, previously, the one-act form had not been 
 thought the highest type of drama. In the short farcical 
 conversations, humor alone had been relied upon to hold 
 the attention of the audience, for drama, such as that of 
 Euripides, Shakespeare, Racine, Goethe, could not develop 
 itself within the compass of one act. But Ibsen brought the 
 
xvi THE ONE-ACT PLAY 
 
 dramatic idea. An idea, such a one as is the theme of an 
 act of Hauptmann s "Weavers * or of Barker s "Madras 
 House ", can present a dramatic development or a series 
 of dramatic developments within a short space of time, and 
 furthermore, can do it as effectively in one act as in several. 
 Accordingly, if the one-act play embodies an "idea", it 
 gains dramatic possibilities. By just such a substitution 
 of idea for mere humor the one-act play has been lifted above 
 the realm of farce and buffoonery. It is improbable that 
 any writer or writers set about deliberately to dignify the 
 one-act form ; it so happens, however, that whereas what 
 had formerly been considered the best drama could not 
 present itself effectively in one act, the newer drama can. 
 The fact that Great Britain has taken the lead both in the 
 drama of ideas and in the serious one-act play makes it 
 seem possible that the impulse which produced the one may 
 be responsible for both fields of endeavor. 
 
 But in any survey of the one-act play, the free theatre 
 must also be considered. It is true that the free theatre 
 was created in order to produce the plays of Ibsen and his 
 followers, and probable that the new one-act drama has 
 been created in order to sustain the free theatre. Other 
 wise the fact that the "dramatic idea" had made the one- 
 act form usable might not alone account for its universal 
 use. Given an art theatre, the production of a good short 
 play is always preferable to that of a poor long one. With 
 the high ideals of the free theatres and the small number 
 of plays of the Ibsen rank, the one-act play seems the inevi 
 table consequence. 
 
 But there is yet another cause for its general use. By 
 the end of the nineteenth century the short-story had come 
 to be a developed type. However differently it was applied 
 by the people of the various nations, it everywhere fostered 
 the belief in a short form with a singleness of impression 
 for its purpose. People had become accustomed to the 
 small unit, and had learned to admire it. Its application 
 in the field of drama was only a step. On investigation, one 
 
THE ONE-ACT PLAY xvii 
 
 finds that many of the writers of one-act plays are also 
 writers of short stories. 
 
 Local conditions, it is true, have had a great deal to do 
 with the development of the one-act form in each country, 
 for although the impulse was everywhere the same, the 
 results have differed. In England, for instance, during 
 the nineteenth century, the two-act play had been more 
 generally used than in other countries; therefore the step 
 to the one-act play was correspondingly short. In Ireland, 
 the presence of a National Theatre and the lack, at that 
 time, of a national playwright, called forth directly a body 
 of one-act literature. Germany was friendly to the one- 
 act form because her naturalistic turn of mind at this time 
 rendered even her longer drama episodic. 
 
 It is from the universal acceptance of the serious one-act 
 play as a new form that the desire to regard the humorous 
 play in the same manner has arisen. The effect of this 
 desire has been a remolding of all the short plays, whether 
 they have been comedy, farce, or melodrama, to conform 
 with the new ideals, so that, in spite of their heredity, many 
 of these plays are now developing toward the art type. 
 
 Because the development of the type is still transitional, 
 its history can hardly yet be written. Any selection of 
 one-act plays at the present time must include many which 
 are directly descended from the old farce and are not really 
 exponents of the new play. But there must be enough 
 of the new, also, to prove that it exists, and in America, 
 which has shown itself so able to excel in the short-story, 
 the development of the one-act play is significant. 
 
REPRESENTATIVE ONE-ACT 
 PLAYS 
 
SAM AVERAGE 
 
 PERCY MACKAYE 
 
 MR. PERCY MACKAYE is so well known that little 
 be said of him here. He was born in New York on March 
 16, 1875, of a family which had already wen lyurels tor 
 itself in drama. His father, Steele MacKaye, wrote some 
 twenty-five plays in about the same number of years, and 
 the son, Percy, has written more than twenty-five in four 
 teen years. 
 
 Mr. MacKaye was educated at Harvard University, and 
 later studied at the University of Leipzig. Dartmouth 
 College conferred upon him the honorary degree of Master 
 of Arts in 1914. He has traveled extensively in Europe, 
 residing a different times at Rome, Brunnen (Switzerland), 
 Leipzig, and London. From 1900 to 1904 he taught in a 
 private school in New York. But since that time he has 
 been engaged entirely in dramatic art. He is a member 
 of the National Institute of Arts and Letters. 
 
 Mr. MacKaye s efforts in the dramatic field have been 
 varied. He has to his credit masques, pageants, operas, 
 as well as plays ; and he is, in addition, an able lecturer and 
 contributor to magazines. His works are: "A Garland 
 to Sylvia", "The Canterbury Pilgrims", "The Scarecrow", 
 "Fenris the Wolf", "Jeanne D Arc", "Sappho and Phaon", 
 "Mater", "Anti-Matrimony", "Tomorrow", "Yankee Fan 
 tasies" (five one-act plays), "A Thousand Years Ago", 
 " Saint-Gaudens Masque, Prologue", Gloucester Pageant, 
 Pittsburgh Pageant, "Sanctuary" (a Bird Masque), Saint 
 
SAM AVERAGE 
 
 Louis Masque, "The New Citizenship", "Caliban", "Sin- 
 bad, The Sailor", "The Immigrants", "The Canterbury 
 Pilgrims", "Washington, the Man Who Made Us." 
 
 Of his "Yankee Fantasies", "Sam Average" is perhaps 
 the most popular. 
 
SAM AVERAGE 
 
 A SILHOUETTE 
 
 BY PERCY MACKAYE 
 
"Sam Average" was originally produced at the Toy 
 Theatre, Boston, on February 26, 1912. 
 
 Original Cast 
 
 ANDREW Mr. Freedley 
 
 JOEL Mr. Bunker 
 
 ELLEN Miss Lingard 
 
 SAM AVERAGE Mr. Menard 
 
 COFYBIQHT, 1912, BY PERCY MACKAYE. 
 
 All rights reserved. 
 
 Reprinted from " Yankee Fantasies " by permission of and special arrangement with 
 Percy MacKaye and Duffield and Company, New York City. 
 
 Application for the right of performing "Sam Average" must be made to Percy 
 MacKaye, Cornish, New Hampshire ; Post-office, Windsor, Vermont. 
 
 No performance of this play, professional or amateur, or public reading of it 
 may be given without the written permission of the author and the payment of royalty. 
 
SAM AVERAGE 
 
 SCENE. An intrenchment in Canada, near Niagara Falls, 
 in the year 1814- Night, shortly before dawn. 
 
 On the right, the dull glow of a smouldering wood-fire ruddies 
 the earthen embankment, the low-stretched outline of which 
 forms, with darkness, the scenic background. 
 
 Near the centre, left, against the dark, a flag with stars floats 
 from its standard. 
 
 Beside the fire, ANDREW, reclined, gazes at a small frame in 
 his hand; near him is a knapsack, with contents emptied 
 beside it. 
 
 On the embankment, JOEL, with a gun, paces back and forth, 
 a blanket thrown about his shoulders. 
 JOEL (with a singing call). Four o clock ! All s well ! 
 
 [Jumping down from the embankment, he approaches the fire. 
 ANDREW. By God, Joel, it s bitter. 
 JOEL (rubbing his hands over the coals). A mite sharpish. 
 ANDREW (looks up eagerly) . What ? 
 JOEL. Cuts sharp, for Thanksgivin . 
 
 ANDREW (sinks back, gloomily). Oh! (A pause) I won 
 dered you should agree with me. You meant the weather. 
 
 I meant 
 
 [A pause again. 
 
 JOEL. Well, Andy : what d you mean ? 
 ANDREW. Life. 
 JOEL. Shucks ! 
 ANDREW (to himself) . Living ! 
 
 JOEL (sauntering over left, listens) . Hear a rooster crow ? 
 ANDREW. No. What are you doing ? 
 JOEL. Tiltin the flag over crooked in the dirt. 
 
 signal. 
 
8 SAM AVERAGE 
 
 ANDREW. Nothing could be more appropriate, unless we 
 buried it buried it in the dirt ! 
 
 JOEL. She s to find us where the flag s turned down. I 
 fixed that with the sergeant all right. The rooster crowin 
 s her watch-word for us. 
 
 ANDREW. An eagle screaming, Joel : that would have been 
 better. (Rising) Ah ! 
 [He laughs painfully. 
 
 JOEL. Hush up, Andy! The nearest men ain t two rods 
 away. You 11 wake em. Pitch it low. 
 
 ANDREW. Don t be alarmed. I m coward enough. 
 
 JOEL. Course, though, there ain t much danger. I m sen 
 tinel this end, and the sergeant has the tip at t other. 
 Besides, you may call it the reg lar thing. There s been 
 two thousand deserters already in this tuppenny-ha penny 
 war, and none on em the worse off. When a man don t 
 get his pay for nine months well, he ups and takes his 
 vacation : why not ? When Nell joins us, we 11 hike up 
 the Niagara, cross over to Tonawanda and take our break 
 fast in Buffalo. By that time, the boys here will be marchin 
 away toward Lundy s Lane. 
 
 ANDREW (walks back and forth, shivering). I m afraid. 
 
 JOEL. Fraid ? Bosh ! 
 
 ANDREW. I m afraid to face 
 
 JOEL. Face what ? We won t get caught. 
 
 ANDRSW. Your sister my wife. 
 
 JOEL. Nell ! Why, ain t she comin here just a-purpose to 
 get you ? Ain t there reason enough, Lord knows ? Ain t 
 you made up your mind to light out home anyhow ? 
 
 ANDREW. Yes ; that s just what she 11 never forgive me for. 
 In her heart she 11 never think of me the same. For she 
 knows as well as I what pledge I 11 be breaking what 
 sacred pledge. 
 
 JOEL. What you mean ? 
 
 ANDREW. No matter, no matter : this is gush. 
 
 [He returns to the fire and begins to fumble over the contents 
 of his knapsack. Joel watches him idly. 
 
SAM AVERAGE 
 
 JOEL. One of her curls ? 
 
 ANDREW (Booking at a lock of hair, in the firelight) . No ; the 
 
 baby s, little Andy s. Some day they ll tell him how his 
 
 father - 
 
 [He winces, and puts the lock away. 
 JOEL (going toward the embankment) . Listen ! 
 ANDREW (ties up the package, muttering ) . Son of a traitor ! 
 JOEL (tiptoeing back). It s crowed. That s her. 
 
 [Leaping to his feet, Andrew stares toward the embankment 
 
 where the flag is dipped; then turns his back to it, closing 
 
 his eyes and gripping his hands. 
 
 After a pause, silently the figure of a YOUNG WOMAN emerges 
 
 from the dark and stands on the embankment. She is bare 
 headed and ill-clad. 
 
 Joel touches Andrew, who turns and looks toward her. 
 
 Silently, she steals down to him and they embrace. 
 ANDREW. My Nell ! 
 ELLEN. Nearly a year 
 ANDREW. Now, at last ! 
 ELLEN. Hold me close, Andy. 
 ANDREW. You re better ? 
 ELLEN. Let s forget just for now. 
 ANDREW. Is he grown much ? 
 ELLEN. Grown ? You should see him ! But so ill : What 
 
 could I do ? You see 
 ANDREW. I know, I know. 
 ELLEN. The money was all gone. They turned me out at 
 
 the old place, and then 
 ANDREW. I know, dear. 
 
 ELLEN. I got sewing, but when the smallpox 
 ANDREW. I have all your letters, Nell. Come, help me to 
 
 pack. 
 
 ELLEN. What ! You re really decided - 
 JOEL (approaching) . Hello, Sis ! 
 ELLEN (absently) . Ah, Joel : that you ? 
 
 (Eagerly, following Andrew to the knapsack) 
 
 But my dear 
 
10 SAM AVERAGE 
 
 ANDREW. Just these few things, and we re off. 
 
 ELLEN (agitated) . Wait ; wait ! You don t know yet why 
 
 I ve come instead of writing. 
 ANDREW. I can guess. 
 ELLEN. But you can t : that s what s so hard. I have 
 
 to tell you something, and then (Slowly] I must know 
 
 from your own eyes, from yourself, that you wish to do 
 
 this, Andrew : that you think it is right. 
 ANDREW (gently). I guessed that. 
 ELLEN. This is what I must tell you. It s not just the 
 
 sickness, it s not only the baby, not the money gone 
 
 and all that ; it s it s - 
 ANDREW (murmurs) . My God ! 
 ELLEN. It s what all that brings the helplessness : I ve 
 
 been insulted. Andy 
 
 (Her voice breaks) 
 
 I want a protector. 
 ANDREW (taking her in his arms, where she sobs). There, 
 
 dear ! 
 
 ELLEN (with a low moan) . You know. 
 ANDREW. I know. Come, now : we 11 go. 
 ELLEN (her face lighting up). Oh! and you dare? It s 
 
 right ? 
 ANDREW (moving from her,, with a hoarse laugh). Dare? 
 
 Dare I be damned by God and all His angels ? Ha ! 
 
 Come, we re slow. 
 JOEL. Time enough. 
 ELLEN (sinking upon Joel s knapsack as a seat, leans her head 
 
 on her hands, and looks strangely at Andrew). I d better 
 
 have written, I m afraid. 
 ANDREW (controlling his emotion). Now don t take it that 
 
 way. I ve considered it all. 
 ELLEN (with deep quiet). Blasphemously? 
 ANDREW. Reasonably, my brave wife. When I enlisted, I 
 
 did so in a dream. I dreamed I was called to love and 
 
 serve our country. But that dream is shattered. This 
 
 sordid war, this political murder, has not one single prin- 
 
SAM AVERAGE 11 
 
 ciple of humanity to excuse its bloody sacrilege. It does 
 n t deserve my loyalty our loyalty. 
 
 ELLEN. Are you saying this for my sake ? What of 
 "God and His angels"? 
 
 ANDREW (not looking at her) . If we had a just cause a 
 cause of liberty like that in Seventy-six ; if to serve one s 
 country meant to serve God and His angels then, yes : 
 a man might put away wife and child. He might say: 
 "I will not be a husband, a father; I will be a patriot." 
 But now like this tangled in a web of spiders caught 
 in a grab-net of politicians and you, you and our baby- 
 boy, like this hell let in on our home no, Country 
 be cursed ! 
 
 ELLEN (slowly) . So, then, when little Andy grows up 
 
 ANDREW (groaning). I say that the only thing 
 
 ELLEN. I am to tell him - 
 
 ANDREW (defiantly). Tell him his father deserted his coun 
 try, and thanked God for the chance. 
 (Looking about him passionately) 
 Here! 
 
 (He tears a part of the flag from its standard, and reaches it 
 toward her) 
 
 You re cold ; put this round you. 
 
 [As he is putting the strip of colored silk about her shoulders, 
 there rises, faint yet close by, a sound of fifes and flutes, play 
 ing the merry march-strains of " Yankee Doodle." 
 At the same time, there enters along the embankment, dimly, 
 enveloped in a great cloak, a tall FIGURE, which pauses beside 
 the standard of the torn flag, silhouetted against the first pale 
 streaks of the dawn. 
 
 ELLEN (gazing at Andrew). What s the matter? 
 
 ANDREW (listening). Who are they? Where is it? 
 
 JOEL (starts, alertly). He hears something. 
 
 ANDREW. Why should they play before daybreak ? 
 
 ELLEN. Andy - 
 
 JOEL (whispers). Ssh ! Look out : we re spied on. 
 
 [He points to the embankment. Andrew and Ellen draw back, 
 
SAM AVERAGE 
 
 THE FIGURE (straightening the flag-standard, and leaning on it). 
 
 Desartin ? 
 ANDREW (puts Ellen behind him). Who s there? The 
 
 watchword ! 
 
 THE FIGURE. God save the smart folks ! 
 JOEL (to Andrew). He s on to us. Pickle him quiet, or it s 
 
 court-martial ! 
 
 (Showing a long knife) 
 
 Shall I give him this? 
 ANDRE w (taking it from him) . No; /will. 
 ELLEN (seizing his arm) . Andrew ! 
 
 ANDREW. Let gO. 
 
 (The Figure, descending into the entrenchment, approaches 
 with face muffled. Joel draws Ellen away. Andrew moves 
 toward the Figure slowly. They meet and pause) 
 You re a spy ! 
 
 [With a quick flash, Andrew raises the knife to strike, but 
 pauses, staring. The Figure, throwing up one arm toward 
 the blow, reveals through the parted cloak a glint of stars 
 in the firelight. 1 
 
 THE FIGURE. Steady boys : I m one of ye. The sergeant 
 told me to drop round. 
 
 JOEL. Oh, the sergeant ! That s all right, then. 
 
 ANDREW (dropping the knife) . Who are you ? 
 
 THE FIGURE . Who be I ? My name, ye mean ? My name s 
 Average : Sam Average : Univarsal Sam, some o my 
 prophetic friends calls me. 
 
 ANDREW. What are you doing here now ? 
 
 THE FIGURE. Oh, tendin to business. 
 
 JOEL. Tendin to other folks business, eh ? 
 
 THE FIGURE (with a touch of weariness) . Ye-es ; reckon that 
 is my business. Some other folks is me. 
 
 JOEL (grimacing to Ellen) . Cracked ! 
 
 l The head and face of the Figure are partly hidden by a beak-shaped 
 cowl. Momentarily, however, when his head is turned toward the fire, 
 enough of the face is discernible to reveal his narrow iron-gray beard, 
 shaven upper lip, aquiline nose, and eyes that twinkle in the dimness. 
 
SAM AVERAGE 13 
 
 THE FIGURE (to Andrew). You re a mite backward in wages, 
 ain t ye ? 
 
 ANDREW. Nine months. What of that ? 
 
 THE FIGURE. That s what I dropped round for. Seems like 
 when a man s endoored and fit, like you have, for his coun 
 try, and calculates he 11 quit, he ought to be takin a little 
 suthin horn for Thanksgivin . So I fetched round your 
 pay. 
 
 ANDREW. My pay ! You ? 
 
 THE FIGURE. Yes ; I m the paymaster. 
 
 ELLEN (coming forward, eagerly). Andy! The money, is 
 it? 
 
 THE FIGURE (bows with a grave, old-fashioned stateliness) . 
 Your sarvent, Ma am ! 
 
 ANDREW (speaking low). Keep back, Nell. 
 (To the Figure) 
 You you were saying 
 
 THE FIGURE. I were about to say how gold bein scarce down 
 to the Treasury, I fetched ye some s curities instead: 
 some national I.O.U s, as ye might say. 
 (He takes out an old powder horn, and rattles it quietly) 
 That s them. 
 
 (Pouring from the horn into his palm some glistening, golden 
 grains) 
 Here they be. 
 
 ELLEN (peering, with Joel). Gold, Andy ! 
 
 JOEL (with a snigger). Gold nothin ! That s corn 
 just Injun corn : ha ! 
 
 THE FIGURE (bowing gravely). It s the quality, Ma am, what 
 counts, as ye might say. 
 
 JOEL (behind his hand) . His top-loft leaks ! 
 
 THE FIGURE. These here karnels, now, were give me down 
 Plymouth way, in Massachusetts, the fust Thanksgivin 
 seems like I can remember. T wa n t long after the 
 famine we had thar. Me bein some hungry, the red 
 folks fetched a hull-lot o this round, with the compK- 
 ments of their capting what were his name now ? 
 
14 SAM AVERAGE 
 
 Massasoit. This here s the last handful on t left. 
 
 Thought ye might like some, bein Thanksgivin . 
 JOEL (in a low voice to Ellen). His screws are droppin out. 
 
 Come and pack. We ve got to mark time and skip. 
 THE FIGURE (without looking at Joel) . Eight or ten minutes 
 
 still to spare, boys. The sergeant said wait till ye 
 
 hear his jew s-harp playin of that new war tune : The 
 
 Star Spangled Banner. Then ye 11 know the coast s 
 
 clear. 
 JOEL. Gad, that s right. I remember now. 
 
 [He draws Ellen away to the knapsack, which they begin to 
 
 pack. Andrew has never removed his eyes from the tall form 
 
 in the cloak. 
 
 Now, as the Figure pours back the yellow grains from his 
 
 palm into the powder horn, he speaks, hesitatingly. 
 ANDREW. I think I d like some. 
 THE FIGURE. Some o what ? 
 ANDREW. Those my pay. 
 THE FIGURE (cheerfully) . So ; would ye ? 
 
 (Handing him the horn) 
 
 Reckon that s enough ? 
 ANDREW (not taking it). That s what I want to make sure 
 
 of first. 
 
 THE FIGURE. Oh ! So ye re hesitatin ! 
 ANDREW. Yes ; but I want you to help me decide. Pardon 
 
 me, Sir ; you re a stranger ; yet somehow I feel I may ask 
 
 your help. You ve come just in time. 
 THE FIGURE. Queer I should a-dropped round jest now, 
 
 wa n t it ? S posin we take a turn. 
 
 [Together they walk toward the embankment. 
 
 By the knapsack, Ellen finds the little frame. 
 ELLEN (to herself) . My picture ! 
 
 [She looks toward Andrew affectionately. 
 
 Joel, lifting the knapsack, beckons to her. 
 JOEL. There s more stuff over here. 
 
 [He goes off, right; Ellen follows him. 
 ANDREW (to the Figure). I should like the judgment of your 
 
SAM AVERAGE 15 
 
 experience, Sir. I can t quite see your face, yet you ap 
 pear to be one who has had a great deal of experience. 
 
 THE FIGURE. Why, consid able some. 
 
 ANDREW. Did you happen to fight in the late war for 
 independence ? 
 
 THE FIGURE. Happen to ? 
 (Laughing quietly) 
 N-no, not fight : ye see I was paymaster. 
 
 ANDREW. But you went through the war? 
 
 THE FIGURE. Ye-es, oh yes ; I went through it. I took out 
 my fust reg lar papers down to Philadelphie, in 76, seems 
 like t was the fourth day o July. But I was paymaster 
 afore that. 
 
 ANDREW. Tell me : I ve heard it said there were deserters 
 even in those days, even from the roll-call of Washington. 
 Is it true ? 
 
 THE FIGURE. True, boy ? Have ye ever watched a prairie 
 fire rollin towards ye, billowin with flame and smoke, 
 and seed all the midget cowerin prairie-dogs scootin for 
 their holes? Wall, that s the way I watched Howe s 
 army sweepin crosst the Jarsey marshes, and seed the 
 desartin* little patriots, with their chins over their shoulders 
 skedaddlin home ards. 
 
 ANDREW. What the Americans ! 
 
 THE FIGURE. All but a handful on em them as weren t 
 canines, ye might say, but men. They set a back-fire 
 goin at Valley Forge. Most on em burnt their toes and 
 fingers off, lightin on t thar in the white frost, but they 
 stuck it through and saved wall, the prairie-dogs. 
 
 ANDREW. But they those others : What reason did they 
 give to God and their own souls for deserting? 
 
 THE FIGURE. To who ? 
 
 ANDREW. To their consciences : What was their reason ? 
 It must have been a noble one in Seventy-six. Their 
 reason then : don t you see, I must have it. I must know 
 what reason real heroes gave for their acts. You were 
 there. You can tell me. 
 
16 SAM AVERAGE 
 
 THE FIGURE. Real heroes, eh? Look around ye, then: 
 To-day s the heroic age, and the true brand o hero is 
 aPays in the market. Look around ye ! 
 
 ANDREW. What, here in this war of jobsters, this petty 
 campaign of monstrous boodle ? 
 
 THE FIGURE. Thar we be ! 
 
 ANDREW. Why, here are only a lot of cowardly half-men, 
 like me lovers of their own folks their wives and 
 babies at home. They 11 make sacrifices for them. But 
 real men like our fathers in Seventy-six : they looked in 
 the beautiful face of Liberty, and sacrificed to her! 
 
 THE FIGURE. Our fathers, my boy, was jest as fond o 
 poetry as you be. They talked about the beautiful face 
 o* Liberty same s you ; but when the hom -made eyes and 
 cheeks of their sweethearts and young uns took to cryin , 
 they desarted their beautiful goddess and skun out horn*. 
 
 ANDREW. But there were some 
 
 THE FIGURE. Thar was some as didn t yes ; and thar *s 
 some as don t to-day. Those be the folks on my pay-roll. 
 Why, look a-here : I calc late I wouldn t fetch much on 
 the beauty counter. My talk ain t rhyme stuff, nor the 
 Muse o Grammar wa n t my schoolma am. Th ain t 
 painter nor clay-sculptor would pictur me jest like I 
 stand. For the axe has hewed me, and the plough has 
 furrered ; and the arnin of gold by my own elbow-grease 
 has give me the shrewd eye at a bargain. I manure my 
 crops this side o Jordan, and as for t other shore, I d ruther 
 swap jokes with the Lord than listen to his sarmons. And 
 yet for the likes o me, jest for to arn my wages ha, the 
 many, many boys and gals that s gone to their grave-beds, 
 and when I a-closed their eyes, the love-light was shinin* 
 thar. 
 
 ANDREW (who has listened, with awe). What are you ? What 
 are you? 
 
 THE FIGURE. Me? I m the pay-master. 
 
 ANDREW. I want to serve you like those others. 
 THE FIGURE. Slow, slow, boy ! Nobody sarves me. 
 
SAM AVERAGE 17 
 
 ANDREW. But they died for you the others. 
 
 THE FIGURE. No, t wa n t for me : t was for him as pays 
 the wages : the one as works through me the one higher 
 up. I m only the pay-master : kind of a needful make 
 shift his obedient sarvent. 
 
 ANDREW (with increasing curiosity, seeks to peer in the Figure s 
 face) . But the one up higher who is he ? 
 
 THE FIGURE (turning his head away). Would ye sarve him, 
 think, if ye heerd his voice ? 
 
 ANDREW (ardently, drawing closer) . And saw his face ! 
 [Drawing his cowl lower and taking Andrew s arm, the 
 Figure leads him up on the embankment, where they stand 
 together. 
 
 THE FIGURE. Hark a-yonder ! 
 
 ANDREW (listening). Is it thunder? 
 
 THE FIGURE. Have ye forgot ? 
 
 ANDREW. The voice ! I remember now : Niagara ! 
 
 [With awe, Andrew looks toward the Figure, who stands 
 shrouded and still, facing the dawn. From far off comes a 
 sound as of falling waters, and with that a deep, murmur 
 ous voice, which seems to issue from the Figure s cowl. 
 
 THE VOICE. I am the Voice that was heard of your fathers, 
 and your fathers fathers. Mightier mightier, I shall 
 be heard of your sons. I am the Million in whom the one 
 is lost, and I am the One in whom the millions are saved. 
 Their ears shall be shut to my thunders, their eyes to my 
 blinding stars. In shallow streams they shall tap my life- 
 blood for gold. With dregs of coal and of copper they 
 shall pollute me. In the mystery of my mountains they 
 shall assail me ; in the majesty of my forests, strike me 
 down; with engine and derrick and mill-stone, bind me 
 their slave. Some for a lust, some for a love, shall desert 
 me. One and one, for his own, shall fall away. Yet one 
 and one and one shall return to me for life ; the deserter 
 and the destroyer shall re-create me. Primeval, their 
 life-blood is mine. My pouring waters are passion, my 
 lightnings are laughter of man. I am the One in whom 
 
18 SAM AVERAGE 
 
 the millions are saved, and I am the Million in whom the 
 
 one is lost. 
 ANDREW (yearningly, to the Figure) . Your face ! 
 
 (The Figure turns majestically away. Andrew clings to 
 
 him) 
 
 Your face ! 
 
 [In the shadow of the flag, the Figure unmufflesfor an instant. 
 
 Peering, dazzled, Andrew staggers back, with a low cry, and, 
 
 covering his eyes, falls upon the embankment. 
 
 From away, left, the thrumming of a jew s-harp is heard, 
 
 playing " The Star Spangled Banner." 
 
 From the right, enter Joel and Ellen. 
 
 Descending from the embankment, the Figure stands apart. 
 JOEL. Well, Colonel Average, time s up. 
 ELLEN (seeing Andrew s prostrate form, hastens to him). Andy ! 
 
 What s happened ? 
 ANDREW (rising slowly). Come here. I 11 whisper it. 
 
 [He leads her beside the embankment, beyond which the dawn 
 
 is beginning to redden. 
 
 JOEL. Yonder s the sergeant s jew s-harp. That s our sig 
 nal, Nell. So long, Colonel. 
 THE FIGURE (nodding). So long, sonny. 
 ANDREW (holding Ellen s hands, passionately). You under 
 stand ? You do ? 
 ELLEN (looking in his eyes) . I understand, dear. 
 
 [They kiss each other. 
 JOEL (calls low). Come, you married turtles. The road s 
 
 clear. Follow me now. Sneak. 
 
 [Carrying his knapsack, Joel climbs over the embankment, 
 
 and disappears. 
 
 The thrumming of the jew s-harp continues. 
 
 Ellen, taking the strip of silk flag from her shoulders, ties it 
 
 to the standard. 
 
 ANDREW (faintly). God bless you! 
 ELLEN (as they part hands) . Good-bye ! 
 
 [The Figure has remounted the embankment, where in the 
 
 distincter glow of the red dawn the grey folds of his cloak, 
 
SAM AVERAGE 19 
 
 hanging from his shoulders, resemble the half -closed wings of 
 an eagle, the beaked cowl falling, as a kind of visor, before his 
 face, concealing it. 
 
 THE FIGURE. Come, little gal. 
 
 (Ellen goes to him, and hides her face in the great cloak. 
 As she does so, he draws from it a paper, writes on it, and 
 hands it to Andrew, with the powder horn) 
 By the bye, Andy, here s that s curity. Them here s my 
 initials : they re all what s needful. Jest file this in the 
 right pigeonhole, and you 11 draw your pay. Keep your 
 upper lip, boy. I 11 meet ye later, mebbe, at Lundy s 
 Lane. 
 
 ANDREW (wistfully). You 11 take her home? 
 
 THE FIGURE. Yes : reckon she 11 housekeep for your uncle, 
 till you get back; won t ye, Nellie? Come, don t cry, 
 little gal. We 11 soon git quainted. T aint the fust time 
 sweethearts has called me Uncle. 
 
 [Flinging back his great cloak, he throws one wing of it, with 
 his arm, about her shoulders, thus with half its reverse side 
 draping her with shining stripes and stars. By the same 
 action, his own figure is made partly visible the legs clad in 
 the tight, instep-strapped trousers [blue and white] of the 
 Napoleonic era. Holding the girl gently to him while her 
 face turns back toward Andrew he leads her, silhouetted 
 against the sunrise, along the embankment, and disappears. 
 Meantime the thrumming twang of the jew s-harp grows 
 sweeter, mellower, modulated with harmonies that, filling now 
 the air with elusive strains of the American war-hymn, mingle 
 with the faint dawn-twitterings of birds. 
 
 Andrew stares silently after the departed forms ; then, slowly 
 coming down into the entrenchment, lifts from the ground his 
 gun and ramrod, leans on the gun, and reading the paper 
 in his hand by the growing light mutters it aloud : 
 
 U. S. A. 
 
 Smiling sternly, he crumples the paper in his fist, makes a 
 wad of it, and rams it into his gun-barrel. 
 CURTAIN 
 
SIX WHO PASS WHILE THE 
 LENTILS BOIL 
 
 STUART WALKER 
 
 MR. STUART WALKER was born in Augusta, Kentucky. 
 In 1890 he moved to Cincinnati where he entered the 
 University and received his degree. Some time later he 
 came to New York and completed a course at the American 
 Academy of Dramatic Arts. He then secured a position 
 with Belasco, and quickly rose to be General Director. 
 In 1914, he organized and established his own Portmanteau 
 Company, which has been very significant in Little Theatre 
 history. The Portmanteau stage is complete theatrically 
 and can be packed up and carried, in its entire form, 
 from one city to another. For this reason it is probably 
 better known nationally than any other Little Theatre. 
 
 Mr. Walker has produced in this theatre: "The Moon 
 Lady", which he wrote in 1908; "Six Who Pass While the 
 Lentils Boil", written in 1915 (and which it might be inter, 
 esting to note was completed in a single day) ; " The Trimp- 
 let", 1915; "The Seven Gifts of Pantomime", 1915; 
 "Nevertheless", 1915 ; "The Lady of the Weeping Willow 
 Tree", 1916; "The Birthday of the Infanta", 1916; "The 
 Very Naked Boy", 1916; and "The Medicine Show", 1916. 
 
 In addition to the plays which he has given with the 
 Portmanteau Company, Mr. Walker has produced a drama 
 tization of Booth Tarkington s "Seventeen", and "Jonathan 
 Makes a Wish." His Portmanteau plays have been published 
 under the title "Portmanteau Plays." 
 
SIX WHO PASS WHILE THE LENTILS 
 
 BOIL 
 
 BY STUART WALKER 
 
"Six Who Pass While the Lentils Boil" was originally pro 
 duced at an invitation performance at Christodora House, 
 New York City, July 14, 1915. The first public perform 
 ance was at Jordan Hall, Boston, February 14, 1916. Both 
 performances were given under the auspices of the Port 
 manteau Theatre. 
 
 Original Cast 
 
 1915 1916 
 
 THE PROLOGUE . . Henry Kiefer Lew Medbury 
 
 THE DEVICE-BEARER Edmond Crenshaw Edmond Cren- 
 
 BOY .... 
 
 QUEEN . . . 
 MIME . . . 
 MILKMAID . . 
 BLINDMAN . . 
 BALLAD SINGER 
 HEADSMAN . 
 
 James W. Morrison 
 Judith Lowry 
 William Farrell 
 Nancy Winston 
 Joseph Graham 
 Tom Powers 
 McKay Morris 
 
 Gregory Kelly 
 Judith Lowry 
 WilmotHeitland 
 Nancy Winston 
 Edgar Stehli 
 Stuart Walker 
 McKay Morris 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1917, BY STEWART AND KIDD, CINCINNATI. 
 
 Reprinted from "Portmanteau Plays" by permission of and special arrangement 
 with Stuart Walker and Stewart and Kidd. 
 
 Application for the right of performing "Six Who Pass While the Lentils Boil" 
 must be made to Mr. Stuart Walker, 304 Carnegie Hall, New York City. Public 
 performance forbidden. 
 
SIX WHO PASS WHILE THE LENTILS BOIL 
 
 THE SCENE is a kitchen. 
 
 THE PERIOD is when you will. 
 
 Before the opening of the curtains the Prologue enters upon 
 
 the forestage and summons the Device-Bearer who carries a 
 
 large copper pot. 
 
 PROLOGUE. This is a copper pot. (The Device-Bearer shows 
 it to the audience carefully) It is filled with boiling water. 
 (The Device-Bearer makes the sound of bubbling water) It is 
 on the fire. See the flames. (The Device-Bearer sets the 
 pot in the center of the forestage and blows under it with a 
 pair of bellows) And see the water boiling over. (The 
 Device-Bearer again makes the sound of bubbling water and 
 then withdraws to where he can see the play from the side of 
 the forestage) We are looking into the kitchen of the Boy 
 whose mother left him alone. I do not know where she 
 has gone but I do know that he is gathering lentils now. 
 
 YOU. What are lentils ? 
 
 PROLOGUE. A lentil? Why a lentil, don t you see, is not 
 a bean nor yet a pea ; but it is kin to both . . . You must 
 imagine that the boy has built the fire and set the water 
 boiling. He is very industrious but you need not feel sorry 
 for him. His mother is very good to him and he is safe. 
 Are you ready now ? . . . Very well. Be quiet. 
 [The Prologue claps his hands twice. 
 
 The curtains open and a kitchen is disclosed. There are a 
 bench, a stool and a cupboard. A great door at the back opens 
 into a corridor. There are also two windows one higher 
 than the other looking upon the corridor. A t the right a door 
 opens into the bedroom of the Boy s mother. A great pewter 
 spoon lies upon the shelf in the cupboard. 
 
26 SIX WHO PASS WHILE THE LENTILS BOIL 
 
 A large Butterfly comes in through the doorway, flits about and 
 
 looks off stage. 
 
 The song of the Boy is heard from the garden. 
 
 The Butterfly goes to the door, poises a moment, then alights 
 
 on the cupboard. 
 
 The Boy enters with a great bowl filled with lentils. 
 
 The Butterfly flies to the bowl and satisfied returns to the cup 
 board. 
 
 The Boy smiles at the Butterfly but he does not touch him. 
 
 Then he empties the lentils into the pot and water splashes 
 
 on his careless hand. 
 
 A moan is heard in the distance. The Boy and the Butterfly 
 
 go to the door. 
 
 The Queen s voice is heard calling: 
 
 Butterfly, Butterfly, where shall I hide? 
 
 [Enter the Queen. 
 
 QUEEN. Boy, Boy oh, I am distraught ! 
 you. What is distraught ? 
 PROLOGUE. Distraught means distracted, perplexed, beset 
 
 with doubt, worried by some fear. 
 BOY (pityingly). Why are you distraught? 
 QUEEN. Oh Oh Oh They are going to behead me ! 
 BOY. When ? 
 QUEEN. Before mid-day. 
 BOY. Why are they going to behead you? Is it a story? 
 
 Tell it to me. 
 
 QUEEN. I was guilty of a breach of etiquette. 
 BOY. What is that? 
 QUEEN. I did something that was considered bad manners 
 
 and the law says the punishment is decapitation. 
 YOU. What is decapitation ? 
 PROLOGUE. Decapitation is beheading; cutting off one s 
 
 head. 
 
 BOY. Why, only kings and queens can be decapitated. 
 QUEEN. Oh, I know I know 
 BOY (disappointed) . Are you a queen ? 
 QUEEN. Yes. 
 
SIX WHO PASS WHILE THE LENTILS BOIL 27 
 
 BOY. I thought all queens were big. My mother says they 
 
 are always regal. And my mother knows. 
 QUEEN. Oh, I am the queen. / am the queen ; but I am 
 
 so unhappy. 
 BOY. My mother told me kings and queens knew no fear ? 
 
 Why, you re afraid. 
 
 QUEEN. Oh, Boy, Boy, I am your queen and I am afraid 
 and unhappy. And queens are just like other people 
 when they are afraid and unhappy. 
 BOY (disappointed). Aren t they always regal? 
 QUEEN. No no. Oh, little boy, hide me, hide me from 
 
 the Dreadful Headsman ! 
 BOY. I haven t any place to hide you. You couldn t get 
 
 under the bench and you couldn t get into the cupboard. 
 QUEEN. Little boy, can t you see that I shall lose my head 
 
 if I am found ? 
 BOY. You might have hidden in the pot if I hadn t put it 
 
 on the fire. 
 
 QUEEN. Oh Oh Oh - 
 BOY. I m sorry. 
 QUEEN. I am distraught. 
 
 BOY. Well, I ll hide you, because you are distraught ; but 
 I am not sure you are a queen. . . . Where s your 
 crown ? You can t be a queen without a crown ! 
 [She reaches up to her head. 
 
 QUEEN. Oh, I was running so fast that it must have slipped 
 from my head. (Sees the Butterfly) Butterfly, tell him 
 I am your Queen. 
 
 [The Butterfly flies to her head and lights on her disheveled 
 locks like a diadem. 
 
 BOY. Oh, I have talked to the Queen ! . . . You can hide 
 in my mother s bedroom in there; but first please tell 
 me a story. 
 
 QUEEN. They will find me here. I ll tell you a story after 
 ward. 
 
 BOY. I want you to tell me now. 
 QUEEN. Well, you watch at the door and warn me when 
 
28 SIX WHO PASS WHILE THE LENTILS BOIL 
 
 you see some one coming. (The Butterfly brushes her ear) 
 But stay, the Butterfly says he ll watch. 
 [The Butterfly goes to the door. 
 
 BOY. Will he know ? 
 
 QUEEN. Oh, yes. He is a wonderful butterfly wise be 
 yond his years. 
 
 BOY. Sit down and tell me your story. 
 
 [He places a black pillow for the Queen on the step and an 
 orange pillow for himself. 
 
 OUEEN. Last night we celebrated the second year of peace 
 with the neighboring kingdom. We were dancing the 
 minuet just after the banquet, when I stepped on the 
 ring-toe of my husband the King s great aunt. 
 
 BOY. Didn t you say excuse me ? 
 
 QUEEN. It was useless. The law says that if a queen steps 
 on the ring-toe of the King s great aunt or any member of 
 her family the Queen must be beheaded while the King s 
 four clocks are striking twelve at mid-day. 
 
 BOY. Oh, that means to-day ? 
 
 QUEEN. Yes. 
 
 BOY. Why, it s almost mid-day now. See, I ve just set the 
 lentils boiling. 
 
 QUEEN. If you can hide me until after the King s four clocks 
 strike twelve I shall be safe. 
 
 BOY. Why are there four clocks ? 
 
 QUEEN. Because the law allows only one clock for each 
 tower in the castle. 
 
 BOY. Then I hear all the King s clocks every day ! There s 
 a big clock, and two clocks not so big, and a tiny little 
 clock. 
 
 QUEEN. Yes, those are the four. 
 
 BOY. Why will you be safe after the four clocks strike 
 twelve ? 
 
 QUEEN. Because that is the law. 
 
 BOY. Aren t laws funny ? 
 
 QUEEN. Funny ? This one is very sad, I think. 
 
 BOY. Mightn t it be twelve any mid-day ? 
 
SIX WHO PASS WHILE THE LENTILS BOIL 29 
 
 QUEEN No; the Prime Minister of my grandfather who 
 passed the law decided that it meant only the following 
 mid-day. 
 
 BOY (rising and rushing to the door). They ll find you here. 
 
 QUEEN (rising calmly). Oh, no, this is the short cut to the 
 beheading block. Through that corridor. 
 
 BOY. Why didn t you run the other way ? 
 
 QUEEN. Because they always search for escaped people in 
 that direction. So I ran through your garden and into 
 this room. They ll never search for me so close to the 
 castle. 
 
 BOY. How did you escape ? 
 
 QUEEN. I - 
 
 [The Butterfly seems agitated. 
 
 BOY. YOU 
 
 QUEEN. Some one is coming. Hide me ! 
 
 BOY. In here in my mother s room. Sh ! Sh ! 
 
 [The Queen goes out. 
 
 Enter the Mime. 
 
 He pokes his head in the lower window and peeps around the 
 
 door. 
 
 The boy turns. 
 
 BOY (weakly) . Are you the Dreadful Headsman ? 
 MIME. What ? 
 
 BOY. Are you the Dreadful Headsman ? 
 MIME. Do I look like a headsman ? 
 BOY. I don t know ; I ve never seen one. 
 MIME. Well, suppose I am. 
 BOY. Are you ? 
 MIME. Maybe I am. 
 BOY. Oh ! 
 MIME. Booh ! 
 
 BOY. I m I m not afraid. 
 MIME. Bah ! 
 
 BOY. And my mother isn t here. 
 MIME. Br r r r ! 
 
 [The Boy reaches for his knife. 
 
30 SIX WHO PASS WHILE THE LENTILS BOIL 
 
 MIME. Bing ! 
 
 BOY. I wasn t going to hurt you ! 
 
 MIME. Sh . . . Sh ! . . . Sh ! . . . 
 
 BOY. I ll give you my knife if you ll go way. 
 
 MIME. Ah, ha ! 
 
 BOY. It s nearly mid-day and you d better go. 
 
 MIME. Well, give me the knife. 
 
 BOY. Promise me to go. 
 
 MIME (laughs, turning away). Aren t you going to the be 
 heading ? 
 
 BOY. No. I have to boil the lentils for our mid-day meal. 
 
 MIME. May I come back and eat some ? 
 
 BOY. You ll have to ask my mother. 
 
 MIME. Where is she ? 
 
 BOY. She s over that way. She went to the market to buy 
 a bobbin. 
 
 YOU. What is a bobbin ? 
 
 PROLOGUE. A bobbin is a spool upon which thread is wound, 
 and it is sharp at one end so that it can be easily passed 
 backward and forward, to and fro, through the other 
 threads in making lace. 
 
 MIME (starting off). Well, I ll be back to eat some lentils. 
 
 BOY (too eagerly). You d better hurry. 
 
 MIME. You seem to want to get rid of me. 
 
 BOY (allaying suspicion). Well, I think you d better go or 
 you ll be late and it s very wrong to be late. 
 
 MIME (going toward the door). I think I ll (changing his 
 mind) sit down. 
 
 BOY (disappointed) . Oh ! 
 
 MIME. What would you say if I wasn t the Headsman ? 
 
 BOY. But you said you were. 
 
 MIME. I said maybe I was. 
 
 BOY. Aren t you ? 
 
 MIME. Maybe I m not. 
 
 BOY. Honest ? 
 
 MIME. Um, hum. 
 
 BOY (relieved) . Oh ! . . . 
 
SIX WHO PASS WHILE THE LENTILS BOIL 31 
 
 MIME. You were afraid. 
 
 BOY. No ... I wasn t. 
 
 MIME. Would you fight ? 
 
 BOY. You bet I would. 
 
 MIME. It wouldn t take me a minute to lick you. 
 
 BOY. Maybe it wouldn t, but I wouldn t give up right 
 away. That would be cowardly. . . . Who are you? 
 
 MIME. I m a mime 
 
 BOY. What s a mime ? 
 
 MIME. A mime s a mime. 
 
 BOY. Go on and tell me. 
 
 MIME. A mime s a mountebank. 
 
 BOY. What s a mountebank ? 
 
 MIME. A mountebank s a strolling player. 
 
 BOY. Are you going to perform for me ? 
 
 MIME. Not to-day I m on my way to the decapitation. 
 
 BOY. Do you want to see the decapitation ? 
 
 MIME. Well, yes. But most of all I want to pick up a few 
 coins. 
 
 BOY. How ? 
 
 MIME. Why, I ll perform after the Queen has lost her head. 
 
 BOY. Won t you be too sorry ? 
 
 MIME, No. You see, I ll be thinking mostly about what 
 I m going to do. I have to do my best because it is hard to 
 be more interesting than a decapitation. And after it s 
 all over the crowd will begin to talk and to move about : 
 and I ll have to rush up to the front of them and cry out 
 at the top of my lungs, "Stop Ho, for Jack the Juggler ! 
 Would you miss him ? In London where the king of kings 
 lives, all the knights and ladies of the Court would leave a 
 crowning to watch Jack the Juggler toss three golden balls 
 with one hand or balance a weathervane upon his nose." 
 Then a silence will come upon the crowd and they will all 
 turn to me. Some one will say, "Where is this Jack the 
 Juggler?" And I shall answer, "Jack the Juggler, the 
 greatest of the great, the pet of kings, entertainer to the 
 Pope and the joy of Cathay stands before you." And 
 
32 SIX WHO PASS WHILE THE LENTILS BOIL 
 
 I ll throw back my cloak and stand revealed. So ! Some 
 one will then shout, "Let us have it, Jack." So I ll draw 
 my three golden balls from my pouch like this and 
 then begin. 
 
 [ The Boy is watching breathlessly and the Butterfly is inter 
 ested too. Their disappointment is keen when Jack does 
 nothing. 
 
 BOY. Aren t you going to show me ? 
 
 MIME. No, I must be off. 
 
 BOY. Aren t you ever coming back ? 
 
 MIME. Maybe, yes ; perhaps, no. 
 
 BOY. I ll give you some lentils if you ll juggle the balls for 
 me. 
 
 MIME (sniffs the pot). They aren t cooked yet. 
 
 BOY. Let me hold your golden balls. 
 
 MIME (takes a gold ball from his pouch and lets the Boy hold it). 
 Here s one. 
 
 BOY. And do they pay you well ? 
 
 MIME (taking the ball from the Boy). Ay, that they do . If I 
 am as interesting as the beheading I ll get perhaps fifteen 
 farthings in money and other things that I can exchange 
 for food and raiment. 
 
 BOY. I m going to be a mime and buy a castle and a sword. 
 
 MIME. Maybe so and maybe not. Who knows? . . . 
 Good-by. 
 [He goes out. 
 
 BOY (to the Butterfly). If he had been the Dreadful Heads 
 man I would have slain him. So! ... "Ah, wicked 
 headsman, you shall not behead the Queen ! . . . Cross 
 not that threshold or I ll run you through." 
 [Throughout this the Butterfly shows great interest and enters 
 into the spirit of it, being absorbed at times and frightened 
 at others. 
 Enter the Milkmaid at door. 
 
 MILKMAID. Pst ! . . . Pst ! 
 
 BOY (startled). Oh! 
 
 MILKMAID. Are you going to the decapitation ? 
 
SIX WHO PASS WHILE THE LENTILS BOIL 33 
 
 BOY. No. Are you ? 
 
 MILKMAID. That I am. 
 
 BOY. Will your mother let you go ? 
 
 MILKMAID. She doesn t know. 
 
 BOY. Did you run away ? 
 
 MILKMAID. No. I went out to milk the cow. 
 
 BOY. And did you do it ? 
 
 MILKMAID. Yes. 
 
 BOY. Why didn t you wait until you came back ? 
 
 MILKMAID. My mother was looking and I had to let her see 
 me doing something. 
 
 BOY. How did you get away when you took the milk pails 
 into the house ? 
 
 MILKMAID. I didn t take them in. As soon as my mother 
 turned her back I hid the pails and I ran through here to 
 take a short cut. 
 
 BOY. Where did you hide the milk ? 
 
 MILKMAID. In the hollow tree. 
 
 BOY. Won t it sour? 
 
 MILKMAID. Maybe. 
 
 BOY. Won t your mother scold you? 
 
 MILKMAID. Yes, of course, but I couldn t miss the behead 
 ing. 
 
 BOY. Will you take the sour milk home ? 
 
 MILKMAID. Yes, and after my mother scolds me I ll make 
 it into nice cheese and sell it to the King s Cook and then 
 mother will forgive me. 
 
 BOY (sniffing the pot). You d better hurry. It s nearly mid 
 day. Don t you smell the lentils ? 
 
 MILKMAID. The headsman hasn t started yet 
 
 BOY (giggling). He d better hurry. 
 
 MILKMAID. They can t find the Queen. 
 
 BOY (so innocently) . Did she escape ? 
 
 MILKMAID. Yes. 
 
 BOY. Are they hunting for her ? 
 
 MILKMAID. Yes, and they ve offered a big reward to the per 
 son who finds her. 
 
34 SIX WHO PASS WHILE THE LENTILS BOIL 
 
 BOY. How much ? 
 
 MILKMAID. A pail of gold and a pair of finger rings. 
 
 BOY. That s a good deal . . . with a pail of gold I could 
 buy my mother a velvet dress and a silken kerchief and a 
 bonnet made of cloth of gold and I could buy myself 
 a milk-white palfrey. 
 
 MILKMAID. And you d never have to work again. 
 
 BOY. But she s such a gentle queen. Where are they 
 hunting her ? 
 
 MILKMAID. Everywhere. 
 
 BOY. Everywhere ! . . . Maybe she s waiting at the be 
 heading block. 
 
 MILKMAID. Silly goose ! She wouldn t try to escape this 
 way. She d go in the opposite direction. 
 
 BOY. Do people always run in the opposite direction ? 
 
 MILKMAID. Of course, everybody knows that. 
 
 BOY. I wish I could go. 
 
 MILKMAID. Come on. 
 
 BOY. Um uh. The lentils might burn. 
 
 MILKMAID. Pour some cold water on them. 
 
 BOY. Um uh. I promised I wouldn t leave the house. 
 
 MILKMAID. Oh, it will be wonderful ! 
 
 BOY. The Mime will be there. 
 
 MILKMAID. The one with the long cloak and the golden 
 balls? 
 
 BOY. Um uh. 
 
 MILKMAID. Ooh ! 
 
 BOY. How did you know ? 
 
 MILKMAID. I saw him on the way to the market one day 
 
 and when my mother wasn t looking at me I gave him a 
 
 farthing. 
 
 BOY. Is he a good juggler? 
 MILKMAID. He s magic ! Why, he can throw three golden 
 
 balls in the air and catch them with one hand and then 
 
 keep them floating in the air in a circle. 
 BOY. And can he balance a weathervane on his nose while 
 
 it s turning ? 
 
SIX WHO PASS WHILE THE LENTILS BOIL 35 
 
 MILKMAID. Yes, and he can balance an egg on the end of a 
 
 long stick that is balanced on his chin ! 
 BOY. Oh I wish I could see him. 
 
 [Looks at the pot to see if the lentils are done. 
 MILKMAID. Come on ! 
 BOY. Well 
 
 [Begins to weaken and just as he is about to start, the Butter- 
 fly flits past him into the Queen s room. 
 MILKMAID. Oh what a lovely butterfly ! 
 BOY. No No -- I can t go. But you had better 
 
 hurry. 
 
 MILKMAID. Well, I ll try to catch the butterfly first. 
 BOY. Oh, no, you mustn t touch that butterfly. 
 MILKMAID. Why ? 
 
 BOY. Because because he s my friend. 
 MILKMAID. Silly ! 
 BOY. He is a good friend and he s the wisest butterfly in 
 
 the world. 
 
 MILKMAID. What can he do? 
 BOY. He can almost talk. 
 MILKMAID. Almost ? . . . Oh, I know. I m a goose. You 
 
 want to play a trick on me so I ll miss the beheading. 
 BOY. You d better hurry. 
 MILKMAID. I wish you d come. 
 BOY (sadly). I can t. I ve a duty to perform. 
 MILKMAID. Aren t duties always hard ? [Both sigh. 
 
 She takes up her milk pail. 
 
 BOY. What are you going to do with that pail ? 
 MILKMAID. I m going to stand on it. ... Good-by. 
 
 [She goes out. 
 BOY. Good-by. (He watches for a moment, then goes to the 
 
 pot and tries the lentils; then whispers through door to the 
 
 Queen) The lentils are getting soft. 
 
 [There is a fumbling in the passage and a voice is heard, 
 
 " Help the blind. Help the blind." 
 
 [The Butterfly returns to the top of the cupboard. 
 
 The Blind man appears at the door. 
 
36 SIX WHO PASS WHILE THE LENTILS BOIL 
 
 PROLOGUE. He s blind, but he ll show you how the blind 
 
 can see. 
 
 BLIND MAN (sniffing). Cooking lentils? 
 BOY. Yes. 
 
 BLIND MAN. Cook, which way to the beheading? 
 BOY. Keep straight ahead the way you are going, old 
 
 man. 
 
 BLIND MAN. Don t you want to take me with you ? 
 BOY. I m not going. 
 
 BLIND MAN. Not going to the beheading ? 
 BOY. No, I have to cook the lentils. 
 BLIND MAN. Come on and go with me and maybe I ll give 
 
 you a farthing. 
 BOY. I can t. 
 
 BLIND MAN. Yes, you can. Who else is here ? 
 BOY (swallowing: if s hard to fib). No one. 
 BLIND MAN. Can t you run away? Your mother won t 
 
 know you ve gone. 
 BOY. It s my duty to stay here. 
 BLIND MAN. It s your duty to help a poor blind man, little 
 
 boy. 
 BOY. Are you stone blind ? 
 
 BLIND MAN. Yes. 
 
 BOY. Then how did you know I was a little boy ? 
 
 BLIND MAN. Because you sound like a little boy. 
 
 BOY. Well, if you re stone blind why do you want to go to 
 
 the beheading? 
 
 BLIND MAN. I can see with my ears. 
 BOY. Aw 
 
 BLIND MAN. Didn t I know you were a little boy ? 
 BOY. Yes, but you had to guess twice. First you thought 
 
 I was a cook. 
 
 BLIND MAN. Well, aren t you cooking lentils ? 
 BOY. Yes ; but you can smell them. 
 BLIND MAN. Well, I see with my nose, too. 
 BOY. Aw how can you see with your nose ? 
 BLIND MAN. If you give me some bread I ll show you. 
 
SIX WHO PASS WHILE THE LENTILS BOIL 37 
 
 BOY. I can t give you any bread, but I ll give you some 
 
 raw lentils. 
 
 BLIND MAN. All right. Give me lentils. 
 BOY. . . . I ll put them by the pot Ready. 
 BLIND MAN. All right. (Sniffs. Walks to the pot and gets 
 
 lentils and puts them in an old pouch) Isn t that seeing with 
 
 my nose? 
 BOY. H m ! (In wonder) Now see with your ears and I ll 
 
 give you some more lentils. 
 BLIND MAN. All right. Speak. 
 
 [The Boy gets behind the stool and speaks. 
 
 The Blind man goes toward him. The Boy moves around 
 
 stealthily. 
 
 BLIND MAN. You re cheating. You ve moved. 
 BOY (jumping up on the bench). Well, where am I? 
 BLIND MAN. You re standing on something. 
 BOY. How did you guess it? 
 BLIND MAN. I didn t guess it. I know it. 
 BOY. Why can t I do that ? 
 
 BLIND MAN. You can if you try ; but it takes practice. 
 BOY. Can you see the door now ? 
 BLIND MAN. No. I ve turned around too many times. 
 
 Besides there is more than one door. 
 BOY. Oh m-m. . . You aren t really blind ! 
 BLIND MAN. Blind people learn to use what they have. 
 
 Once I too could see with my eyes. 
 BOY. Just like me ? 
 BLIND MAN. Yes. And then I didn t take the trouble to 
 
 see with my ears and my nose and my fingers after I 
 
 became blind I had to learn . . . Why, I can tell whether 
 
 a man who passes me at the palace gate is a poor man or 
 
 a noble or a merchant. 
 BOY. How can you do that ? 
 BLIND MAN. By sound of the step 
 BOY. Aw how can you do that ? 
 BLIND MAN. Shut your eyes and try it. 
 BOY. Well, I know what you are. That would be easy. 
 
38 SIX WHO PASS WHILE THE LENTILS BOIL 
 
 BLIND MAN. I ll pretend I m somebody else. 
 
 [Feels with his stick; touches bench. Feels around again. 
 BOY. Why are you doing that? 
 BLIND MAN. To see how far I can walk without bumping 
 
 into something. 
 BOY. Um 
 BLIND MAN. Ready. 
 BOY (hides face in hands). Yes. 
 BLIND MAN. Don t peep. 
 
 [The Boy tries hard not to. 
 BOY. I won t. 
 BLIND MAN. All ready. (Shuffles like a commoner) Who 
 
 was it ? 
 
 BOY. A poor man. 
 BLIND MAN. See how easy ? 
 BOY. I could see him as plain as if I had my eyes open. 
 
 . . . Now try me again. 
 BLIND MAN. Ready. 
 BOY, All right. 
 
 [The Blind Man seems to grow in height. His face is filled 
 
 with a rare brightness. He steadies himself a moment and 
 
 then walks magnificently down the room. 
 BOY (in beautiful wonder) . A noble ! I could see him. 
 BLIND MAN. All you have to do is try. 
 BOY. I always thought it was terrible to be blind. 
 BLIND MAN. Sometimes it is. 
 BOY. But I thought everything was black. 
 BLIND MAN. It used to be until I taught myself how to see. 
 BOY. Why is it terrible sometimes ? 
 BLIND MAN. Because I cannot help the poor who need help. 
 
 If I had money I could feed the hungry and clothe the 
 
 poor little beggar children in winter ! 
 BOY. Would a pail of gold and a pair of finger rings help you 
 
 feed the hungry and clothe the poor little beggar children 
 
 in winter ? 
 BLIND MAN. A pail of gold ! I have dreamed of what I 
 
 might do with so much wealth ! 
 
SIX WHO PASS WHILE THE LENTILS BOIL 39 
 
 BOY. I can get a pail of gold if I break a promise. 
 
 BLIND MAN. Would you break a promise ? 
 
 BOY . . . No but No ! 
 
 BLIND MAN. Of course you wouldn t. 
 
 BOY. I couldn t break a promise for two pails of gold. 
 
 BLIND MAN. Nor twenty-two, little boy. 
 
 BOY. When you walked like a noble I saw a beautiful man 
 behind my eyes with a crown of gold. 
 
 BLIND MAN. If you broke a promise for a pail of gold and 
 two finger rings you would never see a beautiful noble with 
 a crown of gold when you closed your eyes . . . 
 
 BOY. Can blind men see beautiful things even when it s 
 rainy ? 
 
 BLIND MAN. Blind men can always see beautiful things if 
 they try. Clouds and rain are beautiful to me and 
 when I get wet I think of the sunshine. I saw sunshine 
 with my eyes when I was a little boy. Now I see it with 
 my whole body when it warms me. I saw rain with my 
 eyes when I was a little boy. Now I see it with my hands 
 when it falls on them drop drop drop dropity 
 dropity and I love it because it makes the lentils 
 grow. 
 
 BOY. I never thought of that. Rain makes me stay indoors 
 and I never like it except in June. 
 
 BLIND MAN. You don t have to stay in for long. 
 
 BOY. Can blind men see beautiful things in a beheading ? 
 
 BLIND MAN. No. But I must be there with the crowd. I 
 shall tell stones to the people and perhaps they will give 
 me food or money. 
 
 BOY. Can t you stay and tell me stories ? 
 
 BLIND MAN. No. I must be on my way ... If I do not 
 see the beheading I cannot tell about it when I meet 
 some one who was not there. Oh, I shall make a thrilling 
 tale of it. 
 
 BOY. Tell it to me when you come back. 
 
 BLIND MAN. If you give me some cooked lentils. 
 
 BOY. I ll save you some. 
 
40 SIX WHO PASS WHILE THE LENTILS BOIL 
 
 BLIND MAN. Are the lentils nearly done ? 
 
 BOY. Half. 
 
 BLIND MAN. I must be on my way then. . . . Good-by. 
 
 [Starting to go in the wrong direction. 
 BOY. Here s the door. 
 BLIND MAN. Thank you, little boy. . . . Don t forget to 
 
 see with your ears and nose and fingers. 
 
 [The Blind Man goes out. 
 BOY. I won t. 
 BLIND MAN. Good-by. 
 BOY. Good-by. (The Boy covers his eyes and tries to see 
 
 with his ears and his nose) It s easier with the ears. 
 
 [Singing is heard. 
 
 Enter the Ballad-Singer. 
 SINGER. Hello ! 
 BOY. Hello ! 
 SINGER. How are you ? 
 BOY. I m very well. 
 SINGER. That s good. 
 BOY. Thank you. 
 SINGER. Cooking ? 
 BOY. Yes. 
 
 SINGER (coming into the room). Something good? 
 BOY. Lentils. 
 SINGER. Give me some ? 
 BOY. They aren t done. 
 SINGER. Nearly. I can smell them. 
 BOY. Do you like them ? 
 SINGER. When I m hungry. 
 BOY. Are you hungry now ? 
 SINGER. I m always hungry. 
 
 [They laugh. 
 
 BOY. Were you singing ? 
 SINGER. Yes. 
 BOY. Do you like to sing ? 
 SINGER. When I get something for my ballads. 
 BOY. Are you a ballad-singer? 
 
SIX WHO PASS WHILE THE LENTILS BOIL 41 
 
 SINGER. Yes. 
 
 BOY. Sing one for me ? 
 
 SINGER. Give me some lentils ? 
 
 BOY. I ll give you some raw lentils. 
 
 SINGER. I want some of the cooked ones. 
 
 BOY. They aren t done. 
 
 SINGER. Are they nearly done? 
 
 BOY. More than half. 
 
 SINGER. I like them that way. 
 
 BOY. All right. Sing me a ballad. 
 
 SINGER. Well, give me the lentils first. 
 
 BOY. Oh, no, sing the ballad first. 
 
 SINGER. No, sir, give me the lentils first. 
 
 BOY. That isn t fair. 
 
 SINGER. Why not ? After I sing to you maybe you won t 
 
 pay me. 
 
 BOY. Yes, I will. 
 
 SINGER. Then why not pay me first ? 
 BOY. You might not sing. 
 SINGER (laughing). Yes, I will. 
 BOY (laughing). Well, I ll give you some lentils at the end 
 
 of each verse. 
 SINGER. That s a bargain. 
 BOY. Sing. 
 SINGER (sings one line). 
 
 Six stalwart sons the miller had 
 
 Give me the lentils. 
 BOY. Finish that verse. 
 SINGER. I did finish it. 
 
 BOY. Now that s not fair. You only sang a line. 
 SINGER. Well, a line s a verse. 
 BOY (with a gesture that indicates how long a verse ought to be). 
 
 I meant a whole verse. 
 
 SINGER (mimicking the gesture). A line s a whole verse. 
 BOY. Oh, now, be fair, I mean a whole, whole verse. 
 SINGER. You mean a stanza. 
 BOY. I always heard it called a verse. 
 
42 SIX WHO PASS WHILE THE LENTILS BOIL 
 
 SINGER. Well, keep the bargain. I sang a verse. Give 
 
 me some lentils. 
 BOY (rising and taking a very few lentils on his spoon) . Next 
 
 time I mean a stanza. . . . Here are some lentils. 
 
 [The Ballad-Singer eyes the meager portion, cools it and eats. 
 SINGER. Stingy. 
 BOY. Isn t that some lentils ? 
 SINGER (laughs) . Well 
 BOY. Now begin again. 
 
 SINGER. At the end of every stanza a spoonful of lentils. 
 BOY. I didn t say a spoonful. 
 
 SINGER (starts to go). Very well, I won t sing a ballad. 
 BOY. All right. I ll give you a spoonful at the end of each 
 
 stanza. 
 
 [He sits on the floor by the pot of lentils. 
 SINGER (sings) . 
 
 The Ballad of the Miller and His Six Sons 
 
 Six stalwart sons the miller had 
 
 All brave and fair to see 
 
 He taught them each a worthy trade 
 
 And they grew gallantly. 
 
 Tara da da da-da-da da-da-da 
 
 Tara da da da-de da-dee. 
 
 Give me some lentils. 
 BOY. Here . . . Hurry up. 
 SINGER (sings). 
 
 The first was John of the dimpled chin 
 
 And a fist of iron had he 
 
 He learned to wield the broadsword well 
 
 And turned to soldiery. 
 
 Tara da da, etc. 
 
 BOY. Please ! Please don t stop. 
 
 SINGER. Keep to the bargain. 
 
 BOY. Here, take two spoonfuls and finish without stopping. 
 
SIX WHO PASS WHILE THE LENTILS BOIL 43 
 
 SINGER (sings rest of ballad) . 
 
 The second son was christened Hugh 
 
 And curly locks had he 
 
 He learned to use the tabor and lute 
 
 And turned to minstrelsy. 
 
 Tara da da, etc. 
 
 The third was James of the gentle ways 
 
 And speech of gold had he 
 
 He learned his psalms and learned his creed 
 
 And turned to simony. 
 
 Tara da da, etc. 
 
 The fourth was Dick of the hazel eye, 
 
 And a steady hand had he 
 
 With a hammer and saw and a chest of tools 
 
 He turned to carpentry. 
 
 Tara da da, etc. 
 
 The fifth was Ned of the velvet tread 
 
 And feather fingers had he. 
 
 He used his gifts in a naughty way 
 
 And turned to burglary. 
 
 Tara da da, etc. 
 
 The sixth was Robin, surnamed the Rare, 
 
 For always young was he 
 
 He learned the joy of this sunny world 
 
 And turned to poetry. 
 
 Tara da da, etc. 
 
 The Miller approached three score and ten, 
 
 A happy man was he, 
 
 His five good sons and the one who was bad 
 
 All turned to gallantry. 
 
 Tara da da, etc. 
 
 BOY. Sing me another. 
 
 SINGER. A spoonful at the end of ever> stanza. 
 
44 SIX WHO PASS WHILE THE LENTILS BOIL 
 
 BOY. Don t stop after you begin. 
 SINGER. Pay me in advance. 
 BOY. I suppose I ll have to. 
 [He feeds the Ballad- Singer. 
 SINGER (sings second ballad). 
 
 The Ballad of the Three Little Pigs 
 
 Two little pigs were pink pink pink 
 And one little pig was black black 
 The three little pigs were very good friends, 
 But one little pig was black black. 
 
 Three little pigs would play play play 
 But one little pig was black black 
 And three little pigs would have a jolly time 
 Though one little pig was black black. 
 
 Three little pigs soon grew grew grew 
 And one little pig was black black. 
 The three little pigs became fat hogs 
 And one fat hog was black black. 
 
 The two fat hogs were pink pink pink 
 And one fat hog was black black. 
 The three fat hogs all made good ham, 
 Though one fat hog was black black. 
 
 BOY. Sing me another. 
 SINGER. I can t. I m tired. 
 
 BOY. Are you going to sing those at the beheading ? 
 SINGER. What beheading ? 
 BOY. At the Queen s beheading. 
 SINGER. Where ? 
 BOY. Over there. 
 SINGER. When ? 
 BOY. To-day. 
 
 SINGER. I must be going. Certainly I ll sing there and I ll 
 take up a collection. 
 
SIX WHO PASS WHILE THE LENTILS BOIL 45 
 
 BOY. It s going to be before the King s four clocks strike 
 
 twelve. 
 
 SINGER. It s nearly time now. If I can collect a piece of gold 
 
 I can buy a vermilion robe and sing at the King s court. 
 
 BOY. I could collect a pail of gold and two finger rings and 
 
 sit at the feet of the King if I d break a promise. 
 SINGER. Perhaps you will. 
 BOY. Would you ? 
 
 SINGER. I d rather sing along the highway all my life. It 
 is better to dream of a vermilion robe than to have one that 
 is not honestly got. 
 
 ?}OY. The Blind Man said something like that. 
 SINGER. Who said what ? 
 
 BOY. The Blind Man said if I broke a promise I d never 
 again see a beautiful noble with a golden crown when I 
 closed my eyes. 
 SINGER. He was right. 
 BOY. When you get your vermilion robe will you let me 
 
 see it ? 
 
 SINGER. That I will. . . . Good-by. 
 BOY. Good-by. 
 
 [Singer goes out. 
 BOY (hums a snatch of the ballads) . 
 
 [The Headsman steps into the door and plants his axe beside 
 him for an impressive picture. The Boy turns and starts 
 in terror. 
 
 HEADSMAN. Have you seen the Queen ? 
 BOY. Sir ? 
 
 HEADSMAN. Have you seen the Queen ? 
 BOY. How should I, sir ? I ve been cooking the lentils. 
 HEADSMAN. She is here ! 
 BOY. How could she be here, sir ? 
 HEADSMAN. Well, if she isn t here, where is she ? 
 BOY (relieved) . I don t know where she is if she isn t here, sir. 
 HEADSMAN. She has too much sense to hide so near the castle 
 and on the short cut to the headsman s block . . . Do 
 you know who I am ? 
 
46 SIX WHO PASS WHILE THE LENTILS BOIL 
 
 BOY. I think so sir. 
 
 HEADSMAN. Think ? Don t you know ? 
 
 BOY. Yes, sir. 
 
 HEADSMAN. Who am I then ? 
 
 BOY. You re the Dreadful Headsman. 
 
 HEADSMAN. I am the winder of the king s four clocks and 
 
 when I am needed I am the best headsman in three king 
 doms. And this is my axe. 
 BOY. Is it sharp ? 
 HEADSMAN. It will split a hair in two. 
 
 [Runs finger near blade meaningly. 
 BOY. Oh ! 
 
 HEADSMAN. A hair in two ! 
 
 BOY. Would you really cut off the Queen s head ? 
 HEADSMAN. That s my business : to cut off heads and the 
 
 nobler the head the better my business. 
 BOY. She s such a nice queen. 
 HEADSMAN. Have you seen her ? 
 BOY. Y es, sir. 
 HEADSMAN. When ? 
 
 BOY. One day when I was boiling some lentils. 
 HEADSMAN. Did you see her neck ? 
 BOY. Yes, sir. 
 
 HEADSMAN. Not much bigger than a hair. 
 BOY (desperately friendly} . Have you seen my knife ? 
 HEADSMAN (sharply). Tm talking about the Queen and I m 
 
 going to talk about myself until I hear the King s trumpeter 
 
 calling me to the beheading. 
 BOY Yes, sir. 
 
 [Edging between the bench and door of the room where the 
 
 Queen is hidden. 
 
 HEADSMAN. Sit down. 
 
 BOY. I d rather stand, sir. 
 
 HEADSMAN. Sit down! And I ll tell you how I m going to 
 
 behead the Queen. 
 BOY. You can t behead her after the King s four clocks 
 
 have struck twelve. 
 
SIX WHO PASS WHILE THE LENTILS BOIL 47 
 
 HEADSMAN. How did you know that ? 
 
 BOY (realizing his blunder) . Well 
 
 HEADSMAN. Nobody knows that except the royal family and 
 
 people of the court. 
 BOY. A little bird told me. 
 HEADSMAN. Where is the little bird that I may cut its head 
 
 off? 
 BOY. Don t hurt the little bird, but tell me how you are 
 
 going to behead the Queen. 
 HEADSMAN. Well - (At the stool) This is the block. 
 
 There s the Queen behind the iron gate. We ll say that 
 
 door is the gate. 
 
 (The Boy starts) 
 
 And out there is the crowd. Now, I appear like this and 
 
 walk up the steps. The crowd cheers, so I bow and show 
 
 myself and my axe. Then I walk over to the gate 
 BOY. Don t go in there. That s my mother s room and you 
 
 might frighten her. 
 
 HEADSMAN. Who s in your mother s room ? 
 BOY. She is. 
 HEADSMAN. Well, if she s in there, maybe she d like to hear 
 
 my story. 
 
 BOY. She s in bed. 
 HEADSMAN. Sick ? (The Boy nods vigorously) All right. 
 
 . . . Well, I ve bowed to the crowd and I start for the 
 
 Queen. If you won t open the door, you pretend you re 
 
 the Queen. 
 
 BOY. I don t want to be the Queen. 
 HEADSMAN. Come on and pretend. I walk up to the gate 
 
 so, and open it and then I say "Your Majesty, I m 
 
 going to cut off you head" and she bows bow (The 
 
 Boy bows) And then I say "Are you ready?" and she 
 
 says, "I am ready." Then I blindfold her 
 BOY. Now, don t blindfold me, sir ! 
 HEADSMAN. I m showing you how it s done. 
 BOY. But if you blindfold me I can t see when you do 
 
 it. 
 
48 SIX WHO PASS WHILE THE LENTILS BOIL 
 
 HEADSMAN (admitting the point). All right. . . . Then 
 
 I blindfold her and I lead her to the block and I say, 
 
 " Have you made your peace with Heaven?" and she 
 
 says, "Yes.". . . 
 
 BOY. If you won t tell me any more I ll give you my knife. 
 HEADSMAN. Aren t you interested ? 
 BOY. Yes, but your axe is so sharp and it might slip. 
 HEADSMAN. Sharp? It will cut a hair in two, but I know 
 
 how to handle it. . . . Come on . . . (The Boy reluctantly 
 
 falls into the picture again) And then . . . (Raising his 
 
 axe) And then . . . (Headsman sees the Butterfly) And 
 
 then . . . How-d -ye-do, Butterfly ? 
 
 [The Boy runs to the pot unnoticed by the Headsman. 
 BOY. Lentils, lentils, boil the time away 
 
 That my good queen may live to-day. 
 
 [The Headsman and the Butterfly are having quite a game. 
 
 Suddenly the great clock begins to strike and the two next 
 
 larger follow slowly. 
 
 The Headsman rushes to the back door with his axe. 
 HEADSMAN. Why doesn t the trumpeter blow his call ! 
 
 [The Boy counts the strokes of the clock and as the third clock 
 
 strikes twelve he rushes to the door of the bedroom. 
 BOY. Queen ! Queen ! It s mid-day. 
 HEADSMAN. Queen queen (He strides to the bedroom 
 
 and drags the Queen out) The little clock hasn t struck yet ! 
 
 (He pulls the Queen toward the rear door and shouts) Here ! 
 
 Here ! don t let the little clock strike ! I ve won the pail 
 
 of gold ! 
 
 [ The Boy has set the bench in the doorway so that the Headsman 
 
 stumbles. The Butterfly keeps flying against the Headsman s 
 
 nose, which makes him sneeze. 
 BOY. No one heard you ! 
 QUEEN. Let me go ! Let me go ! 
 HEADSMAN (sneezing as only a headsman can) . The Queen ! 
 
 The Queen ! 
 
 (The little clock begins to strike. 
 
 The Boy counts eagerly, one, two, three, etc. 
 
SIX WHO PASS WHILE THE LENTILS BOIL 49 
 
 Between strokes the Headsman sneezes and shouts) The 
 
 Queen ! The Queen ! 
 
 [At the fifth stroke the Headsman falls on his knees. The 
 
 Queen becomes regal, her foot on his neck. 
 
 The Boy kneels at her side. 
 
 QUEEN. Base villain ! According to the law I am saved ! 
 But you are doomed. As Winder of the King s four clocks 
 the law commands that you be decapitated because the 
 four clocks did not strike together. Do you know that 
 law? 
 
 HEADSMAN. Oh, Lady, I do, but I did but do my duty. I 
 was sharpening my axe this morning and I couldn t wind 
 the clocks. Intercede for me. 
 
 QUEEN. It is useless. 
 
 BOY. Is there any other headsman ? 
 
 QUEEN. The law says the Chief Headsman must behead 
 the Chief Winder of the King s four clocks. 
 
 BOY. Can the Dreadful Headsman behead himself? 
 
 QUEEN. Aye, there s the difficulty. 
 
 HEADSMAN. Oh, your Majesty, pardon me ! 
 
 BOY. Yes, pardon him. 
 
 QUEEN. On one condition : He is to give his axe to the 
 museum and devote all his old age to the care of the King s 
 four clocks. . . . For myself, I shall pass a law requiring 
 the ladies of the court to wear no jewels. So, if the King s 
 aunt can wear no rings, she assuredly cannot have a ring- 
 toe, and hereafter I may step where I please. ... Sir 
 Headsman, lead the way. . . . And now, my little boy, 
 to you I grant every Friday afternoon an hour s sport with 
 the Mime, a spotted cow for the little Milkmaid, a cushion 
 and a canopy at the palace gate for the Blind Man, a ver 
 milion cloak for the Ballad-Singer, a velvet gown, a silken 
 kerchief and a cloth-of-gold bonnet for your mother, and 
 for yourself a milk-white palfrey, two pails of gold, two 
 finger rings, a castle and a sword. . . . Arise, Sir Little 
 Boy. . . . Your arm. 
 
 BOY. May I take my knife, your Majesty ? 
 
50 SIX WHO PASS WHILE THE LENTILS BOIL 
 
 QUEEN. That you may. (He gets the knife and returns to 
 her. She lays her hand on his arm) Sir Headsman, an 
 nounce our coming. 
 
 HEADSMAN. Make way make way for her Majesty 
 the Queen. 
 
 QUEEN (correcting). And Sir Little Boy. 
 
 HEADSMAN. What s his other name, your Majesty ? 
 
 BOY (whispering with the wonder of it all) . Davie. 
 
 QUEEN (to the Headsman). Davie. 
 
 HEADSMAN. Make way make way for her Majesty the 
 Queen and Sir Davie Little Boy. 
 [They go out. 
 
 Immediately the Boy returns and gets the pot of lentils and 
 runs after the Queen as 
 
 The Curtains Close. 
 
VOICES 
 
 HORTENSE FLEXNER 
 
 Miss HORTENSE FLEXNER is a resident of Louisville, 
 Kentucky, where she was born on April 10, 1885. In 1903 
 she entered Bryn Mawr, but remained there only for the 
 Freshman year, completing her academic education at the 
 University of Michigan. There she received the degree of 
 A.B. in 1907 and the degree of A.M. in 1910. 
 
 In addition to "Voices* , which was printed originally in 
 The Seven Arts, Miss Flexner is the author of a number of 
 poems which have been printed in various magazines. 
 
 Stuart Walker has produced "Voices" with his Port 
 manteau Company and has in his repertory for future pro 
 duction Miss Flexner s "Three Wise Men of Gotham" and 
 "The Road." Her "The Broken God" was produced by 
 the Little Theatre Society of Indiana at Indianapolis in 
 January, 1916. 
 
VOICES 
 
 BY HORTENSE FLEXNER 
 
"Voices" was originally produced under the direction of 
 Stuart Walker and the Portmanteau Company, New York, 
 1916. 
 
 Original Cast 
 
 YVONNE Judith Lowry 
 
 THE OTHER .... Florence Wollersen 
 
 COPYRIGHT, BY HORTENSE FLEXNEB. 
 All rights reserved. 
 
 Printed originally in Seven Arts. 
 
 Application for the right of performing "Voices ", must be made to Miss Hortense 
 Flexner, 948 South Second Street, Louisville, Kentucky, or to Mr. Stuart Walker, 
 304 Carnegie Hall, New York City. 
 
"VOICES" 
 
 SCENE. The main street of Domremy, in front of the shattered 
 church sacred to Jeanne D Arc. Roofless houses and broken 
 buildings stand huddled in ruins. The place is deserted and silent. 
 From the right comes a peasant girl, Yvonne, finely made and 
 young. She wears a coarse, wool skirt and a gray shawl loosely 
 folded about her shoulders. Taking her way down the sunken 
 street, she pauses before the door of the church and kneels. As 
 she does so, another peasant girl, slight and erect, comes silently 
 from the church. The time is late afternoon in May. The 
 south wind is stirring. Yvonne stands. 
 YVONNE. I heard a voice that called across the wind. 
 THE OTHER. A voice ? My thoughts were prayers. 
 
 What vision I have seen, no words have said. 
 YVONNE. The dead ! Their souls are strange upon the air, 
 
 And cannot find the way to Paradise. 
 
 Perhaps they spoke. 
 THE OTHER. Or cannon far away. 
 YVONNE (covering her ears) . O, no 
 THE OTHER. Alas and did you live in Domremy ? 
 YVONNE. Before they came. But now 
 
 The great shells have not left a house not one. 
 
 Even the Church, 
 
 Jeanne s church in which she heard the angels speak, 
 
 Is broken to the ground 
 THE OTHER. Jeanne dwelt once in a prison far from home ; 
 
 There was a day ah well 
 
 She can forego the church. 
 
"VOICES" 
 
 YVONNE (with energy). But no ! We will rebuild it stone by 
 
 stone, 
 
 There is no villager shall rest 
 Till it is whole. 
 THE OTHER. There s better work to do for Jeanne 
 
 Than build a church. 
 YVONNE. And let her think we have forgot again ? 
 
 Or that we are afraid ? 
 
 THE OTHER. It was so long ago and now 
 YVONNE. But Jeanne is Domremy ! 
 We think of her, as if she had not died. 
 In early Spring 
 
 We make a pageant every Spring for Jeanne, 
 To show her as a girl, here where she lived, 
 And heard the voices first a shepherd girl, 
 In clothes like these, like yours. 
 I was the Maid last May ! 
 
 THE OTHER. You Jeanne ? And rode a charger too ? 
 In armor like a man s. And were you mocked, 
 Until you crowned the King that day at Rheims, 
 Thrown in a cell and burned all in the play ? 
 YVONNE. You saw it then ? Perhaps you lived near by ? 
 THE OTHER. Near by. 
 YVONNE. And are you coming now to find the things 
 
 The soldiers have not battered to a ruin ? 
 THE OTHER. Not I no no 
 YVONNE (with defiance). Nor I ! 
 
 THE OTHER. What then ? A hidden relic in the church ? 
 YVONNE. I should not seek for that in Domremy. 
 The one I wore so many years for luck, 
 About my throat, I gave the lad who played 
 Jeanne s lover in the fete. (Stolidly) 
 Relic and lad are buried in a ditch 
 Beyond Arras how should I know ? 
 THE OTHER. And so you came ? 
 YVONNE. I came to pray Jeanne D Arc. 
 THE OTHER. Trudged all the way through blood and mire 
 
"VOICES" 57 
 
 YVONNE. To pray her come again. They say she hears, 
 
 When May is young, and that her spirit flies 
 
 Close close to Domremy when leaves are new, 
 
 And tender things are born. 
 
 THE OTHER. You d have her come? Is there not strife 
 enough ? 
 
 France has good friends, and all the kings are crowned. 
 YVONNE. Jeanne D Arc would make an end of war. 
 
 She d stop the guns ! 
 
 When she was just a girl alone and mocked, 
 
 She took a sword and flashed it through the land, 
 
 Until she pressed the foe upon the sea. 
 
 And would she not to-day ? 
 
 Shall one love France the less for being safe 
 
 In Paradise ? 
 
 THE OTHER. Poor Jeanne. 
 
 YVONNE (remembering) . It was a miracle _ 
 THE OTHER. I do not know. 
 YVONNE. She was so young, so slight but all her soul 
 
 Burned as a torch. 
 
 A spirit lies in Jeanne to wake the dead. 
 
 If she should come, we could not wait and wait, 
 
 Gain here, lose there, hide in the trenches, wait, 
 
 And drag the war to years. 
 
 O, she would show the way ! 
 
 No girl, this time, but saint she d draw her sword 
 THE OTHER (sharply) . No no 
 YVONNE (mocking). Jeanne D Arc without a sword ! 
 THE OTHER. Without a sword ! 
 
 YVONNE. It was her strength. She saw it in a dream 
 THE OTHER. Jeanne had her soul before she had the sword. 
 YVONNE (scornfully). A soul against the guns ! 
 THE OTHER. It is the only thing they may not break. 
 YVONNE. But who would know Jeanne D Arc without her 
 
 sword ? 
 
 THE OTHER. Hush ! She will weep in Paradise for that. 
 YVONNE (frightened). I love her 
 
58 "VOICES" 
 
 THE OTHER. She hates her sword ! 
 
 YVONNE. You dare ! She carried it the day 
 
 They crowned the King. 
 
 THE OTHER. The day she failed ! Poor Jeanne ! She did 
 not know 
 
 A peasant girl must never crown a king, 
 
 Nor fight his foes. If she had known 
 
 If she had only known 
 YVONNE (more and more amazed) . But Jeanne did know. A 
 
 spirit showed the way. 
 
 THE OTHER (continuing) . She would have struck the King 
 there as he knelt, 
 
 And killed him with her sword. It was her sin 
 
 She did not kill the King. He was the foe 
 
 Of France all kings are foes of all the men 
 
 They rule. How else should they send men to death 
 
 For little things ? What that a King can fear 
 
 Is worth the death of one one peasant lad, 
 
 Who loves the sky ? 
 
 Jeanne was no saint she was a shepherd girl, 
 
 Who did not know how things would come to pass. 
 YVONNE. The voices spoke 
 THE OTHER. O yes the voices. Better had she heard 
 
 Her pitying heart 
 YVONNE. Jeanne was a soldier maid. Her pitying heart 
 
 Was but the girl 
 THE OTHER. It was herself the most of her the flame ! 
 
 And it shall lead when she shall come again. 
 YVONNE. A pitying heart the leader of a host ? 
 THE OTHER (gladly). Yes yes. A pitying heart ! 
 YVONNE (as if humoring one a little mad). And what host 
 
 then? 
 THE OTHER. A host of pitying hearts, which kings shall fear, 
 
 More than defeat and death. 
 YVONNE (making ready to go) . It is a dream as mine a 
 
 dream. 
 THE OTHER. The voices were not more. 
 
"VOICES" 59 
 
 YVONNE. If that were true, Jeanne would be here to-day, 
 
 And my prayer heard. 
 THE OTHER (continuing in exaltation) . An army kings shall fear, 
 
 A silent host, 
 
 Scattered bereft - 
 
 Mourning at broken hearthstones in all lands, 
 
 Hating one thing a hate that makes them kin, 
 
 Stronger than blood and bone the hate of death. 
 
 Which is their love of life. 
 
 These Jeanne shall lead, the brooding ones who give 
 
 In grief and tears, knowing so well the end, 
 
 The raw earth mound that s left, where kings have passed. 
 
 These Jeanne shall find - 
 
 YVONNE (stirred) . Women women of France. 
 THE OTHER. Women of all the earth shall be Jeanne s 
 strength. 
 
 And she shall go to them, 
 
 In peasant clothes a maid ! 
 
 And where she finds a woman at her toil, 
 
 She ll stop and say, 
 
 "Would you have back your dead?" 
 
 And by their answer they shall follow Jeanne, 
 
 Until her army, swelling like a flood, 
 
 Pours down the earth undammed. 
 
 What can the kings build up against this tide, 
 
 The woe and rage, impatience and despair 
 
 Of all the withheld women of all years, 
 
 Borne down on them at last ? 
 
 What can they do, if men no longer mad, 
 
 But grim with agony and blood and death, 
 
 Leap from the trenches, break the mighty guns, 
 
 And with the women turn their faces home ? 
 
 O, in that hour the puny kings shall see 
 
 As some great mountain blotting out the sun, 
 
 The shadow of our wrath, 
 
 And know defeat all kings alike 
 
 But people shall be free ! 
 
60 VOICES " 
 
 YVONNE (rapt). Jeanne and the women when ? 
 
 THE OTHER. She was a peasant girl 
 
 YVONNE (looking down at her wooden shoes). A peasant girl ! 
 
 (As she lifts her eyes, she is alone. With terror) Voices ! 
 
 It was the Maid herself. 
 
 I am afraid. 
 
 [She kneels upon the stone step of the church, in the crack of 
 
 which, strangely, a lily is growing. 
 
 CURTAIN 
 
THE MERRY MERRY CUCKOO 
 
 JEANNETTE MARKS 
 
 Miss JEANNETTE MARKS was born in 1875 in Chattanooga, 
 Tennessee, but spent her early life in Philadelphia. Her 
 father, the late William Dennis Marks, was Professor of 
 Dynamics at the University of Pennsylvania and President 
 of the Edison Electric Light Company, besides being the 
 author of several scientific books. Miss Marks attended 
 school at Dresden and iii this country before entering 
 Wellesley College, where she was graduated in 1900. 
 After a year of graduate work at Wellesley, she became 
 instructress in the department of English Literature at 
 Mt. Holyoke College, where she is now teaching Nine 
 teenth Century Poetry and Play Writing. There she has 
 instituted the Poetry Shop Talks, where poets and writers 
 speak to the students on the authors of the day. 
 
 Miss Marks interest in Wales was the result of several 
 summers spent among the Northern Welsh mountains, where 
 she walked over the hills and through the valleys, knap 
 sack on back, and became intimately acquainted with Welsh 
 peasant life. 
 
 The result of her intimate observation is to be found in 
 her books and in her many short stories published in 
 magazines. 
 
 Several years ago, on a homeward voyage from England, 
 Edward Knobloch discussed with the author the dramatic 
 possibilities of some of her short stories. "Three Welsh 
 Plays " is the result. Two of these were entered by an ac- 
 
62 THE MERRY MERRY CUCKOO 
 
 quaintance, without the author s knowledge, in the com 
 petition for Lord Howard DeWalden s prize for the best 
 Welsh play in 1911, and were awarded first place by the 
 Welsh National Theatre, although the prize had been planned 
 for a three-act play. 
 
 Her published works are : "The Cheerful Cricket", 1907; 
 "The English Pastoral", 1908; "Through Welsh Door 
 ways", 1909 ; "The End of a Song", 1911 ; "A Girl s School 
 Days and After", 1911; "Gallant Little Wales", 1912; 
 "Vacation Camping for Girls", 1913; "Leviathan", 1913; 
 "Early English Hero Tales", 1915; "The Sun Chaser", 
 in Best Short Stories for 1916; "Three Welsh Plays", 1917; 
 "Madame France" and "Courage", 1919. 
 
THE MERRY MERRY CUCKOO 
 
 BY JEANNETTE MARKS 
 
"The Merry Merry Cuckoo" was originally produced at 
 the Toy Theatre, Boston, in 1911. 
 
 Original Cast 
 
 DAVID Mr. Mac Gregor Jenkins 
 
 ANNIE Ruth B. Delano 
 
 PASTOR MORRIS Mr. Pettis 
 
 LOWRY PRICHARD Mary Kellogg 
 
 GUTO PRICHARD Mr. Clarke 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1917, BY LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY. 
 All rights reserved. 
 
 Reprinted from "Three Welsh Plays" by permission of, and special arrangement 
 with, Miss Jeannette Marks and Little, Brown, and Company. 
 
 Application for the right of performing "The Merry Merry Cuckoo" must be 
 made to Jeannette Marks, South Hadley, Mass. 
 
THE MERRY MERRY CUCKOO 
 
 SCENE. A garden. Cottage at back running from right to 
 center. A group of three windows in the shape of a bay, 
 showing a bed inside and an old man lying on it. A door leads 
 into cottage. A gate in fence on the right side leads to the road 
 and village beyond. All of the left side of stage a garden and 
 orchard, with a path through it to a gate in wall at back; garden 
 wall to left, at back over it village chapel from which the church 
 music comes. 
 
 A thatched cottage with whitewashed walls. Ivy is growing 
 about the doorway, and hanging from the thatch above the door; 
 fuchsia bushes on either side of door; trees to the left in garden, 
 including holly and yew; green grass; mountains beyond cot 
 tage and garden and chapel. In the foreground, to right by 
 cottage door, is a washtub. 
 
 It is about six o clock, the first Monday in April. Towards 
 end of act the sun sets. 
 
 At rise of curtain, windows of the cottage closed, and Annie, 
 old, very plump, with sparse gray hair escaping from under her 
 white cap and damp on her forehead from work, and wearing a 
 short skirt, apron, fichu over shoulders, clogs on her feet, is 
 washing. Church music off left continues a minute after rise 
 of curtain. David calls out. Annie leaves the tub and hurries 
 to the windows to open them from the outside. David, a very 
 old man, with white hair and thin face, is seen lying in bed, 
 DAVID (calling). Annie, Annie! 
 ANNIE (opening windows}. Aye, lad dear, I was listenin for 
 
 ye ; yiss, yiss, an* expectin ye to call. 
 
 DAVID (sleepily). I was dreamin an* dear, dear, what a 
 dream! It seemed like fifty years ago when we were 
 
66 THE MERRY MERRY CUCKOO 
 
 married, an , you remember, we stood out there in the 
 
 garden that first night. Are there any violets bloomin 
 
 yet? 
 
 ANNIE. Not yet, Davy lad. 
 DAVID. An* the marsh marigolds ? 
 ANNIE. I m thinkin they re sure to be out. 
 DAVID. An that same night, Annie, do ye remember we 
 
 heard the cuckoo singin ? 
 ANNIE. Aye, lad darlin , fifty years ago this comin week, 
 
 an a cuckoo singin to us every spring since then. (Annie 
 
 takes a tumbler from the sill and gives him a spoonful of 
 
 medicine) Take this, dear; there, twill be makin ye 
 
 better. 
 
 DAVID (taking medicine). An* well? 
 ANNIE. Yiss, yiss, better. 
 
 DAVID. But the cuckoo, will the cuckoo be singin soon ? 
 ANNIE (words inconclusive). Lad, dear, no more, or ye ll be 
 
 havin an attack an Dear people, chapel is out, an I 
 
 hear them on the road ! 
 DAVID (plaintively). The Monday meetin . Why have ye 
 
 not been ? 
 
 ANNIE. Work is keepin me home, lad. 
 DAVID. But, Annie, ye ve not said a word of the cuckoo. 
 ANNIE (sending her voice up as cheerfully as she can). Aye, 
 
 the cuckoo ; yiss, the cuckoo 
 DAVID (clasping and unclasping his hands). Has it come? 
 
 Did ye hear it ? 
 ANNIE (gulping). David, dear, if ye d but listen to what I 
 
 was a-goin to say. I was a-goin to say that I ve not 
 
 heard the cuckoo yet, but that everthin s over-early this 
 
 spring in Wales, an I m expectin to hear one any time 
 
 now. Tis so warm there might be one singin at dusk 
 
 to-day there might be ! 
 DAVID (brightening) . Might there be, Annie ? 
 ANNIE (smoothing his head with her hand). Aye, lad. Hush. 
 
 lad, they re singin in the chapel ! 
 
 [She stands there with one hand resting on his forehead, listen- 
 
THE MERRY MERRY CUCKOO 67 
 
 ing to the singing of Penlan, a hymn by David Jenkins. 
 When the music stops, she moves away. 
 
 DAVID. Tis over-early, an , Annie 
 
 ANNIE. Davy dear, be still ! Pastor Morris says Tut, 
 tut, I ll close the window, for there comes that Lowry 
 Prichard and her man. 
 
 [Annie closes windows hastily and goes back to her washing. 
 Enter from, right Lowry and her husband Guto, coming from 
 the Monday prayer meeting and carrying hymnals. Lowry 
 dressed in Welsh costume, clogs, short full skirt, striped apron, 
 white sleeves from elbow to wrist, tight bodice, shawl over her 
 shoulders, white cap, and tall, Welsh beaver hat. Guto, Welsh 
 beaver hat on like his wife s, striped vest, brass buttons on lapels 
 of black cloth coat, long, somewhat tight trousers. At sight 
 of washtub and Annie busy over it, Lowry and Guto make 
 gestures of shocked dismay to each other. 
 
 LOWRY. Good evenin , Annie Dalben. 
 
 ANNIE (wiping her wet hand on her apron). Good evenin , 
 Lowry Prichard, an to you, Guto. 
 
 GUTO. Good evenin , mum. 
 
 LOWRY. How is your man ? 
 
 ANNIE. He s no better. 
 
 LOWRY. Is he worse ? 
 
 ANNIE. Nay. 
 
 LOWKY. We missed ye, Annie Dalben. 
 
 GUTO. Aye, we did. Why were ye not at meetin ? 
 
 ANNIE. I ve my man to mind these days. 
 
 LOWRY (triumphantly). But ye said he was no worse, ye 
 did. 
 
 ANNIE. Aye, I did, but I cannot leave him alone. 
 
 GUTO. But ye re neglectin chapel an forgettin the Lord 
 Annie Dalben. Ye ll go quite on the downfall, like 
 this. 
 
 LOWRY. Aye, ye ve not been to meetin s, an tis bad when 
 he s dyin for ye to forget your Lord. Is he in there ? 
 
 ANNIE (moving protectingly nearer the closed window). Yiss, 
 
 LOWRY. W T hy were ye washin* ? 
 
68 THE MERRY MERRY CUCKOO 
 
 ANNIE. Ye ve no cause to ask that ye know. Except I 
 did the washin , what would there be for me to care for 
 David with now that he needs me ? 
 
 GUTO. Yiss, but ye could do it on some other day. 
 
 ANNIE. Nay, for the ladies are waitin now for what they ve 
 given me to do an they so kind. 
 
 LOWBY. I see Pastor Morris comin in. 
 
 ANNIE. Aye, he s comin every day an some days bringin 
 me the food from his own table for my man. 
 [Enter Pastor Morris, young., earnest and rather severe be 
 cause of his youth. 
 
 LOWRY (the inquisitional look on her face deepening, and her 
 voice growing more shrill, pointing to Annie). Ye see, sir, 
 what Annie Dalben s been doin while we were in meetin . 
 She s needin a sermon, aye, that she is. 
 
 GUTO. She s goin quite on the downfall, sir. 
 
 ANNIE. Lowry Prichard, ye ve no cause to speak so about 
 me. When was I ever absent when my man was well? 
 But now, sir, (turning to Morris) as ye know, he s ill an 
 needin me an all the s illin s I can earn. I cannot go 
 away from him. 
 
 LOWRY (speaking to Pastor Morris). She s needin your ad 
 vice, sir. Tis that she is needin whatever. Warn her well. 
 
 GUTO. Yiss, an rebuke her. 
 
 LOWRY. Ye re young, sir, but ye re the instrument of the 
 Lord whatever. Tis your duty to bring her back to her 
 conscience. 
 
 GUTO. Amen. 
 
 [Lowry and Guto go off very self-righteous and looking tri 
 umphantly at Annie, who, quiet, her face pale and weary, 
 turns to her washing and rubs and rinses diligently, while the 
 minister is talking. 
 
 MORRIS (gently). I ve been troubled, for I knew that it 
 would come to this, Annie. I should have spoken with 
 you before about going to chapel. Some one could be 
 found to stay with David while you were at meeting. 
 You have not been to chapel for a month, Annie. 
 
THE MERRY MERRY CUCKOO 69 
 
 ANNIE (continuing her work, but in her voice the attitude of the 
 older woman towards the young man). Ye re very kind, 
 sir, to take the interest, but I m thinkin ye cannot under 
 stand. There s been no occasion, sir, for ye to understand 
 through what I ve been goin these days. 
 [She rubs her sleeve across her tear-filled eyes and continues 
 washing sturdily. 
 
 MORRIS. Yes, but, Annie, what is David thinking? Does 
 he want you to stay away from the meetings where you 
 have always been together ? 
 
 ANNIE. Nay, sir. 
 
 MORRIS. Has he spoken of your staying away ? 
 
 ANNIE (reluctantly). Aye, sir, he asked this evenin why I 
 was not in meetin . 
 
 MORRIS (reflectively). He did. Well, I am thinking that 
 
 ANNIE (dropping her work and speaking as if worried) . Nay, 
 sir, I ve no cause to excuse myself to ye ye re naught 
 but a lad. Tis past your knowledge how my man is 
 every thin to me every thin , he is. He s been such a 
 husband as no one but myself can know, thinkin of me all 
 the time, livin for me, as gentle an tender to me as if I 
 had been a child, an now, sir, he s ill he may be dyin*> 
 an I can think of nothin but doin everythin for 
 (David taps on window and Annie turns to open it) Aye, 
 lad dear. Tis the Pastor comin to see ye again. 
 
 DAVID (smiling and holding out one weak old hand). Good 
 evenin , sir, such a grand day, with spring everywhere. 
 We ve been expectin the cuckoo, sir the wife and I. 
 Have ye heard the cuckoo, yet, Annie? 
 
 MORRIS (starting to speak) . Twill be a fortnight be - 
 
 ANNIE (interrupting hurriedly). Nay, lad dear, I ve been 
 busy, but I m thinkin JVn likely to hear it now any mo 
 ment aye, any moment. 
 
 MORRIS. But, Annie, the cuckoo doesn t 
 
 ANNIE. Tut, sir, I could almost promise the cuckoo would 
 be singin at sundown whatever aye, indeed, lad darlin . 
 Now I ll 
 
70 THE MERRY MERRY CUCKOO 
 
 DAVID (interrupting). Annie, ye mind that baby cuckoo we 
 saw the sky-lark a-feedin that first spring in Blaen Cwm ? 
 It all comes back so clear now an* clearer every moment. 
 I d not once thought of it, sir, since then. 
 
 MORRIS. But, David, the 
 
 ANNIE (speaking to David and closing the windows) . Lie down, 
 lad darlin , an be quiet. I ll call ye, if the cuckoo sings. 
 [In the distance the choir can be heard practising Cariad> a 
 revival hymn, in the chapel. Continues until Annie is alone 
 and talking to herself. 
 
 MORRIS (severely). But, Annie, you know the cuckoo will 
 not sing at least for another fortnight. It is mid-April 
 before the cuckoo sings. 
 
 ANNIE (wearily). Aye, sir. 
 
 MORRIS. Why did you say that to David ? 
 
 ANNIE. He s achin , sir, to hear the cuckoo sing, an* I m 
 wantin to comfort him. 
 
 MORRIS. But, Annie, it is a lie to say what you did to 
 him. 
 
 ANNIE (vigorously). Aye, sir, but I m not carin whatever. 
 
 MORRIS (severely) . Not caring about telling a lie ? 
 
 ANNIE. Nay, sir, I m not carin about anythin but makin 
 him happy. 
 
 MORRIS (rebukingly) . Annie ! (Annie continues washing and 
 does not reply) Annie ! Well, indeed, Annie, if there is 
 nothing I can do for you, and you will not listen to me, I 
 must be going to choir practice. I promised to be there 
 this evening. 
 
 ANNIE (without turning from the tub). Aye, sir. (Pastor 
 Morris off through garden path to choir practice. Goes to 
 left. Annie continues washing until he is well out of sight. 
 She stands up straight and looks about the garden) He s 
 wantin to hear the cuckoo more nor anythin else, dear, 
 dear ! Everywhere tis green now, an the lilies will be 
 here before long but lad, lad, the cuckoo, will it come ? 
 (She goes to left into garden, the wet clothes in a basket under 
 her arm and stands there, looking about) Twas over there 
 
THE MERRY MERRY CUCKOO 71 
 
 it laid its egg in the robin s nest this year ago in May - 
 aye, an* one poor little bird pushed the other out, an ye 
 picked it up, lad dear, an were so tender with it. An* 
 they re not wantin ye, Davy, my old lad darlin , to think 
 the cuckoo will be singin soon. Dear God, is there to be 
 no cuckoo singin for the lad again? Just once more, 
 dear God, to sing to him and comfort him ? Aye ! just 
 the one song ? No cuckoo ? Aye, there will be a cuckoo 
 singin , there shall be a cuckoo singin ! (She looks towards 
 the closed windows behind which David lies, and puts down 
 her basket of clothes} He s asleep! Hush, I ll be the 
 cuckoo ! He ll wake an think the spring has really come. 
 Here by this tree. They re in the chapel, an they ll never 
 know. (Throughout this scene, until Lowry speaks, a cuckoo 
 song is being played very softly. And it is into a few notes 
 of this, several times repeated, that Annie swings when she 
 actually sings her cuckoo song. She opens her mouth to be 
 gin, a look of appealing misery on her face) Twas some- 
 thin like this : Coo-o. Coo-o ! Tut, that sounds like a 
 hen. I know, it goes over an over again, sing-song, 
 sing-song, like this : cu-cu, cu-cu. Aye, that s better. 
 (She rocks herself backwards and forwards practising it and 
 repeating cu-cu, cu-cu) Tis growin better, but lad, lad, 
 I m plannin to deceive ye whatever ! (Brushes tears away 
 impatiently and begins song again) Cucu-cu, cucu-cu, 
 cucucu-cu, cu ! Aye, that s fair ; aye, tis fine ! He ll not 
 know me from a real cuckoo. I ll try it loud now, for 
 ye ve no long, dearie. 
 
 [She holds eagerly on to tree beside her, so lost in the cuckoo 
 music that she is not aware of a head popping up behind the 
 garden wall and down again. She draws a long breath and 
 begins, softly, slowly, the song sounding as if it came from a 
 distance. She waits a moment, the heads are well above the 
 wall now in amazement, and then sings more loudly, 
 making the song sound as if it came from the garden where she 
 is standing. 
 DAVID (calling) . Annie ! 
 
72 THE MERRY MERRY CUCKOO 
 
 ANNIE (hurrying to open his windows). Aye, lad dear, I m 
 
 comin . 
 
 DAVID (ecstatically). Annie, Annie, dear, I heard the cuckoo 
 singin ; I was dreamin again, an* all at once I heard the 
 cuckoo singin in the garden, loud and clear. It sang three 
 times ; first, it sounded like somethin else, twas so breath 
 less ; then it sang quiet an* sweet like a cuckoo ; an the 
 third time it seemed comin from the old mill wheel. 
 ANNIE. But, lad darlin , ye ve heard it, an* I m that glad ! 
 
 Three times; yiss, yiss, tis a real fine cuckoo. Now 
 
 ye re happy, darlin , an ye ll sleep well upon it. 
 DAVID (disappointedly) . Did ye no hear it ? 
 ANNIE. I m thinkin I did an thinkin I didn t. 
 DAVID. Where were ye ? 
 
 ANNIE. Out in the garden, hangin out the clothes. 
 DAVID (still more disappointedly). An ye didn t hear it? 
 ANNIE. I m no certain, darlin ; I heard somethin I 
 
 did, indeed. 
 DAVID (proudly). Twas the cuckoo, Annie dear; I m 
 
 hearin it first every year ; ye must be growin deaf. 
 ANNIE. Yiss, yiss. Now go to sleep, an I ll call ye if I 
 
 hear the cuckoo sing. 
 DAVID. Will it sing again? 
 
 ANNIE. Aye, darlin , if ye heard it once, tis sure to sing again. 
 DAVID. I ll be gettin well, Annie, is it not so ? 
 ANNIE (turning away suddenly). Indeed, lad dear, ye ll be 
 
 about among the heather fore long. 
 DAVID (speaking quietly, almost to himself). To think the 
 
 cuckoo s singin singin for me ! 
 ANNIE. Aye, aye ; now go to sleep. 
 
 [He lies back and closes his eyes obediently. Annie, drying 
 
 her eyes on her apron, goes to left towards her basket of clothes. 
 
 She stands by the tree where she had sung the cuckoo song for 
 
 David, unconscious that two people are head and shoulders 
 
 above the garden wall, looking at her. 
 LOWKY (in a loud voice). So ye ve come back, Annie Dalben, 
 
 to sing the cuckoo again. 
 
,THE MERRY MERRY CUCKOO 73 
 
 GUTO. Aye, we heard ye singin the cuckoo. 
 
 LOWRY. Pooh, tis a pretty cuckoo ye make, an old woman 
 
 like you, an* a pretty song ! 
 ANNIE. Lowry Prichard, have a care ! 
 GUTO. Tis over-early for the cuckoo, is it not? 
 
 ANNIE. Y lSS. 
 
 GUTO. An what are ye singin in your garden for, an* 
 
 David dyin ? 
 
 [Annie does not reply but stoops to her basket of clothes and 
 
 begins to hang them out. 
 LOWRY. So ye ll give no answer ? Well, indeed, maybe ye ll 
 
 answer Pastor Morris. Aye, Guto, go fetch the Pastor. 
 
 [Guto goes off to left, through garden gate in garden wall. 
 LOWRY (going towards the windows behind which David lies). 
 
 Tis a godly song ye ve sung, Annie, an a tale for the 
 
 chapel, eh? 
 ANNIE (following and stepping in front of Lowry) . Ye may go 
 
 out of this garden, an that this minute ! 
 LOWRY (making her way nearer and nearer the window). Nay, 
 
 nay, I m a-goin to speak with David an tell him he s a 
 
 cuckoo for a wife. Tut, ye look fair crazy, Annie, crazy 
 
 with wrath ! Your hair is all rumpled, an your smock is 
 
 dirty. David, bein a cuckoo is 
 
 [But the taunt is left unfinished, for at that moment young 
 
 Morris comes in hastily, Guto following. 
 MORRIS (authoritatively). Annie! Lowry! Annie, is this I 
 
 hear true? Have you been imitating the cuckoo? 
 ANNIE. Aye, sir. 
 MORRIS (turning to Lowry and Guto). You may go. Leave 
 
 this to me. 
 
 [Guto and Lowry go off right, through front gate, staring in 
 
 at David as they pass. 
 MORRIS (sternly). So, Annie, you have been acting the 
 
 cuckoo acting a lie. With this lie upon you, how will 
 
 it be with salvation ? 
 
 ANNIE (hotly). Salvation, sir? I ve no mind to your sal 
 vation ; no, nor to heaven s, if the Lord makes this singin 
 
74 THE MERRY MERRY CUCKOO 
 
 a lie! I m thinkin of David as I ve thought of him 
 these fifty years, years before ye were born, sir, an if a 
 lie will make him happy when he s dyin , then I m willin 
 to lie, an do it every minute of the day. 
 
 MORRIS. That means you are willing to sin ? 
 
 ANNIE. Aye, sir, to sin. I m a willin sinner ! 
 
 MORRIS (more gently). You are overwrought, Annie. 
 
 ANNIE (wearily). Ye re all against me, sir. 
 
 MORRIS. Nay, nay, but wouldn t it be better if I were to 
 tell David about the cuckoo ? 
 
 ANNIE (sobbing) . Oh, no, no, no, sir ! Not that ! 
 
 MORRIS (stretching out his hand to comfort her). Annie, there, 
 there, you mustn t cry so. 
 
 ANNIE. Tis all the happiness he s got, an he s goin . Oh, 
 my lad, my lad ! 
 
 MORRIS. There, there, Annie ! 
 
 ANNIE. We ve been married fifty years this spring, an 
 every spring we ve listened for the cuckoo an not one 
 missed. An now he s a-dyin an a-wantin to hear it so, 
 an twas over-early, an* then I thought of bein the cuckoo 
 myself. Oh, Davy, Davy darlin ! 
 
 MORRIS (altogether forgetting his pastoral severity). There, 
 Annie, there, dear, tell me about it ! We ll see, Annie. 
 
 ANNIE. There s no more. Only he kept askin about the 
 spring, the violets an marsh marigolds, an I knew all the 
 time he was thinkin of the cuckoo an not askin because 
 he was goin an mightn t hear it. An then he did. An 
 I said I thought he d hear one this evenin , that everythin 
 was over-early whatever. After that he seemed happier 
 than I d seen him, an* I closed his windows an went off 
 into the garden to practise it. I worked at it till I could 
 do it fair. Oh, Davy, Davy lad ! 
 
 MORRIS. Now, Annie dear, don t cry, just tell me more. 
 
 ANNIE. Then, sir, I sang the song here by this tree, an 
 when he called me to him, there was such a look of joy on 
 his face as has not been there this long time. Tis the 
 last happiness I can give him, sir. 
 
THE MERRY MERRY CUCKOO 75 
 
 DAVID (calling). Annie, Annie! 
 
 ANNIE. He s callin . Aye, lad dear, I m comin . 
 
 [She goes into cottage and, after opening all the windows, 
 
 stands by the foot of David s bed. 
 DAVID. Have ye heard the cuckoo singin ? 
 ANNIE. No, not yet. It must be singin again soon. 
 DAVID (anxiously). Ye re sure tis goin to sing? 
 ANNIE (gathering him up and turning his pillow). Indeed, 
 
 yiss, an with the windows all open, ye ll be hearin it fine 
 
 an* clear, ye will. I ll go back up into the garden to see 
 
 is the cuckoo there. 
 DAVID. Will it be singin over an over again, the way it 
 
 did that first time ? 
 ANNIE. Aye, I m thinkin so, lad darlin . Ye must listen 
 
 quietly. 
 DAVID. Twas so beautiful singin . I d like hearin it with 
 
 ye here beside me. 
 
 ANNIE (kissing him). I ll come back, lad. 
 DAVID. Aye, I ll be waitin for ye. 
 
 [Annie goes out of the cottage door and back into garden where 
 
 Pastor Morris is standing, his hat off, while Annie and Darid 
 
 are talking together. He can see them both, but David cannot 
 
 see him. Annie and Morris converse in whispers. The 
 
 cuckoo song begins to be played softly. 
 MORRIS. Is he worse ? 
 ANNIE (looking at Morris beseechingly). I cannot tell, sir, 
 
 but he s longin to hear the cuckoo sing again. 
 MORRIS. I see, and you are wishing to do it again ? 
 ANNIE. Yiss, an* with the lad dyin , can ye tell me not to 
 
 do what Davy is askin for ? Each time might be his last, 
 
 sir. 
 MORRIS (after a moment s hesitation). Nay, go sing for him. 
 
 I will stand guard for you, and no one shall disturb 
 
 you. 
 ANNIE (a deep sigh of relief). Oh, sir, thank you ! Tis sure 
 
 to be a comfort. But ye re harmin your conscience for 
 
 me, sir, are ye ? 
 
76 THE MERRY MERRY CUCKOO 
 
 MORRIS (humbly). I m not saying, Annie; I m over-young 
 to have a conscience in some things. 
 
 ANNIE (taking his hand to kiss it). May God bless ye, sir, 
 for bein kind to an old woman ! [ 
 
 [The sun has set behind the chapel, and it is rapidly growing 
 dark as the music grows louder. Morris steps back to the 
 garden gate to keep watch. Annie stands by the tree and, 
 dropping her hands by her side, lifting her head, and swaying 
 her old body to and fro, sings the cuckoo song over and over 
 again three times. David has risen in bed, an expression of 
 rapturous delight upon his face as he leans against the casement 
 listening. The lights are being lighted in the chapel, and the 
 chapel bell begins to ring. 
 
 DAVID (calling faintly) . Annie, Annie darlin , come quickly, 
 the cuckoo s singin ! 
 
 ANNIE (hastening towards him). Yiss, lad, I m comin*. 
 
 DAVID (stretching out his hands towards her). Annie, sweet 
 heart, did ye hear the cuckoo singin ? 
 
 ANNIE. Yiss, dearie, loud and clear. 
 
 DAVID (trying to imitate its song while his voice grows fainter) . 
 It sang over an over like this 
 
 ANNIE (within the cottage and beside David). Yiss, dear, I see. 
 
 DAVID (sinking back into her arms) . An* it was 
 quiet but Annie 
 
 ANNIE (holding him to her and crying out). Lad, lad dear. 
 Davy, can ye not speak to me ? 
 
 [The bell for chapel stops ringing. The organ playing 
 "Jesus, Lover of my Soul" is heard. Morris is standing by 
 the gate, facing towards the old people, his hat off, his head 
 
 bowed. 
 
 CURTAIN 
 
SINTRAM OF SKAGERRAK 
 
 SADA COWAN 
 
 
 
 Miss SADA COWAN (in private life, Mrs. Fredrick James 
 Pitt) was educated at a private boarding school near Boston. 
 At the age of fifteen she went to Germany to study music. 
 She found, however, that this work did not entirely satisfy 
 her and so she began a series of travels which extended 
 over a number of years. 
 
 "Sintram of Skagerrak" was written in Frankfort, Ger 
 many, late one evening, as the result of the inspiration which 
 Frederick Lamond aroused through his piano recital of 
 Chopin. The play itself was written in less than two hours 
 and has never been altered by the addition or the elimination 
 of a word. 
 
 Miss Cowan has published "In the Morgue", "The State 
 Forbids", and "Investigation." In addition to these, she 
 has produced "Playing the Game", "Pomp", "The Wonder 
 of the Age", "The Moonlit Way", "Abdul the Azra", 
 "The Honor of America", and "I Wish I Knew." 
 
SINTRAM OF SKAGERRAK 
 
 BY SADA COWAN 
 
"Sintram of Skagerrak" was originally produced by the 
 Brooklyn Repertory Theatre, April 27, 1917. 
 
 Original Cast 
 
 SINTRAM Harmon Cheshire 
 
 GUNHILDE Ethel Rosemon 
 
 COPYRIGHT, BY SADA COWAN. 
 All rights reserved. 
 
 Application for the right of performing "Sintram of Skagerrak" must be made to 
 Sada Cowan, The Authors League, New York City. 
 
SINTRAM OF SKAGERRAK 
 
 SCENE. A high, bare cliff, situated on the edge of the shore, in 
 a bleak, barren country. Against this cliff the breakers dash 
 unceasingly, splitting with a roar and thud; tossing their spray 
 high into the air. 
 
 It is a moonlight night in summer. 
 
 On the peak of the cliff, and looking out upon the ocean, stands 
 Sintram, an emaciated, frail, sickly lad of about twenty. As 
 the curtains part, he stretches his arms out impetuously towards 
 the sea, uttering a prolonged "Ah ... h ... h!" then lets 
 them fall languidly to his side and hangs his head, as though 
 weary of his whole existence. He continues to stand, apathetic 
 and listless, for several moments, gazing spellbound upon the 
 ocean. Unobserved by him across the rocks, Gunhilde enters: 
 a vivacious girl of eighteen, plainly dressed as befits her lowly sta 
 tion. She looks about and behind her as if afraid of being fol 
 lowed, then, a rock hiding Sintram from her view, calls softly. 
 GUNHILDE. Sintram . . . ! Sintram . . . ! (Sintram, lost in 
 his morose brooding, does not hear her, but continues to stand 
 staring at the ocean) Sintram . . . ! Sintram . . . ! Ah, 
 the^e you are. I hoped that I should find you. 
 
 [Sintram turns slowly and descends the cliff with tired, dragging 
 
 step; she runs eagerly towards him. 
 SINTRAM (angrily). What are you doing here, Gunhilde, at 
 
 this hour? 
 GUNHILDE. Sh . . . h . . . h . . . ! Not so loud ! Someone 
 
 will hear you. 
 SINTRAM. What are you doing here ! Have I not forbidden 
 
 your creeping out of your house, like a thief in the night, 
 
 to look for me ! 
 
82 SINTRAM OF SKAGERRAK 
 
 GUNHILDE. Be kind ... be gentle, Sintram. 
 
 SINTRAM (sternly) . Your Father thinks you at home. Why 
 do you deceive him ? Go home ! (She does not move. 
 Kindly) Go, little friend, little playmate ! You know it 
 is for your good I would have you go ... go home ! 
 
 GUNHILDE. No. 
 
 SINTRAM. We have said all that we had to say to each other. 
 Why have you come back again ? 
 
 GUNHILDE. I had to see you once more Sintram before . . . 
 (her voice breaks) . . . before they take you away. I shall 
 be at work in the morning when they come for you. 
 [She covers her face with her hands and begins to sob. 
 
 SINTRAM (furiously) . Stop that senseless crying ! Leave me 
 alone. Do you think that my soul is not racked enough ? 
 (Sadly) All night I have sat on the edge of the cliff saying 
 "Good-by" to the sea. We understand each other, the 
 mad, wild, restless ocean and I. And all night she has 
 wept for me . . . wept in her anguish. (Pushing Gunhilde 
 aside) I have no need of woman s tears. 
 
 GUNHILDE (awed) . Often it seems to me, Sintram, as though 
 there were something uncanny about you. As though you 
 lived on this earth among us, without really being one of 
 us. When you have taken me in your arms and have 
 kissed me tenderly . . . (bitterly) just as if I were a little 
 child, I have felt that worlds and worlds lay between us. 
 What is it, Sintram ? Have you a secret which you have 
 kept from me ? (He gives no answer, but dumbly nods his 
 head in assent) I thought so. Will you not tell it to me 
 before you go? 
 
 SINTRAM (hastily). No ... no ... you could not under 
 stand. 
 
 GUNHILDE. Let me try . . . come . . . tell me ! (She 
 leads him to a rock where they sit beside each other, she still 
 holding his hand. He shivers nervously and coughs) You 
 ought not to be here in the night air. 
 
 SINTRAM. I am not cold (shivers again) but .... I feel 
 afraid. Gunhilde, come closer . . . 
 
SINTRAM OF SKAGERRAK 83 
 
 GUNHILDE (moves nearer to him). Why, you are shivering! 
 Here, let me fasten your coat, you poor boy. 
 
 SINTRAM (shaking her off and turning on her with sudden, un 
 expected fury) . Bah ! Do you begin too ? Can I not 
 have just this one night in peace ? Is it not time enough 
 for me to begin my life as a puppet . . . to-morrow ? 
 
 QUNHILDE (hurt). Why, Sintram ! 
 
 SINTRAM. I mean what I say, every word of it and I know 
 what I m saying. (She attempts to touch him) Leave me 
 alone ! Do you hear ? Do not touch me. To-night is 
 mine . . . MINE ! And if the night air kills me ... 
 let it kill. But just this once I am going to forget that I 
 am nothing but the shadow of a man, sick and miserable, 
 cheated by nature of all that a man should have ; blind 
 folded and handicapped in Life s race . . . even before I 
 entered it. Beaten before the first step was taken ! But 
 to-night I am a man ! To-morrow I will be the half -dead 
 invalid dragged, against my will, to warmer climes, where 
 my soul will sicken . . . (harshly) that my body may live. 
 
 GUNHILDE (gently). How bitterly you speak. It is not for 
 long that you are going. 
 
 SINTRAM. You know that it is forever. ( Takes a deep breath, 
 then coughs) That this air ... cool and sharp . . . 
 this air I love is as so much poison to me. And you know 
 just as well as I do that I will never come back. 
 
 GUNHILDE (hiding her tears and trying to cheer him). But it 
 must be wonderful in the warm sunshine, among eternal 
 flowers. Oh, I should love it I wish that I too might 
 go. This land is hateful to me. Tis so cold and bleak, 
 and nothing green ever grows. Nothing but seaweed and 
 nasty slimy things from the sea. I asked your guardian to 
 day to tell me about the place to which he was taking 
 you and he said that it was like fairyland . . . like Par 
 adise ; full of roses and palms and . . . Why, it must be 
 glorious, Sintram ! 
 
 SINTRAM. Things to please a soft woman . . . not for a 
 man. (.4 moment s pause, them to himself) And I must 
 
84 SINTRAM OF SKAGERRAK 
 
 go away and leave her. (Covers his eyes with his hands and 
 rocks to and fro with emotion) Oh, God, that is beyond 
 my strength ! 
 
 GUNHILDE. Her ? Whom do you mean . . . me ? 
 
 SINTRAM. That is my secret, Gunhilde. 
 
 GUNHILDE (passionately). Tell me . . . you must tell 
 me. 
 
 SINTRAM. No ... no ... you would not understand. I 
 am afraid that you would think me mad. 
 
 GUNHILDE. Tell me. 
 
 SINTRAM. I have kept it to myself these three years. I will 
 keep it to the end. 
 
 GUNHILDE. But you can have no secrets from me. You 
 should have none. Tis breaking your oath. 
 
 SINTRAM (perplexed). My oath? My oath? 
 
 GUNHILDE. Why, do you not recall the day we stood here on 
 the cliff and drank the red wine together from your little 
 silver cup? 
 
 SINTRAM. Yes. 
 
 GUNHILDE. And you said, as you held the cup up ... so (she 
 raises one arm above her head, laughing, and looks towards 
 the sea) "I swear to you, little comrade, that as long as I 
 live I shall never withhold one thought, keep back one 
 single feeling, or shut out my soul for one single instant 
 from . . . her whom I love ! And then you threw the 
 cup far out into the sea. Do you not remember, Sin- 
 tram? 
 
 SINTRAM. Yes . . . yes ... I remember. 
 
 GUNHILDE. So you must trust me and if you have kept any 
 thing hidden from me you must tell it to me now. 
 
 SINTRAM. I will tell it to you Gunhilde ... I will. (He 
 looks at her a moment sympathetically as though he would like 
 to spare her the pain of that which he is about to say) You 
 love me ... do you not ? 
 
 GUNHILDE. I adore you. 
 
 SINTRAM. You have been a dear little friend, a loyal com 
 rade these two years ; I shall miss you. 
 
SINTRAM OF SKAGERRAK 85 
 
 GUNHILDE. Oh, Sintram . . . ! (With a voice too old for her 
 years) I wish that I could have been more to you than I 
 have been. 
 
 SINTRAM. What do you mean ? 
 
 GUNHILDE. Nothing . . . nothing ! (Hastily trying to hide 
 her emotion) I have no wish to burden you with my secret. 
 Let me hear yours. 
 
 SINTRAM. Presently. First I want you to tell me some 
 thing. You are sorry that I have to leave you . . . are 
 you not? 
 
 GUNHILDE. How can you ask ? You know it. 
 
 SINTRAM. But you hope some day to see me again, or to 
 hear from me at least, do you not? 
 
 GUNHILDE. Yes, soon. 
 
 SINTRAM. Then listen and see if you can possibly feel as I 
 feel, for even as you love me, and more . . . much more, 
 I too love. (Gunhilde tightens her hold upon his hand and 
 smiles happily, thinking that he is alluding to her. Sadly 
 and slowly) No . . . not you, little playmate, little 
 friend ; but a wild, beautiful woman who sometimes mocks 
 me and torments me, and sometimes caresses and quiets 
 me. Her moods are my moods. Her feelings are mine. 
 When she is angry, my soul responds and is filled with 
 a vague restlessness ; when she is calm, her peace rests 
 on me ; when she is powerful, my poor, sickly body feels 
 her strength ; and when she is vindictive, I too cry for 
 human life . . . and blood ! [During his entire speech 
 Gunhilde has sat dumbfounded, now she breaks forth 
 passionately. 
 
 GUNHILDE. You love some one else ! You have deceived 
 me, telling me that you had no mistress ; you love a cruel, 
 bad woman . . . Who is she ? 
 
 SINTRAM. Be quiet, Gunhilde, and I will tell you everything. 
 Only be quiet . . . you will not be jealous when you have 
 heard all. 
 
 GUNHILDE (dreamily). And I thought that you cared be 
 cause you were leaving me. 
 
86 SINTRAM OF SKAGERRAK 
 
 SINTBAM. I do care . . . but listen. I want you to under 
 stand. (Calmly) I have always lived here, as you know, 
 little comrade. In that old house, just the other side of 
 the cliff, I was born ; weighed down with riches and an 
 untarnished name. My people had intermarried closely : 
 (bitterly) no strong, vital peasants blood ran in my veins. 
 (Quietly) My Mother s bed-room faced the ocean, so the 
 first sound which reached my ears when I came to the world 
 was . . . the moan of the sea. My Mother died when I 
 was born, so the sea became my Mother and sang her 
 lullabys to me until I fell asleep, stilled by her soft crooning. 
 (Scornfully) Then I grew up ... weak . . . delicate 
 . . . sick . . . ! The boys used to ridicule me because I was 
 not able to spring from one rock to another, laughing and 
 shouting as they did. They made fun of me and then 
 went away, leaving me sitting (points) just there. Hour 
 after hour I would stay there with tears in my eyes gazing 
 out at the sea. And then, ah ... how grateful I was . . . 
 she would dance and prance and splash and roar ... all 
 to please and amuse me; calling softly to me not to be 
 sad ! And she would weave her most beautiful fairy tales 
 for me in the loom of the waves. In the ever-changing 
 whitecaps I saw all the heroes of my boyhood fancy pass 
 before me. So, as the sea had once taken the place of my 
 Mother, she became, in turn, my playmate. Are you 
 tired listening, Gunhilde ? 
 
 GUNHILDE. No, dear, no. Go on ... ! 
 
 SINTRAM. Then my boyhood vanished and I grew to be a 
 man : a weak, puny man, able to dream dreams in the 
 moonlight, to write sad verse, to kiss your soft lips and 
 there my strength ended. Often when you had left me 
 in the evening, my soul afire from the moonbeams and the 
 light on the waves ; when my body . . . (Breaks off sud 
 denly, remembering that she is little more than a child) 
 What am I saying to you ? I forgot, little girl, forgive me. 
 I am so used to talking to myself, forgive me ... Gun 
 hilde. 
 
SINTRAM OF SKAGERRAK 87 
 
 GUNHILDE. What happened to you, Sintram, when you 
 stayed alone in the moonlight after I had gone ? Tell me. 
 I will understand. I am not such a child as you think. 
 
 SINTRAM (reflects, then almost spontaneously}. I used to sit 
 on the edge of the peak, just where you found me to-night, 
 and listen to the same soft voice calling to me not to be 
 sad. Then I would close my eyes and lie on the very 
 edge of the rock so that the spray might dash into my face. 
 (Rapturously) It felt like woman s tears upon my eyes 
 and lips, and I used to wonder why the ocean wept. But 
 now I know. To all my longings, thoughts, and desires 
 the ocean responded; so, in turn, she became ... my 
 mistress . . . and I love her ! There you have my secret 
 (Laughs loudly and harshly) "Sintram the Scatter 
 brained" in love with the sea ! 
 
 GUNHILDE. There is nothing so strange about that, Sintram ; 
 you have lived here always and the ocean has become a 
 part of your life. If you had been strong and poor you 
 could have been a sailor. Why, look at all the boys who 
 have run away from home to become sailors. Many men 
 love the sea . . . that is not strange. 
 
 SINTRAM (interrupting passionately). They never loved her 
 as I love her. (Takes her hand violently and speaks rap 
 idly) To me she is not a thing of water and foam, as she is 
 to you, Gunhilde, but she is a woman ! A moody, beautiful 
 woman, with a wonderful body and golden hair, and her 
 soul .... Ah ! how shall I tell you of her soul or of her 
 soft voice when she loves me and takes me in her arms ? 
 But she is capricious ... as capricious as she is beautiful. 
 
 GUNHILDE. What do you mean? Is this some poem that 
 you have written ? 
 
 SINTRAM (oblivious to her, and talking to himself, staring all 
 the while before him) . How many nights have I lain awake 
 in my bed and have listened to her murmur and sing and 
 call me. Then, in an uncontrollable frenzy, when I have 
 rushed bare-footed to answer her bidding, she has mocked 
 me and scoffed me ; she has risen up in stormy anger, cut- 
 
88 SINTRAM OF SKAGERRAK 
 
 ting my face with her lashes of spray and has laughed and 
 laughed at me, until I have covered my face with my hands 
 and gone sobbing back to my bed. 
 
 GUNHILDE. I cannot understand you, Sintram. 
 
 SINTRAM. No, dear, no . . . I did not think you would. I 
 hardly understand myself; only this I know, Gunhilde, 
 that to go away from here and never to look upon her 
 again is like tearing my heart out of my body. (A pause 
 in which he listens to the crash of the breakers on the rocks 
 below) Here . . . ! Listen how angry she is, and how 
 she hates me to-night. 
 
 GUNHILDE. What foolishness ! It is going to storm, that is 
 all. 
 
 SINTRAM. Oh, you have not learned her language as I have. 
 Listen ! see if her voice carries no meaning to you. (They 
 both listen silently for several moments, in which a dull roar 
 and thud is heard; then Sintram begins to chant, strongly 
 accenting every other syllable) Sintram . . . ! Sintram 
 . . . going . . . away . . . ! Away ... ! To new 
 loves . . . ! He is false . . . ! False . . . ! Ugh . . . ! 
 Did you hear her shriek then . . . ? 
 
 GUNHILDE. No, I heard nothing ; not even the wind. 
 
 SINTRAM. She hates me, Gunhilde . . . my Beloved hates 
 me ! [He shudders. 
 
 GUNHILDE (tenderly and sadly). Would that your voice 
 were so when you talk of me ; your eyes never looked for 
 me as they look when you speak of her. I love you, 
 Sintram. 
 
 SINTRAM (indifferently). Yes . . . yes ... I know. 
 
 GUNHILDE. No . . . you do not know; not as you think. 
 You have treated me always as a child ... a little child. 
 
 SINTRAM. But you are a child ! 
 
 GUNHILDE. I am a woman ... a woman . . . and I love you. 
 (He looks at her surprised, almost startled. She lays her hand 
 on his) Forget your foolish fancy, for it is only a fancy, 
 and let me be your love ; take me away with you to-mor 
 row and I will love you forever. Take me . . . do I You 
 
SINTRAM OF SKAGERRAK 89 
 
 little know how I have suffered since I have cared for you, 
 how my passion for you has nearly killed me. All that gave 
 me strength and courage was to feel that you loved no one 
 else, and now . . . ! But soon you will be well and strong 
 again, and then you will look back upon all this as on some 
 wild, strange dream. [While speaking, she has been draw 
 ing closer to him and has been caressing him. Now she sits 
 with one arm about his neck, her cheek pressed to his. 
 SINTRAM. Oh . . . how warm you are . . . how warm ! [He 
 
 shivers. 
 
 GTJNHILDE. Kiss me . . . Sintram ! 
 
 SINTRAM (opening his eyes, looking into space and talking to 
 himself). If I take her with me perhaps I would grow 
 well and strong ; perhaps I would no longer be lonely . . . 
 and I might forget. . . . 
 
 QUNHILDE (whispering). Kiss me, Sintram ... I love you ! 
 [He looks at her a moment, then takes hold of her, and crushing 
 her with all his strength to him, he gives her a long kiss. Sud 
 denly he jumps up, startling her, and looks about excitedly. 
 SINTRAM. What was that ? 
 GUNHILDE (dazed from the suddenness of the interruption). 
 
 What, Sintram . . . ? What is it . . . ? 
 SINTRAM. I heard a dull thud . . . and a moan from the sea. 
 GUNHILDE (drawing him back to the rock). You are fanciful 
 and nervous to-night. There was no noise. (Sintram 
 sits for a moment beside her, but he is restless and a strained 
 tension is visible in his every motion. Finally he springs up 
 and runs to and fro on the cliff, peering on every side; seeing 
 nothing, he comes back to Gunhilde. Rising) How strange 
 you are ! I never saw you so before. Is it because you 
 are going away to-morrow ? Look at me. . . . AT me 
 . . . not into space ! (Awed) There is a distant, far-away 
 . . . something ... in your eyes which I have never seen 
 in the eyes of any man. ... It frightens me ! [She 
 draws away from him. 
 
 SINTRAM (stands as though listening to a far-away voice, then 
 breaks out suddenly). There . . . ! Did you not hear it 
 
90 SINTRAM OF SKAGERRAK 
 
 then? (This time he dashes to the top of the cliff, where he 
 
 had originally been standing; she follows him. He stares 
 
 silently out at the ocean, moving nervously and excitedly the 
 
 while; finally he takes Gunhilde s hand) Look . . . Gun- 
 
 hilde . . . look ! 
 GUNHILDE (looking in the direction in which he is pointing). 
 
 Where ? What ? 
 SINTRAM (straining his eyes). Far out beyond those jagged 
 
 rocks, far ... far out! 
 GUNHILDE. I see nothing! (Horrified) At what are you 
 
 staring so, Sintram ? 
 SINTRAM. There is something white floating on the waves 
 
 ... it is coming nearer and nearer. (Pause) I think it 
 
 is . . .a corpse ! 
 GUNHILDE (utters a long drawn out) " Oh ... h ... h ... 
 
 h . . . ! " (She lies down and leans way over the cliff. Then 
 
 she rises) But I see . . . nothing ! 
 SINTRAM (pointing) . Not below us ! There . . . there ! 
 
 Can you not see ? It is a woman with open, glassy eyes 
 
 and golden hair, entwined like a fisherman s net about 
 
 her white body. 
 
 GUNHILDE. All I see is a shimmer of gold from the moon. 
 SINTRAM. She is floating nearer . . . nearer . . . ! Look, 
 
 she is not dead ! She moves ! She breathes . . . ! Her 
 
 breast heaves slowly ! 
 GUNHILDE (puzzled) . I see nothing but the waves rising and 
 
 falling in the moonbeams. 
 SINTRAM (leaning over the cliff) . Now she lies at the very foot 
 
 of the cliff . . . see . . . see . . . (Pause) She is rising 
 
 . . . she is standing upon the water. (Surprised) Gunhilde 
 
 . . . ! She is looking at us ! She is calling me ! Can you 
 
 not hear her? 
 GUNHILDE (laying her hand on his arm restrainingly) . Are 
 
 you mad . . . Sintram . . . ! 
 SINTRAM (happily). She is jealous of you, Gunhilde . . . 
 
 my ocean love is jealous. (He laughs loudly. Then he is 
 
 suddenly very still and peers tensely below him, in happy as- 
 
SINTRAM OF SKAGERRAK 91 
 
 tonishment) She is beckoning to me . . . she holds out 
 her arms to me ! (In ecstasy) Oh, Beloved ... At last 
 . . . ! [He extends his arms to the imaginary woman and 
 plunges headlong over the cliff. 
 GUNHILDE (shrieks). Sintram . . . ! Sintram . . . ! 
 
 (As the curtains close). 
 
WILL O THE WISP 
 
 DORIS F. HALMAN 
 
 Miss DORIS F. HALMAN was born in Ellsworth, Maine, 
 October 28, 1895. She was educated in Boston, and 
 graduated from Radcliffe in 1916. 
 
 She has published "The Land Where Lost Things Go", 
 which received a prize from the Drama League, and 
 Behooves Us", plays written in the interest of war sentiment. 
 
 Her "Will O the Wisp" was produced by Professor George 
 P. Baker in his " 47 Workshop " at Cambridge, Massachusetts, 
 in 1916, and her "Rusted Stock" by the same company in 
 1917. In addition, "Will O the Wisp" has been given by 
 "The Players Workshop" of Chicago, The Theatre Arts 
 Club of Detroit, and by amateurs in New York City and in 
 Ellsworth, Maine. 
 
WILL O THE WISP 
 
 BY DORIS F. HALMAN 
 
"Will O the Wisp" was originally produced under the 
 direction of Professor George P. Baker in his "47 Workshop " 
 at Cambridge, Massachusetts, on December 8, 1916. 
 
 Original Cast 
 
 THE WHITE-FACED GIRL . . . Miss Vianna Knowlton 
 
 THE COUNTRYWOMAN .... Miss Eleanor Hinkley 
 
 THE POET S WIFE Miss Frederica Gilbert 
 
 THE SERVING-MAID Miss Mary Ellis 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1916, BY DORIS F. HALMAN. 
 All rights reserved. 
 
 Application for tne right of performing "Will O the Wisp" must be made to Miss 
 Doris F. Halman, 32 Webster Street, Brookline, Massachusetts. 
 
WILL O THE WISP 
 
 SCENE/ Interior of a farmhouse ai4he end of things. A plain, 
 gray room, with black furniture and a smoke-blackened fireplace.\ 
 Door to outside, left back. Door to stairs, right. Fireplace 
 in upper rigid-hand corner; armchair in lower right-hand corner. 
 Relow the door, left, a square table with a chair at either side. 
 fThe whole center of the wall, back, is taken up by a huge window, 
 through which one can glimpse the black spaces of a moor, rising 
 in the distance to a sharp cliff-head silhouetted against the in 
 tense blue of an early evening sky. With the passage of the 
 action, this blue fades into a starless night^ There are two 
 candles burning in the room, one on the table, the other on a 
 sfalf above the armchair. 
 
 \\Vhen the curtain rises, the countrywoman, cm M and with 
 ered dame, is lighting the candle\on the table. (Crouching by 
 the relace aHha oilier side ^ p mnig., is the ragged figure of 
 
 the fireplace aHha oilier side rf p mnig., is the ragged figure of 
 
 a girl with a white face and big wistful eyes) a strange little 
 
 figure wearing a tight-fitting gray cap which covers all her hair, 
 
 (a silent figure, never speaking\ Uniil she lifts her head, she is 
 
 little more than a dim gray heap in the shadows. 
 
 THE COUNTRYWOMAN. SQ I don t know what s to become of 
 
 me any more, with my one boarder gone. A poet he was, 
 
 to be sure, but a good one ; and he paid me enough every 
 
 summer to keep my soul and body together through the 
 
 rest of the long year. Seven summers he came that way, 
 
 and now the time s gone by, and I hear never no word. 
 
 How I m to keep myself alive, I don t know ; and since 
 
 I ve took you in, bless you, there s the two of us. It may 
 
 be you ll have to go again, tfc-wy~yo-<jame, out of the 
 
98 WILL O THE WISP 
 
 night, though you re a great comfort bem -here to talk 
 to, and a help to me in my work. Not but what there d 
 be more comfort yet, if your poor tongue weren t cursed 
 with dumbness ! (She turns away, sighing, and a queer 
 smile flickers over the stray s face) 
 
 Dear sake, yes, I m growin used to you. But a stray who 
 comes to the land s end is as welcome as any other. Nor 
 are those likely to reach here at all, who aren t vagabonds 
 or poets. By which I think that my poet is gone for 
 good, and you must follow after, and then I ll be left to 
 dwell for the rest of my days alone with the spirits of the 
 moor and of the sea beyond. Oh, alack ! (She sits down, 
 wiping her eyes) 
 
 I ll not forget the night you came. A month ago it was ; 
 the second of June ; and the day before was the time the 
 poet always come, himself. When I see your white face 
 peerin through the window there, I thought twas him, 
 late, and lookin in for the joke of it, to see if I d given 
 him up. Then in another minute you was standin in the 
 door, poor white creature that you were. And behind you 
 was the wind sweepin over the moor, and the waves sighin 
 up the cliffhead from the sea. God knows where you come 
 from, and you couldn t tell. But you re not troublesome. 
 (The creature smiles at her, as the old woman goes over to her, 
 and pats her shoulder) 
 
 No, you re not. Neither was he. Off all the time he was, 
 with the will-o -the-wisps of the field and the mermaids of 
 the deep, learnin their sweet songs. No trouble at all, 
 either of you, only, he paid. (A knock at the door. -The 
 old woman starts and cries out joyfully. As she hurries to 
 open, she does not notice that the girl s face grows illumined 
 as she stretches forth her thin arms in a gesture of infinite 
 grace) 
 
 He s come ! After four weeks, at last ! He ll pay again ! 
 [TJiedoor, opened by her, reveals a woman in her thirty-fifth 
 year, dressed in the extreme of style. She enters, followed by a 
 black-clad maid, who carries a traveling bag. Disappointed, 
 
 
 
WILL O THE WISP 99 
 
 biii amazed, ~the~ old woman falls back before her. By this 
 time* the figure near the fireplace is crouching expressionless 
 QS before. 
 THE STYLISH LADY. Is this the farmhouse at the land s end ? 
 
 THE COUNTRYWOMAN. Yes, SO please yOU. 
 
 [She curtsies as weU as her bent back will permit. The stray s 
 
 ^es have gone from the lady to the maid, and are fixed on the 
 
 servant wJien the lady speaks. 
 
 THE LADY. r4fe ! You may set down the bag, Nora. 
 THE MAID (with a soft brogue}. Ye~Si~mff*3Tm. 
 
 [She gazes nervously about the dusky room. 
 THE LADY (to the countrywoman) . My husband sent me to 
 
 you. 
 
 [Quick as a flash, the stray s big eyes are fastened on the lady. 
 
 T1iy never waver till the end of the scene. 
 THE COUNTRYWOMAN. Your husband ? How? There are 
 
 no husbands at the land s end. Nobody but me. 
 THE LADY. My husband has been here. He used to board 
 
 with you, in the summer time. 
 
 THE COUNTRYWOMAN. Oh ! The poet ? 
 
 THE LADY. Yes. I am the poet s wife. 
 
 THE COUNTRYWOMAN. , -#TTb- 
 
 THE LADY. We ve not been married very long. (She hastens 
 to add, with a forced sigh) Of course, it pained me to leave 
 him ! But I was so wearied from social pleasures that he 
 wanted me to rest ; and what was I to do ? I^was-^ven 
 growing bored, net being as fresh as he to such fulness of 
 Ufe. But you can know nothing of that, here at the end 
 of things. You ve never seen the world? 
 
 THE COUNTRYWOMAN (glancing through the window). I ve 
 seen how big it L, and how queer. 
 [Her .voice .OIQW& Jiushed witii awe. Follows a slight pause. 
 The serving-maid bec-omes aware of the crouching stray, and 
 moves farther away, crossing herself. The lady s stare at the 
 old woman ends in a burst of laughter. 
 
 THE LADY. Oh, how amusing ! I think I shall enjoy my stay 
 with you. Will you take me in for a while ? 
 
100 WILL O THE WISP 
 
 THE COUNTRYWOMAN (cackling with pleasure). Now, by all 
 
 tke-ele4*-iir-fcfee-sky-ttr-Tiigtit, I will! 
 THE LADY. I shall require a room for myself and another for 
 
 my maid. 
 THE COUNTRYWOMAN. And your husband, good ma am? 
 
 Doesn t he come ? 
 THE LADY. No. I thought better not. . . . There seemed 
 
 to be some influence here that was not good for him. 
 THE COUNTRYWOMAN. Here, ma am ? At the land s end he 
 
 loved so much ? 
 
 THE LADY (laughing unpleasantly) . Oh, I don t deny he found 
 his inspiration in this neighborhood. Summer brought his 
 best work, every one knows that. . . . Tell me, how did 
 he use to spend his time ? 
 THE COUNTRYWOMAN. Why, most of it, out there. 
 
 [She waves her hand toward the darkening scene beyond the 
 
 windows. ^\n f 
 
 THE LADY (sitting at the right of the table). Ah? You see, he 
 
 never told me about it in detail, for fear I couldn t 
 
 understand. But you think I can understand, don t you ? 
 
 THE COUNTRYWOMAN. Good ma am, are you acquainted 
 
 with the spirits ? 
 
 THE LADY. Certainly not ! What spirits ? 
 THE COUNTRYWOMAN. Those he knew. 
 THE LADY. Oh ! So he did have other friends beside your 
 self? 
 
 THE COUNTRYWOMAN. They was all his friends, good ma am. 
 He s the only person I ever knew could walk on the moor by 
 night, without the will-o -the-wisp should dance him over 
 the cliff. Instead o that, it taught him the tune it dances 
 to, and he made a song out of it. My own man ventured 
 into the darkness years ago, and never came back more. 
 But the poet and It was friends. 
 THE LADY. A will-o -the-wisp, what is that ? 
 THE COUNTRYWOMAN (in a voice of awe) . It s what keeps you 
 in the house o nights. It s a wavin light that beckons you 
 to follow it. And when you ve been for miles and miles, 
 
WILL O THE WISP 101 
 
 always behind, why, then it leaves you ; and the morning 
 finds you dead in a ravine, or floatin under the cliff-head 
 in the sea. 
 
 THE LADY (laughing). Oh, really! What a rileasant com 
 panion for my husband ! (The crouching figure zrseps for 
 ward a bit from its place by the fireside. Again the- maid, 
 flattened against the wall, crosses herself) But pray tell 
 me, whom else d ; d he know? 
 
 THE COUNTRYWOMAN. Poor Will, a goblin who cries through 
 the land s end, under the curse of an old, old sin. And 
 the mermaids with green hair, that sing when a ship goes 
 down. 
 
 THE LADY. Did my husband tell you all this ? 
 
 THE COUNTRYWOMAN. Yes, good ma am, and more; when 
 ever for hunger he come home, he had .a tale for me, 
 
 THE LADY. And you believed it ? 
 
 THE COUNTRYWOMAN. He was a dear young man, I m not 
 even blamin the spirits, that they loved him. 
 
 THE LADY (laughing) . But, I mean, do you believe in spirits ? 
 
 THE COUNTRYWOMAN. How could I choose ? I see them, I 
 hear them. The night your husband should have come 
 that was the first of June I saw the will-o -the-wisp out 
 yonder on the moor, as plain as I see my candles. Not 
 dancin it was, but goin* quite slow and steady-like, with 
 its lantern lit, as if it was seekin him. And I m not 
 wonderin* if, sooner or later, it didn t come peepin and 
 lookin through this very window into my house, to find 
 the friend it missed. 
 
 THE LADY. Oh, what nonsense ! What utter, silly bosh ! 
 [The serving-maid comes down to the left of the table, speaking 
 in a worried whisper. 
 
 THE MAID. I d not be sayin the like, ma am, if I was you. 
 It s offering the goblins temptation. 
 
 THE LADY (turning, astonished). What You, too, Nora? 
 I thought you had more sense ! 
 
 THE MAID. In the old country, ma am, it s the way -with us 
 all, to believe. 
 
102 WILL O THE WISP 
 
 THE LADY. Oh, dear me ! Well, I can t grow superstitious, 
 
 Nora, just to oblige you. That will do. 
 THE MAI.D. I Yes, ma am. . . . But I think I ll be leaving 
 
 THE LADY. , What ? 
 
 THE MAID. Oh, it s afraid I am, what with the old woman s 
 
 talk, and the look of the moor outside. We d better be 
 
 going, ma am, the both of us. There s no good waits for 
 
 us here. 
 THE LADY. You may go when you please. For myself, I 
 
 prefer to stay and meet some of my husband s friends. 
 
 I shall certainly not be frightened away by the tales 
 
 my husband left behind for me. 
 
 [She laughs again unpleasantly; and the creeping figure 
 
 comes very near her chair. Across the table, the maid bursts 
 
 into tears, and sinks down in the chair opposite. 
 THE MAID (sobbing) . How. shall I take me way back, alone ? 
 
 Oh, the Lord pity me ! 
 THE COUNTRYWOMAN. There, there, good soul, the spirits 
 
 wish you no harm, they ll not hurt you. 
 THE LADY (impatiently) . Oh, both of you, be still ! 
 THE COUNTRYWOMAN. Now, you see, your husband should 
 
 have come. 
 THE LADY. My good woman, I told you, I preferred not; 
 
 he is so contented where he is among my friends. 
 THE COUNTRYWOMAN. Alack ! Is he then never to come 
 
 again ? 
 
 THE LADY. Don t expect him. 
 THE COUNTRYWOMAN. But the songs ? The tunes he made, 
 
 and paid for with his heart ? 
 THE LADY. Fortunately, it s no longer a question of that. 
 
 [The stray s white face peers round at her. Its eyes seem to 
 
 burn the woman in the chair. 
 THE COUNTRYWOMAN. Good ma am, pretty ma am, you 
 
 don t mean he s give up singin ? 
 THE LADY. Oh, yes. Poets usually do, you know, when 
 
 they marry rich women. Weak, the lot of them. 
 
WILL O THE WISP 103 
 
 [The Grouching figure half starts up; its teeth are bared; 
 
 then it sinks back again. The countrywoman , covering her 
 
 head with h&r apron, begins to sway in her chair. 
 THE COUNTRYWOMAN. Alack ! Alack the day ! Alack the 
 
 winter time ! 
 THE LADY. Indeed? I didn t know people like you cared 
 
 for poetry. 
 
 THE COUNTRYWOMAN. He ll sing no more, he ll pay no more. 
 
 still. 
 
 THE LADY. Ah, now I understand you. You have a point 
 of view ; well, so have the wives of poets. Just as he gave 
 comfort in return for his inspiration, we give them 
 ease in which to love us. Why shouldn t we? Why 
 should they -pl*y at their little toy battle with life, when 
 we can put all existence into their very hands ? That is 
 our mission; and it makes them very comfortable, I as 
 sure you. 
 
 [The stray springs up with clawing hands behind the lady. 
 The countrywoman sees her. 
 
 THE COUNTRYWOMAN. Here, girl, here! 
 
 [At the cry, the stray sinks back on the fltior. But her eyes 
 never cease to burn the woman s face. The poet s wife, looking 
 down, has now become aware of her. Her silly suspicion seems 
 assured. 
 
 THE LADY (sharply) . Who is this ? 
 
 THE COUNTRYWOMAN (moving the stray back). A poor waif, 
 ma am. A harmless, dumb waif, who helps me in the 
 house. 
 
 THE LADY. Oho ! Did you mention her among my hus 
 band s friends ? 
 
 THE COUNTRYWOMAN. Why, no. He never saw her. Been 
 here only a month, ske-has, the poor creature. 
 
 THE LADY. Where did she come from? 
 
 THE COUNTRYWOMAN. The good Lord knows ! Not I. 
 
 THE LADY. -Ah. Well, from the looks of her, I should say 
 it didn t matter, how long she was with you. . . . Come 
 here, girl. 
 
104 WILL O THE WISP 
 
 THE COUNTRYWOMAN. Mind what the lady bids you. 
 
 [The figure on the floor lifts a face, now expressionless, to the 
 poet s wife. Fvr the third time, the maid crosses herself. 
 
 THE LADY. Hm ! The total effect of you is not dangerous. 
 (She-takes the sir ay s face between her hands. A~moleni shud 
 der shakes the latter from head to foot, as she shrinks back with 
 a gliding motion ; but this does not discourage the poet s wife) 
 Don t be afraid of me, silly thing ! (She turns to the country 
 woman) Funny how fashion impresses them, isn t it? 
 This girl turned clammy cold. 
 
 THE COUNTRYWOMAN (nodding). It s the feel of her. 
 [ The poet s wife returns to her scrutiny of the girl s face. 
 
 THE LADY. Yet, you know, your features aren t so bad. 
 If you only had a little color. . . . You should never 
 wear gray with that white face of yours. (She addresses the 
 room in general, and the maid in particular) Country people 
 invariably have no idea how to dress. Eh, Nora ? 
 
 THE MAID. Ma am, for the love of God, be careful ! I m 
 not liking the eyes of herself ! 
 
 THE LADY (laughing lightly). Oh, her eyes are so much bet 
 ter than her clothes ! But I forgot ; you re not fit to talk 
 to to-night, are you ? Well, that will do. (She turns back 
 to the countrywoman) Why do you let your servant wear 
 that awful cap ? Doesn t she ever take it off ? 
 
 THE COUNTRYWOMAN. Many s the time I ve spoke of it; 
 but it s a stubborn habit with her. So I lets her have her 
 way, for peace. 
 
 THE LADY (to the stray). But, my poor girl, that cap is awful ! 
 If only your hair showed, you d be so much better looking. 
 What makes you wear it ? 
 
 [For answer, the stray, rising, shuffles past the poet s wife to 
 the table. It is the first time during the scene that she has looked 
 away from her. As she nears the table, the maid on the other 
 side shrinks back. Once there, the stray turns on the woman, 
 and, watching her instead of what she herself does, she reaches 
 for the candle. She lifts the metal extinguisher from the candle 
 stick, holds it out so that the poet s wife may see it, then with a 
 
 & r-A. \s****~ 
 
WILL O THE WISP 105 
 
 quick motion places it over the flame. The candle goes out, 
 
 leaving the room dim with one light. In her nervousness, the 
 
 serving-maid sobs once aloud. 
 THE COUNTRYWOMAN. What~would this be? 
 THE LADY. Do-yxiuJiiiQw what she meant ? 
 THE COUNTRYWOMAN. I don t see I don t see. . . . 
 THE LADY. She s probably mad, poor soul. 
 THE MAID. Oh, Mother of God ! Mother of God ! The 
 
 magic ! 
 THE LADY. I fail to find any magic in a candle going out, 
 
 when I ve just watched the process. Really, I prefer bed 
 
 to such gloomy companionship. (She rises, and speaks to 
 ~~Jhe countrywoman) Will you light us upstairs, please. I m 
 
 quite sorry I came. 
 THE COUNTRYWOMAN (re-lighting the second candle). There, 
 
 there, good ma am. It ll all be more cheerful in the 
 
 morning. 
 THE LADY. I feel as if morning would never come, with this 
 
 whole night dragging at me. 
 
 [The countrywoman gives tfie candle to Nora, who has picked 
 
 up her mistress bag. Then the old dame crosses toward the 
 
 candle on the shelf. 
 THE * COUNTRYWOMAN. Now, if you and your woman will 
 
 follow me. . . . TbdELpost s room was ready for him. . . . 
 
 [This mention of the poet brings another convulsive motion 
 
 from the stray. The-lady s attention is thereby arrested. 
 THE LADY. Where does that creature sleep? 
 THE COUNTRYWOMAN. Oh, down here, on a mat by the fire 
 side. She ll not trouble you more, good ma am. She ll 
 
 not trouble you more. 
 
 [She opens tlie door to the stairs. 
 THE LADY (after a brief hesitation). Come, Nora. 
 
 [She goes out. The countrywoman pauses to speak to the 
 
 stray. 
 THE COUNTRYWOMAN. Good night, girl. Go to sleep 
 
 quietly. (She disappears, and we hear her voice) Now, 
 
 good ma am. Now, so please you. . . . 
 
106 WILL O THE WISP 
 
 [ The room, lighted only by Nora s candle, is dim again. Out 
 side, the night is very black. The serving-maid crosses the room 
 silently. In its center, she passes close to the stray, who has 
 crept there to look after the poet s wife. The maid, making a 
 quick detour, gasps with terror. When she reaches the fireplace, 
 she rushes for the stairs with a little scream that puts her candle 
 out; we hear the door bang behind her. The room is com 
 pletely black. 
 
 A silence. Then the motion of some one springing upright; 
 and the place is suffused with a dim glow of orange light. The 
 light shines from the orange-red hair of the white-faced girl, a 
 burning mass of quivering, gleaming strands. And the girl 
 herself stands revealed^ a spirit-creature, red and white and 
 clad in fluttering gray, her body slim and swaying with infinite 
 grace. Not even the poet s wife could question the beauty of her 
 wild white face, lit into a fierce exaltation by the glow of that 
 tumbling hair. In her fingers is the ugly cap, held mockingly 
 toward the door; and then she drops it. 
 
 Now a faint music sounds from somewhere, a langorous 
 melody ; and the spirit begins to sway to it. Not quite a dance 
 yet nothing else, this moving through the room. 
 The door to the stairs opens, and the poet s wife appears, trail 
 ing a white room-robe about her. The white-faced girl smiles 
 at her, smiles quite close to her, with a demon behind her 
 smile. 
 
 THE LADY. Who are you ? Why do you smile at me, 
 unless you re glad that I came down ? You knew I 
 would answer to that music he used to sing me a song 
 to it, when he courted me. Was it out of his love for 
 you, he made that song ? Oh, it might well have been, 
 you with your long white arms and your strange white 
 face ! But he sang it to me, do you hear ? To me, to 
 me, to me, it is my song ! 
 
 You smile. You are so sure it isn t mine. But you 
 aren t singing it now, any more than I am ! Where does 
 that music come from ? What are you ? 
 Oh, I knew there was something here that held him. I 
 
WILL O THE WISP 107 
 
 had all the right to him. I took his life, and made of it 
 what I would, but I couldn t reach his soul. It 
 was bound up to something else, his soul. I wanted 
 to see. I see now. But I don t understand ! 
 What are you ? Can you talk ? You can, you can, you 
 devil ! You called me down to tell your story, didn t 
 you ? Well, triumph over me, triumph ! only speak I 
 (The white-faced girl, in her dance, is moving toward the outer 
 door, ever eluding the poet s wife, who takes a few steps after her) 
 No, you re not going away without it, you and your magic 
 hair ! (She reaches desperately for the waving hand, which 
 glides from under her grasp) 
 
 You burned him with that hair you burned the soul out 
 of him. But now I ve come in his place, and you can t 
 burn me, and I will learn why you smile ! (Again the 
 reach, and the white hand slips away) 
 
 Do you mean you can t talk ? Or do you want me alone ? 
 (The Wiiite-faced girl, near the door, has raised a beckon 
 ing hand. There is now a teasing invitation in her smile) 
 Oh, I m not afraid to go with you, out there! Wait! 
 Wait ! 
 
 [For the white-faced girl has opened the door.. As the poet s 
 wife crosses the room, the countrywoman comes, drawn by the 
 talk, down the stairs. She gives a sudden shriek. 
 
 THE COUNTRYWOMAN. Qky God ! 
 
 THE LADY (briefly turning, annoyed). What, you? 
 
 THE COUNTRYWOMAN. I heard. I came. (The poet s wife 
 
 takes another step) 
 
 Don t follow, don t follow, for the love of Heaven ! It s the 
 
 Will-O -The-Wisp ! 
 
 [In the doorway, the white-faced girl stoops, and smiles her 
 
 smile, and beckons. 
 THE LADY (with authority) . Let be ! I am going after her ! 
 
 I am going to learn the truth ! 
 
 [She nears the door, just as the serving-maid appears at the 
 
 foot of the stairs. With a scream, Nora rushes to the poet s 
 
 wife, and clings to her. 
 
108 WILL O THE WISP 
 
 THE MAID. Stay back ! Stay back ! It s to your death 
 you go ! 
 
 THE LADY (pushing her to the floor}. Take your hands off me. 
 There are no such things as spirits ! It s a trick they 
 made for me ! my husband and her ! WAIT ! 
 [For the white-faced girl has passed outside. Only the glow 
 of her hair, quite near, shines in through the open door. 
 
 THE COUNTRYWOMAN. The Will-O -The-Wisp ! It s her ! 
 - It s her ! 
 
 THE MAID (crying out at the same time). Stop, I tell ye ! 
 Stop, stop, stop ! I CfrvuUL ^ 
 
 [The poet s wife is on the threshold. The orange light re- 
 cefas, and the room darkens. 
 
 THE LADY (almost majestic). Wait! I m not afraid! 
 WAIT FOR ME ! - 
 
 [She, too, passes outside the door. The serving-maid breaks 
 into a torrent of sobs. After a moment, in which the country 
 woman reaches the window, the room is black again. And the 
 music has died away. 
 
 THE COUNTRYWOMAN. Hush ! (The sobs of the serving-maid 
 die down to a low moan) Come here by me at the window. 
 Ah, see ! 
 
 THE MAID (whispering) . What is it ? 
 
 [Now through door and window, there can be seen in the dis 
 tance a moving light, growing smaller and smaller, making 
 straight for where one saw the cliff-head over the sea. 
 
 THE COUNTRYWOMAN. The light ! The Will-O -The-Wisp ! 
 And something white behind it. 
 
 THE MAID (whispering) . Is it me mistress ? 
 
 THE COUNTRYWOMAN (turning away) . Yes. God have mercy 
 upon her. 
 
 [ The maid has dragged herself over to the window, and kneels 
 on the floor, looking out. 
 
 THE MAID. A shadow in the dark, lit up by that thing 
 ahead ! Oh, it is ! It is ! 
 
 THE COUNTRYWOMAN (nerving herself for the sight). Ah, the 
 spirit ! it s out beyond the cliff-head ! And the cold sea 
 
WILL O THE WISP 109 
 
 lies beneath ! Woe to one who follows the Will-O -The- 
 Wisp ! Woe ! 
 
 [ Then a slight pause, in which the light no longer moves. 
 THE MAID (crying out) . Look, where the light is after stand 
 ing still ! And not a sign of her ! Oh, she s gone over ! 
 Gone, she is ! And she ll never come back ! 
 [She starts to keen three long ochones as the curtain falls. 
 
"BEYOND" 
 
 ALICE GERSTENBERG 
 
 Miss ALICE GERSTENBERG was born in Chicago and was 
 educated there and at Bryn Mawr College. Her first novel, 
 " Unquenched Fire ", was published in 1912 and republished 
 in England the following year. Miss Gerstenberg s other 
 publications are a novel, " The Conscience of Sarah Platt ", 
 "A Little World", a book of four short plays for girls; 
 "Overtones", a one-act play; and "Alice in Wonderland", 
 a three-act dramatization of Lewis Carroll s "Alice in 
 Wonderland" and "Through the Looking-Glass." 
 
 " Overtones " was produced with great success by the Wash 
 ington Square Players during their first season, and later by 
 vaudeville companies in which Helene Lackaye and Lily 
 Langtry starred. "Alice in Wonderland" was produced at 
 the Fine Arts Theatre, Chicago, and at the Booth Theatre, 
 New York City. The music for the dramatization was 
 written by Eric De Lamarter. Under Miss Gerstenberg s 
 own supervision, the Players Workshop of Chicago pro 
 duced her "Beyond", and "The Pot Boiler." "The Pot 
 Boiler", in addition, has been played in the Theatre Work 
 shop of New York, by the Arthur Maitland Players, San 
 Francisco, in the trenches in France, and in vaudeville. Other 
 one-act productions of Miss Gerstenberg are : " The Unseen ", 
 " The Buffer ", " Attuned ", " Hearts ", " He Said and She 
 Said ", and " The War Game " (written in collaboration). 
 
"BEYOND" 
 
 Miss Gerstenberg has not confined her activities in behalf 
 of the drama to the writing of plays, however. She is Secre 
 tary of the Society of Midland Authors, a member of the 
 Drama League Board in Chicago, Chairman of a Drama 
 Committee at the Chicago Arts Club, and President of the 
 Chicago Bryn Mawr College Club. 
 
BEYOND 
 
 BY ALICE GERSTENBERG 
 
"Beyond" was originally produced by the Players* Work 
 shop of Chicago, April 23, 1917. 
 
 Original Cast 
 
 A WOMAN Gertrude Hemken 
 
 Stage setting designed and executed by J. Blanding Sloan. 
 
 COPYKIGHT, 1917, BY ALICE GER8TENBBBQ. 
 
 All rights reserved. 
 
 Application for the right of performing "Beyond" must be made to Miss Alice 
 Gerstenberg, 539 Deming Place, Chicago. 
 
"BEYOND" 
 
 SCENE. The curtain rises in darkness. The stage lights 
 up slowly. 
 
 The scene suggests limitless space and mist and is played be 
 hind a curtain of gauze. The floor rises from right to left as if 
 misty clouds had made irregular stepping stones to heights off 
 left. The wraith of a woman enters, looking misty in blue, 
 lavender, and flesh colored chiffon, but one is ls$s conscious of 
 body than of the embodiment of spirit. She enters timidly, in 
 awe, not sure of a welcome. She has died and is now passing 
 upward to meet and to be judged by the All Powerful whom she 
 cannot see but whom she supposes is high up of left. She speaks 
 in that direction and moves slowly from right to left as if drawn 
 by a magnet. 
 
 WRAITH. Is this the way I should go ? You send no answer. 
 Yet I am drawn this way, and it leads upward. Are You 
 drawing me to Your Throne for judgment ? I see nothing, 
 my eyes are still blind to God, and yet I have died ; that 
 other part of me lies white and cold, unwarmed by the 
 burning candles, the petals of pink roses, and the kisses of 
 the one who weeps for me. ( Does his desire for me halt 
 the progress of my soul, does his great love for me still 
 keep me thinking of him? /And because I think of him - 
 do You keep me blind to You ? That would be strange ! 
 For when I lived, my love for him seemed to bring me 
 nearer to You. Does it follow then that to know You in 
 life one must love and to know You in death one must 
 forget ? But I do not want to forget him ! (Pauses 
 anxiously) Are You angry? You do not answer. All 
 
116 "BEYOND" 
 
 is silent. I am alone, terribly alone. (Takes timid step 
 forward left) 
 
 J J seeni to have come a very long way. I seem to have the 
 form of myself; yet I left it solidly back there. This 
 which I am is not solid as if able at any moment to melt 
 into mist but if I become mist where does that "I" of 
 44 me" go that can think? I do not want to lose the "I" 
 of "me" that thinks. Must I lose it? (Pauses ) 
 Perhaps You are jealous of Your Power and will not take me 
 in until I let You merge my " I " in You ! But I do not 
 want to obliterate myself ! I am // Yet, if You say that 
 You are You, the weaker of us must give in ! That means 
 Oh, You are terribly strong and make me afraid ! 
 (Retreats a step) They teach us to be afraid of You. They 
 quote Your threats from the Book. They say You have 
 promised punishments beyond the imagination of human 
 minds for limitless agony, but I do not believe it ! (Softly) 
 If You are without pity, You are not God ! (Pauses) 
 You might have struck me because I am rebellious and 
 critical of You, but nothing has happened. 
 (Steps forward left) I am daring to come a little nearer to 
 You. If it is Your decree that I walk this way, as mil 
 lions have walked before me and millions will after me, 
 
 vjfou ought to take care of me. 
 
 They tell and believe a lot of things about You, but no man 
 really knows. Will You tell me Your secret? Or must 
 I wander eternally ? If You have nothing more than this 
 to offer, it would be better to go back to him. He is call 
 ing. (Puts hands to her ears) I would rush back if I 
 could but I do not seem able, nor can I go forward very 
 fast. Why is it? What do You want me to do ? (Pauses) 
 Can You not understand my language ? or do You refuse 
 to hear ? Are You going to forget me ? Is this terrible 
 silence to be my punishment? Have You turned away 
 from me ? Answer ! Answer ! ! 
 
 Is there no one else about ? No one else in trouble like mine ? 
 No company for me ? But others have died. Where are 
 
"BEYOND 
 
 they? Has each one had to go through this alone? is- 
 this to be the experience of every one ? Or have You 
 singled me out for the torture of eternal solitude ? Have 
 I offended You so deeply that You will not even listen ? 
 Have I transgressed beyond forgiveness? Is it possible 
 You cannot read my soul and are judging my life from the 
 surface as the world saw it, that You are not omniscient 
 enough to go below the surface and know me as I really 
 am ? Silence ! Silence ! ! 
 
 (Hysterically) What do You want of me ? Does it amuse 
 You to see me suffer? Or are You jealous of my will? 
 Do You demand abject submission ? Must I give in and 
 bend the knee to You? Must I humiliate myself and 
 implore the mercy You should extend unasked if You 
 are as they say You are, powerful enough to be everywhere 
 and see everything always? Even though You may 
 know my life like an open page, does it amuse You to have 
 me suffer it again in the telling ? Is my life history a story 
 to You ? Does it give You pleasure to discipline me ? 
 Must I throw myself before You in despair to give You 
 the chance to appear noble and raise me in mercy? Or 
 are You angry because I question You ! Answer ! Just 
 one word! ! I am Your slave! ! ! (Throws herself 
 upon her knees) 
 I yield, conquered ! Beaten ! 
 
 It is true, I sinned ! The unpardonable for a woman 
 The world condemned, made me endure its averted gaze. 
 My husband would not give me legal freedom; I could 
 not, would not renounce my lover. My crime was in 
 fidelity. A certain kind of punishment must be listed 
 for that. I plead guilty and await punishment. (Pauses) 
 Still You do not answer ! ! Are You not satisfied to see me 
 willing to accept Your punishment ? What more do 
 You want? (Pauses) 
 
 Would you have me say I am sorry I loved him ? Say I 
 am sorry? (Gives way to tremendous emotion) Do not 
 ask it of me ! I cannot say it ! ! It would only be a lie ! 
 
118 "BEYOND" 
 
 I am not sorry ! Oh, God, punish me, but do not expect 
 me to regret ! Hear me ; and understand ! 
 My father was good, but it often seemed as if You were 
 against him ! In despair he killed himself ! I hope You 
 were kind to him when he passed this way. What did You 
 do to him? (Pauses) Mother had too many children. 
 The last one killed her. I hope You rewarded her here 
 for all her hardship there. I was the eldest, had to sup 
 port them came home so tired spent the night 
 helping them make flowers they sold. Their little thin 
 faces, their patient little hands, the tears that came and 
 the laughter that never did Oh, God, why do You rob 
 children of their childhood ? I could not bear it ! I had 
 a chance to marry for money. I sacrificed myself for them ! 
 Do You not praise us for sacrificing ourselves for others ? 
 The world called the marriage legal ; it was hallowed by 
 Your church ! But if You think it made me honorable 
 and good, I know in my soul You are wrong ! My great 
 est sin was then when I was not true to myself ! ! (Pauses) 
 I hated him ! He was old, hard, chose me because I was 
 poor and in his power. Every penny he gave had to be 
 earned in service. I conscientiously kept the bargain, 
 even though my heart was black with ever-increasing 
 hatred toward the world and him and You ! Yes, my 
 hatred for him made me doubt You all Your handiwork ! 
 And I counted up against You all I had to endure, and 
 then my lover came. 
 
 I fled to the arms of him who sits now by the white, cold 
 shell of me, weeping. He weeps because he thinks he has 
 lost me ; perhaps, because he feels I am in anguish here 
 but he need not weep for loss of love ; my love will never 
 cease ! My love for him is part of You and You are 
 eternal!! (Moves left almost imperceptibly) 
 Through him I lost the blackness of my heart and saw the 
 wonder of Your purple mountains, blue-green seas, and 
 even the beauty of Your mighty storms, sweeping rains, 
 and icy frosts and I loved because of him all the crea- 
 
"BEYOND" 119 
 
 tures You have made and all Your trees and all Your 
 flowers and even all the weeds . Although the world pointed , 
 a finger at me, I bore with dignity and without complaint, 
 knowing that my heart was whiter because of love.)^ _ 
 My Love and I, walking hand in hand, heard the birds in\ 
 Your forest and through them the voice of You. We j 
 stood on hill crests, awed by the beauty of Your landscapes, ; 
 and, moved by the marvelous colors, worshiped the artist 
 in You. We saw the mists of evening hover over moun 
 tain peaks and fancied they were veils hiding You. But 
 WE KNEW YOU WERE THERE ! And our love rose 
 as one love to YOU ! ! ! 
 
 Is a love that brings consciousness of You a sin ? Was my 
 love for him a sin ? Was not rather that other relation 
 ship, the real sin against You because through it I lost You ? 
 Will You judge as the world judges ? Is Your silence and 
 this solitude a place for my soul to battle for itself ? 
 Still You do not answer and see how far I ve come! 
 I did not know I was moving nearer to You but I have ! 
 How much farther must I come ? Then will You answer 
 me? 
 
 (With triumphant conviction and faith) You cannot deny me ! 
 In my idea of God there is Justice ! ! To plead for mercy 
 and to implore forgiveness is to confess a God that can be 
 swayed! $ty God needs no finite aid in judgment! If 
 You are at all, You are supreme ! (By this time she has 
 reached the height at left) Punish ! If you think You must 
 - but I come to You with love and expectant of Justice ! ! 
 [As she goes of left a glow of light illumines her face. 
 
 CURTAIN 
 
A GOOD WOMAN 
 
 GEORGE MIDDLETON 
 
 MR. GEORGE MIDDLETON was born in Paterson, New 
 Jersey, on October 27, 1880. He received his Bachelor s 
 degree at Columbia University in 1902. Since 1912 he has 
 been literary editor of LaFollette s Weekly and, in addition, 
 has been a frequent contributor to magazines and reviews 
 on dramatic and literary subjects. 
 
 He has published three collections of one-act plays, "Em 
 bers" (which includes "The Failures", "The Gargoyle", 
 "In His House", "Madonna", and "The Man Masterful") ; 
 "Tradition" (which includes "On Bail", "Their Wife", 
 "Waiting", "The Cheat of Pity", and "Mothers"); and 
 "Possession" (which includes "The Groove", "A Good 
 Woman", "The Black Tie", "Circles", "The Unborn"). 
 Several of his one-act plays have appeared in single form : 
 "Criminals", a play about marriage, "Back of the Ballot", 
 a woman suffrage farce, and "The Reason", which ap 
 peared in a magazine. His longer published plays are 
 "Nowadays" and "The Road Together." 
 
 "Embers" was one of the first collections of one-act plays 
 to be written and published by an American. In fact, Mr. 
 Middleton has been a pioneer in advocating the serious con 
 sideration of the printed play. He has lectured widely on 
 "The One- Act Play in America and Abroad" before many 
 colleges, Little Theatres, and clubs, and has written several 
 interesting magazine articles on the subject. Perhaps the 
 most notable is "The Neglected One- Act Play", which was 
 published in The New York Dramatic Mirror in 1912. 
 
122 A GOOD WOMAN 
 
 Mr. Middleton is not a closet dramatist, however. His 
 acted plays are even more numerous than those which have 
 been published. He has written, in collaboration, "The 
 Cavalier", "The Sinner", "Hit the Trail Holliday", "Polly 
 with a Past", " Through the Ages ", and is the sole author of 
 "The Wife s Strategy", "The House of a Thousand 
 Candles", "Rosalind at Red-gate", "The Enemy", "Adam 
 and Eva ", " Back to Nature ", " The Cave Lady ", and " The 
 Prodigal Judge", all of which have been produced profes 
 sionally throughout the United States. 
 
A GOOD WOMAN 
 
 BY GEORGE MIDDLETON 
 
"A Good Woman" was originally produced by the North 
 ampton Municipal Theatre Company at the private theatre 
 in the home of Mr. George B. McCallum, Northampton, 
 Massachusetts, January 6, 1916. 
 
 Original Cast 
 
 CORA WARREN Gertrude Workman 
 
 HAL MERRILL William H. Powell 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1915, BY HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY. 
 All rights reserved. 
 
 Reprinted from "Possession and Other One-Act Plays" by permission of and by 
 special arrangement with Mr. George Middleton and Henry Holt and Company. 
 
 Application for the right of performing "A Good Woman" must be made to Sam 
 uel French and Company, 28-30 West 38th Street, New York City. 
 
A GOOD WOMAN 
 
 SCENE : At Cora Warren s flat. A large city in New York 
 State. Late one winter evening. 
 
 A small room in what is a modest but comfortable flat, up 
 several flights of stairs. In back, a door opens on the landing. 
 A snow-lined window may be seen at the right through the pretty 
 lace curtains. Opposite this a door leads off into the other rooms. 
 The furnishings are simple but adequate; wicker chairs, a 
 couch, a small table, carefully selected pictures, some book 
 shelves, and a large warm rug upon the hardwood floor are con 
 spicuous. A house telephone is on the left wall near the door. 
 There is something seclusive, personal, and intimate about the 
 little room, softly lighted by several shaded wicker -lamps which 
 blend in color with the one-toned patternless wall-paper. 
 
 Outside the wind is heard howling as it drives the snow and 
 sleet against the window. After some moments, a bell is heard. 
 Cora Warren enters quickly and opens the outer door, ad 
 mitting Hal Merrill. She closes the door and kisses him. 
 
 Cora Warren is a woman of thirty, full of rich feeling, 
 sensitive, impulsive, yet withal clear-visioned and courageous. 
 There is every mark of refinement, culture, and distinction in 
 speech, with nothing exotic or abnormal in her manner. She 
 is in a pretty negligee. 
 
 Hal Merrill is older, beginning to settle, in fact, but full 
 of mental and physical vigor, in spite of features which, when 
 relaxed, betray a certain careworn expression. He, too, is evi 
 dently well-born, and has had, no doubt, many advantages. His 
 heavy overcoat, rubbers, and soft felt hat are wet with the snow. 
 CORA. I m so glad you ve come. Why, you re all wet. 
 HAL (taking off his overcoat) . I walked uptown. 
 
126 A GOOD WOMAN 
 
 CORA (playfully admonishing him throughout) . In this storm ? 
 And you knew I was waiting ? 
 
 HAL. You are always waiting. 
 
 CORA. You ll get your death, dear. Give me the coat. 
 I ll hang it over a chair before the gas stove. And your 
 feet my my ! Soaked ? 
 
 HAL. No, rubbers. 
 
 CORA. So you did mind me and wear them. 
 
 HAL. Yes. 
 
 [Kicking them off. 
 
 CORA. You must take more care of yourself. What would 
 I do if you were ill ? You should have ridden. 
 
 HAL. It clears your thoughts to walk with the snow beat 
 ing in your face. 
 
 CORA (detecting a hidden meaning) . Hal ? 
 
 HAL. It s good to be here with you again, Cora. 
 
 CORA (cheerfully again). Yes : it s been so long since yester 
 day. (They laugh) Now sit down and rest. I ve a hot 
 toddy all ready for you. 
 
 HAL. Just what I wanted. 
 
 CORA. Here s your pipe old and strong as ever. Did you 
 forget the tobacco ? 
 
 HAL. No. (Taking the pipe) You always make it seem 
 like home, dearest. 
 
 CORA (hurt). "Seem?" 
 
 HAL (holding her hand during a slight pause). You know 
 what I mean. 
 
 CORA (as she strikes a match and lights the pipe which he has 
 filled). How worn and tired you are, dear. I ll be glad 
 when this lawsuit is over. Just relax. Let go. (She kisses 
 him) Dearest. (Cora takes up the coat and rubbers, going 
 out quickly in back. Hal stops smoking, the smile disap 
 pears, and his head lowers, as he seems overcome with the 
 mood he has been trying to fight back. Cora comes in unob 
 served with the toddy. She looks at him, shakes her head and 
 then comes, placing her hand on his arm. He starts up from 
 his reverie) What is it, Hal ? 
 
A GOOD WOMAN 127 
 
 HAL. Nothing. 
 
 CORA (not believing him). Take this, dear. 
 
 HAL. Thanks. (He sips it) Um ! it s hot, Cora. Just 
 
 the right amount of sugar, too. (Cora watches him question- 
 
 ingly as he sips it slowly. She picks up a couple of sofa 
 
 cushions and comes over to him, placing them by him, on the 
 
 floor. She sits on them, waiting for him to speak) That 
 
 tastes good. 
 
 CORA. You re sure you didn t get chilled ? 
 HAL. I walked rapidly. 
 
 CORA. Did anything go wrong with the case ? 
 HAL (patting her). What makes you think that? 
 CORA. Something s worrying you. 
 HAL. Something did : but it s all settled now. 
 CORA. So that s why you walked in the storm? 
 HAL. Yes. 
 CORA. I m glad it s settled; only I should like to have 
 
 helped settle it. 
 HAL. Cora ? 
 
 CORA (she turns and looks up into his face) . Yes ? 
 HAL. I wonder how great a test your love for me would stand ? 
 CORA. Could I have given more ? 
 HAL. There is something more I must ask. 
 CORA (puzzled). Something more? Tell me, Hal. 
 HAL (holding her head between his hands) . Is your love strong 
 
 enough to accept a silence? 
 CORA. Aren t there silent places in every love ? 
 HAL (with some slight hesitation). I mean if if I should do 
 
 something which I thought best not to explain. 
 CORA (simply). I should accept everything so long as you 
 
 were honest with me. Only 
 HAL. Only what, dear ? 
 
 CORA (thoughtfully). Silence itself is not always honest. 
 HAL. In this particular matter will you let me be the judge 
 
 of that ? 
 
 CORA. A woman in my position must accept. 
 HAL. Cora ! 
 
128 A GOOD WOMAN 
 
 CORA (quickly). Oh, I didn t mean that, Hal ; that was un 
 worthy of me. * 
 
 HAL You know how I love you. 
 
 CORA. Yes, yes, dear. Of course I know. I am ashamed of 
 nothing. I m proud of all we have here in the quiet. But 
 the snow beating against the window has been reminding 
 me all day of the world outside. 
 
 HAL. The snow is so free ! 
 
 CORA. Yep ; and you and I are bound by secrecy. That s 
 what hurts ; the secrecy. 
 
 HAL (stroking her hair). If you could only be my wife. 
 
 CORA (smiling). Just for the freedom it would give me to 
 share everything in the open with you. That s all. Just 
 for the freedom we can t have now. 
 
 HAL. But, Cora, even in marriage itself only the happy are 
 free. 
 
 CORA (intimating a hidden thought). I suppose the most dif 
 ficult thing for some people is to give freedom. (He nods 
 in understanding) Poor Hal ! How you have suffered, too, 
 with this tangle we are in. (The phone rings. They are 
 surprised) Who could that be? 
 
 HAL (nervously). No one knows your number? 
 
 CORA. No. 
 
 [The ring is repeated. 
 
 HAL (dismissing it). Central s made a mistake. Don t 
 answer it. 
 
 CORA. Everything startles me so these days. (Dismissing 
 it too) Have another toddy ? 
 
 HAL. Not now. 
 
 CORA. Tell me about the case. Is "Boss" McQuinn still 
 going to take his libel suit into court ? 
 
 HAL. It s called for to-morrow at ten. 
 
 CORA (pleased) . To-morrow ! It s come at last, then, after 
 all your months of work. To-morrow. (With a sigh) 
 And I can t be there in court to hear you when you testify, 
 or to follow, in the open, each step we ve talked over here. 
 That s where my position hurts. 
 
A GOOD WOMAN 129 
 
 HAL (with apparent difficulty throughout). Perhaps I sha n t 
 
 take the stand against McQuinn, after all. 
 CORA. You mean it won t be necessary ? 
 HAL. Not exactly that. 
 CORA. But what you wrote about McQuinn in the Monthly 
 
 HAL. Every word of my exposure was true. 
 CORA. But youVe said so often the whole defense of the 
 magazine in McQuinn s libel suit against it rests on your 
 testimony alone. 
 HAL. Yes, yes. 
 CORA (disappointed). I see. You mean the Monthly has 
 
 decided to retract? 
 HAL. No. 
 CORA (not quite grasping the significance). Is this why you 
 
 walked with the snow beating in your face ? 
 HAL (with feeling). This is the silent place ! I m not going 
 to testify in this suit, after all. Please don t question me 
 about it, dear. 
 
 CORA (startled). Not going to testify ? 
 HAL (earnestly). Just trust me, Cora; and let me be silent 
 
 as to the reason. 
 
 CORA (restraining her instinctive impulse to question and plac 
 ing her hands on his shoulders). Whatever is the reason, 
 I know you must have suffered. It is not like you to give 
 up. (He lowers his eyes) You ve never asked anything 
 greater of me than this silence. 
 
 HAL (deeply moved). Perhaps I ve never given anything 
 greater, Cora. 
 
 [The phone rings again : they look toward it. 
 CORA (slowly). Did you give our number to any one? 
 HAL (nervously). No. 
 
 [It rings again. 
 
 CORA. Nobody ever rings here but you. (She goes appre 
 hensively to the phone in spite of his movement to restrain her) 
 Yes, this is Cora Warren. . . . Who?. . . Mr. McQuinn ! 
 (They look at each other. She quickly controls herself and 
 
130 A GOOD WOMAN 
 
 speaks casually) Mr. Merrill ? . . . You re mistaken 
 why should he be here ? . . . There s no need of ringing 
 me up later. (She hangs up the receiver) He laughed, 
 Hal. He laughed I (She goes to him) He has found out 
 about you and me ! ! 
 
 HAL. No, no. 
 
 CORA (shaken). That s what it is. It was the way he laughed ! 
 
 HAL (confused). Nonsense. 
 
 CORA (slowly grasping the situation). For months you ve 
 told me McQuinn has been fighting for his political life, 
 desperate over your exposures. He s been doing every 
 thing to "get" your witnesses to "get" something on 
 you. Why, he offered you money enough to make you 
 independent for life. You refused all that; but, now, 
 you re going to do what he wants. 
 
 HAL. I m doing what I want, I tell you ; what / want. 
 
 CORA. That s not so. This investigation has been your 
 absorbing passion for months. You ve seen what it means 
 to the hundreds of women and children who have suffered 
 by his exploitations. He s got something on you, some 
 thing you had to give in to. 
 
 HAL. No, no ! 
 
 CORA. It s you and me, Hal. You ask silence of me because 
 you didn t want to hurt me. It s you and me ; you and 
 me. 
 
 HAL. No, no ! 
 
 CORA, (slowly). Hal, it is that. Answer me, boy. It is that 
 isn t it? 
 
 HAL (admitting it, after a futile denial). And I didn t want 
 you to know. 
 
 CORA. He threatened to tell about our relations together if 
 you testified against him ? 
 
 HAL. Yes : the blackguard. 
 
 CORA (moved) . And you love me more than 
 
 HAL (tenderly). I only did what any man would. (She 
 lowers her head) Dearest, don t take it so hard. I m glad 
 a chance came to show you how I loved you. 
 
A GOOD WOMAN 131 
 
 CORA. I knew without this proof, Hal ; I knew. [She 
 sits with her face buried in her hands. He stands beside 
 her. 
 
 HAL. McQuinn met me to-night, on the street, alone. He 
 said he knew about our three years our summer abroad 
 - this place all. He said he hated to hit a woman, but 
 he knew he was beaten and had to use any weapon he could 
 find. All he asked of me was silence and he would give the 
 same about us or for me to forget a bit on the stand or 
 muddle my testimony. Of course, I saw what it would 
 mean to the case : but it was the only way to save you. 
 (He shrugs his shoulders) He must have guessed I d come 
 straight to you. He has ways of finding out phone 
 numbers. I suppose he wanted to frighten you and thus 
 make sure I wouldn t change my mind. 
 
 CORA (slowly). Did he mention your wife? 
 
 HAL. Yes. 
 
 CORA (desperately). Did you tell him you and she had been 
 separated before you met me ? That she didn t love you, 
 that she hated you, yet clung to your name because she 
 knew you wanted freedom to marry me ? Did you tell 
 him she wouldn t give you that freedom, because of a 
 few words mumbled over her by an official, and because 
 she said she was "a good woman"? 
 
 HAL. I did not discuss the matter. It was my wife who 
 told him about us. 
 
 CORA. Your wife ! 
 
 HAL. Yes. That act describes her, doesn t it ? 
 
 CORA (bitterly) . And the law gives a woman like that the right 
 to keep you a woman whose body is dry and her love 
 cold and it discards me who oh ! 
 
 HAL (sarcastically). It was my wife s way of disentangling 
 me. She thought I d rather give you up than this case. 
 She thought I d sacrifice you. But she didn t know me : 
 she never knew me. 
 
 CORA. And she knew me ! 
 
 HAL. It s done. Now we must forget and go on. 
 
132 A GOOD WOMAN 
 
 CORA( gazing dully before her) . What are you going to do now ? 
 
 HAL. That s what we must think of. 
 
 CORA. It will mean you will have to leave the Monthly. 
 
 HAL. Yes. They re tired of the suit, anyway. Their ad 
 vertising has fallen off. (Putting his arm about her) We 
 have each other. 
 
 CORA (ominously). And always we d fear McQuinn knocking 
 at our door. 
 
 HAL (trying to cheer her) . Nonsense, dear. He ll never bother 
 to come up our stairs. 
 
 CORA. How we women hamper you men. (He protests) 
 Yes, we do. Your wife s "respectability" and my 
 
 HAL. Hush, dear. It s not our fault. 
 
 CORA. That we love? No. But because we ve spoken the 
 whole language of love the world blames us. (With grow 
 ing emotion) If I d kept my love hidden, worn myself 
 sapless, wasted without expression, then I d have been "a 
 good woman" ! If I d seen you casually, or if I d let you 
 come near me, with the flames smoldering, burning us both 
 inside so that there was nothing in our thoughts but fire ; 
 nothing of comradeship and beauty that we now have 
 then I d still have been "a good woman." But because I 
 let you see my love, because I wasn t a contemptible tease, 
 because I knew all things were equally important in love, 
 because I gave myself to you, I m not "a good woman" ! 
 [She laughs ironically. 
 
 HAL. We live in the world, dear. 
 
 CORA. And we must go on living. (With a quick resolution) 
 But there is no need of our being cowards ! 
 
 HAL. Cowards ! 
 
 CORA. Yes. Up to now, Hal, as I see it, we have not been 
 that. We did what we believed was right, no matter what 
 others may say. But now you and I are thinking of doing 
 what we know is wrong ; and that is the test of our courage. 
 
 TTAT.. You mean ? 
 
 CORA. That now we re asking somebody else to pay the 
 
 price : the hundreds of women and children in this city 
 
A GOOD WOMAN 133 
 
 whom McQuinn would still go on exploiting if you did not 
 go on the stand and drive him out of power. 
 
 HAL (losing momentary control). It s true; it s true. But 
 how could I ask that of you? 
 
 CORA. Why not? 
 
 HAL. No, no. We must think of ourselves now our 
 selves. 
 
 CORA (putting her hand on his arm). You and I cannot do 
 as many others. We ve got to keep right, in each other s 
 eyes, or the world will beat us. 
 
 HAL. I ve done the hardest thing for you I could, Cora. 
 
 CORA. It s not always easy to be a coward, Hal. And that s 
 what I d also be if I accepted. Somebody else would be 
 paying. Somebody else. That can never be right. 
 (She bows her head. There is a long pause. He rises, goes 
 to the window, then paces up and down. The snow is heard 
 freely beating against the pane. Her mind slowly gains con 
 trol of her emotions and she looks up at him) Hal ? 
 
 HAL. Yes. 
 
 CORA. If you went on the stand to-morrow and told the 
 truth about McQuinn, would your relations with me hurt 
 your statement about him? 
 
 HAL (bitterly). No. It s only a woman whose sex morals 
 can be taken that advantage of in our courts. 
 
 CORA (with determination). Then you must tell the truth. 
 
 HAL (desperately) . And have you hurt ? Never ! 
 
 CORA. I would be hurt far worse if you did not love me 
 enough to do what I ask. 
 
 HAL. Cora! (Comes to her) You don t realize what it means. 
 
 CORA (calmly). I realize that your public usefulness would 
 be destroyed because you wished to protect my reputation. 
 What people think of me matters little now. 
 
 HAL. What people think of you means everything to me. 
 
 CORA. You fear to have them think me a bad woman ? 
 
 HAL. Cora ! 
 
 CORA. Then what difference what they think so long as we 
 understand each other ? 
 
134 A GOOD WOMAN 
 
 HAL. They d forgive a man. But you re a woman. They d 
 never forgive you never. 
 
 CORA. Nothing will be harder than cowardice. 
 
 HAL (going to her). I can t do this I can t. They d think 
 me a cad to sacrifice you like this. 
 
 CORA. That thought has made liars and cowards of many 
 men ! 
 
 HAL. We mustn t be foolish. There s nothing greater in 
 life than what two people feel for each other. 
 
 CORA (desperately). That s why I am asking this of you. 
 Don t make it harder for me don t ! 
 
 HAL. You are thinking of those out in the city ; I am think 
 ing only of you. 
 
 CORA. But you mustn t. 
 
 HAL. You re worth more to me than all of them. 
 
 CORA. But you must think of the people. 
 
 HAL. The people? That mob any fool can lead with a 
 few catch phrases? That ignorant mass that cheers one 
 day and crucifies the next? What do they really give 
 anybody? I ll tell you. Nothing but ingratitude and 
 scars while you live with immortelles and a monument 
 when you re dead. Why should I sacrifice you for them ? 
 
 CORA. Hal ! You don t know them 
 
 HAL. Oh, yes, I do. They can t sustain their moral at 
 titudes. It s all a periodic fit with them. They shout a 
 lot while the brass band plays and they cheer any fool in 
 the red light. Then they settle back into their old self- 
 righteousness while the McQuinns are always on the 
 job. 
 
 CORA. You re unjust. You don t know what you re saying. 
 It s because they are ignorant that strong leaders like you 
 should go to them. (He laughs) You must not forget 
 those others who are working with you against McQuinn. 
 
 HAL. The Reformers? Huh. I know them, too. I m 
 sick to death of political reforms and reformers who plant 
 together but reap their fruits separately. 
 
 CORA (trying to stop him). They re human and 
 
A GOOD WOMAN 136 
 
 HAL. Yes ; that s it. Damn human ! Why, even now 
 they re squabbling over who shall run for Mayor once they 
 put McQuinn out of power. They re fighting, just like 
 the grafters, with all the same petty jealous personalities. 
 Reformers ! Would they put you on their visiting list even 
 if they knew you sacrificed your reputation for them? 
 With all their political morality do you think they d dare 
 go against public opinion on private morals ? No ! They 
 couldn t run for office themselves if they did. They d 
 think you unclean 
 
 CORA. No, no ! 
 
 HAL. Yes : just as they think McQuinn unclean. They d 
 accept your sacrifice. But they d use it as they use 
 their causes : to ride into power themselves. Reformers ! 
 I sha n t sacrifice you for them. What do they care for 
 you and me ? 
 
 CORA. But it s not a sacrifice to do what is right. 
 
 HAL. Others will try to do what I have failed in. There 
 are always plenty of reformers. I don t want the glory. 
 I ve seen the graves of martyrs. No, no. I ll go through 
 with what McQuinn demands just because it s you and 
 me who matter you and me. 
 
 CORA. With McQuinn always waiting at the door. (The 
 phone rings sharply again) You see ? 
 
 HAL. Damn him ! Why doesn t he leave us alone ? 
 
 CORA. We ll never be alone again. 
 
 HAL. I ll fix him. 
 
 CORA (with calm strength). He must be answered now as 
 well as later. 
 
 HAL (as she starts to the phone). You sha n t do this. 
 
 CORA. I ll not let your work be ruined by my cowardice. 
 
 HAL. I tell you I m through with that work. 
 
 CORA. But you re not through with my love ! It s my 
 love speaking now for our love, which I must keep clean in 
 my own eyes. Our love which the law punishes by deny 
 ing it freedom to live in the open ! Our love which keeps 
 me from being "a good woman" - like your wife ! (She 
 
136 A GOOD WOMAN 
 
 goes to the phone. Hal, seeing the futility of further words, 
 sinks back into his chair overcome by what the future holds) 
 Yes. This is Cora Warren. . . . Who wishes to talk 
 to Mr. Merrill? ... Is this Mr. McQuinn talking? 
 . . . Mr. McQuinn, I m glad you rang up. . . . I m fully 
 acquainted with the particulars of the case. . . . Yes, of 
 course, we re going to be sensible. . . . What are you 
 going to do? . . . Thanks for putting it so clearly. I 
 wanted you to say that to me also. We re not at all 
 anxious to have this story come out. . . . No. But 
 Mr. Merrill is going on the stand to-morrow to tell the 
 truth. . . . Yes. . . . And ... if the story is subse 
 quently published . . . or if he is cross-examined by your 
 lawyers about our relations, I shall go on the stand, pro 
 duce a record that you phoned me twice, and corroborate 
 his statement that you tried to blackmail him into silence. 
 . . . You are quite sure you understand ? . . . You re 
 sorry for me?. . . Oh, that s all right, Mr. McQuinn. . . . 
 What s that? (Her voice trails off) Yes, I know I m "a 
 hell of a fine woman." (She hangs up the receiver and goes 
 slowly to Hal) You did what you thought best for me. 
 I did what is best for you. 
 
 HAL (holding her close as she kneels beside him). Poor dear, 
 brave girl. He ll publish it. I know him. And then 
 oh! 
 
 CORA. Yes, dearest. But he didn t laugh this time ! [There 
 is a triumphant smile upon her face. 
 
 The curtain falls. 
 
FUNICULI FUNICULA 
 
 RITA WELLMAN 
 
 Miss RITA WELLMAN was born in 1890 in Washington, D.C. 
 She is a daughter of Walter Wellman, journalist and explorer. 
 Miss Wellman s first story was published when she was seven 
 teen, and since then she has been writing stories and plays con 
 tinually. Her published plays are "Barbarians", "Funiculi 
 Funicula", and "The Lady with the Mirror." 
 
 Her first play to be produced was a sketch for vaudeville. 
 "Barbarians", given first by The Provincetown Players, 
 has been produced by many of the Little Theatres in this 
 country. All of her published plays have been produced, 
 and in addition to the above, Miss Wellman has produced 
 "The Rib-Person" and "The Gentile Wife." 
 
FUNICULI FUNICULA 
 
 BY RITA WELLMAN 
 
Funiculi Funicula was originally produced by The Province- 
 town Players, 139 MacDougall Street, New York, December, 
 1918. 
 
 Original Cast 
 
 DOCTOR COLLINS Ira Remsen 
 
 TADDEMA TANNER James Light 
 
 ALMA WILLYS Ida Rau 
 
 Produced under the direction of Nina Moise. 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1917, BY R. Lao. 
 
 All rights reserved. 
 
 Application for the right of performing " Funiculi Funicula " must be made to Rita 
 Wellman, 142 East 18th Street, New York City. 
 
FUNICULI FUNICULA 
 
 SCENE : Small Washington Square apartment. Has started 
 out very gaily. Is now shabby and neglected. There is about 
 the place an air of conquered attitude. Door right at back leads 
 into an outer hall with stairs leading up. Door left on Me 
 wall leads into a back room. Bay window in center. This 
 looks out into a court. Couch before the window with small 
 table near by. Settee at right. Small table left with type 
 writer, etc. Bookcases right and left. New Art paintings on 
 the wall. The couch is now covered with bed clothes and shows 
 that some one has recently occupied it. The covers are thrown 
 back at one end. A child s bathrobe lies on the bed, half falling 
 from it. On the small table near the couch there are medicine 
 bottles, a box of absorbent cotton and other medicinal things. 
 A piece of blue paper torn from the cotton box is fixed with a 
 hair pin to the lamp which stands on the table. The room is 
 very untidy. There are toys scattered about, and many of the 
 chairs are cluttered with clothing. 
 
 It is about seven-thirty in the evening. Alma and Doctor Col 
 lins enter together from the bedroom. Alma is beautiful. 
 Nevertheless, she is nervous and discontented a failure. She 
 wears a loose, brilliantly colored smock. Doctor Collins is 
 what he calls himself "a plainsman." He feels an instinc 
 tive distrust for intellectual and artistic people. He agrees with 
 Oscar Wilde that "Nature hates Mind." For this reason he is 
 afraid of Alma and disapproves of her. He also thinks she is 
 beautiful. 
 DOCTOR COLLINS (as they enter). I will write a prescription 
 
 for you. Please have it filled at once. 
 
142 FUNICULI FUNICULA 
 
 ALMA. But I sent Mr. Tanner out with the other one the 
 one you gave me on Monday. Isn t it all right ? 
 
 DOCTOR COLLINS (writing). No. I want her to have this 
 now every three hours. 
 
 ALMA. Is she worse, Doctor Collins ? 
 
 DOCTOR COLLINS. She hasn t improved as I had hoped, Miss 
 Willys. 
 
 ALMA (walking about nervously, attempting listlessly to straighten 
 the room). I m sure I ve done everything you told me to. 
 I m sure I ve tried to do everything for her. 
 
 DOCTOR COLLINS (handing her the prescription). Here have 
 this filled at once. You can continue with the tablets I 
 gave you on Monday those are for the fever. Her 
 temperature is the most alarming thing. I don t see why 
 we can t get it down. I wish you had called me before, 
 Miss Willys. Why did you let it go so long ? I told you 
 on Monday that I wanted to see her again if there was any 
 change. 
 
 ALMA. I don t know why I didn t call you. I hate getting 
 excited over every little thing I suppose that was the 
 reason. She seemed all right. She was quite bright until 
 yesterday morning. Then she began to droop and com 
 plain. It s very hard when you re all alone. 
 
 DOCTOR. Isn t Mr. Tanner here to help you ? 
 
 ALMA. He s been busy. That is he s been working at 
 something, anyway I don t know what it is some 
 club thing or other. He s always doing something of the 
 kind for charity. Doesn t it seem amusing that the 
 people who never earn any money are always willing to 
 do things for nothing ? 
 
 DOCTOR. I should think that would work the other way about 
 - that the people who are willing to work for nothing never 
 make anything. 
 
 ALMA (sitting). You can get along very nicely without 
 money and that leaves you time to do all the pleasant 
 things. And you never get paid for doing anything 
 pleasant. 
 
FUNICULI FUNICULA 143 
 
 DOCTOR. I am too plebeian to understand you, I am afraid. 
 I am a plain man, Miss Willys. 
 
 ALMA. That is almost a boast, Doctor Collins. 
 
 DOCTOR. Miss Willys, I am going to be frank with you, 
 may I ? 
 
 ALMA. By all means, Doctor Collins. Sit down, won t you ? 
 I am afraid it isn t very clean. I have a woman who 
 comes in to clean, but she didn t come to-day. Her hus 
 band drinks. Not that that is any reason why she shouldn t 
 come. (As he picks up a chair filled with clothing) Oh, 
 I m sorry. Just let them stay there. Here, take this 
 chair. 
 
 DOCTOR (removing the articles). This will be all right, thank 
 you. 
 [Sits. 
 
 ALMA. I suppose you are accustomed to having everything 
 hygienic. I think all this modern excitement over the 
 germ must have its bad effect, don t you ? Think of 
 the effect on the germ. I mean the psychological effect. 
 There s something in that. But you doctors never realize 
 these things. You re simply mathematicians. 
 
 DOCTOR. You are very clever, Miss Willys, and I am a very 
 plain man. 
 
 ALMA (annoyed). Yes, so you told me. 
 
 DOCTOR. I want to speak to you seriously, Miss Willys. 
 About the little girl in there. 
 
 ALMA. I know. You are going to tell me what a bad mother 
 I am. I know I am. I was never intended to be a mother. 
 And now you are going to tell me that all women were in 
 tended to be mothers. 
 
 DOCTOR. No, I was not going to say that just then. 
 Miss Willys, is Mr. Tanner your husband or isn t he ? 
 
 ALMA. We re not married if that s what you mean. 
 
 DOCTOR. But he is the father of that little girl in there ? 
 
 ALMA. Yes, he is Bambi s father. 
 
 DOCTOR (who hesitates because he feels ridiculous). Just 
 what what is the idea ? 
 
144 FUNICULI FUNICULA 
 
 ALMA. The idea? (Smiles) You mean why aren t we 
 properly married? 
 
 DOCTOR. Yes, exactly why aren t you properly married ? 
 
 ALMA (serious). I don t know why we didn t. We were 
 afraid, I suppose. 
 
 DOCTOR. Afraid to be properly married? 
 
 ALMA. Yes. It seems strange to you, doesn t it ? You see 
 all people aren t alike. Some kinds of people are afraid 
 to do what every one disapproves of while our kind 
 we re afraid to do the things every one approves of. I 
 suppose there were other reasons too at the time I 
 know it, in fact. But why should I discuss them with 
 you? Being married or not married is a private matter, 
 it seems to me. And what has my being married or not 
 to do with my child s getting well ? 
 
 DOCTOR. Everything. 
 
 ALMA. Oh, please don t be absurd, Doctor Collins. 
 
 DOCTOR. Miss Willys, this little girl you have brought into 
 the world has never had proper care. 
 
 ALMA. Why, Doctor Collins ! 
 
 DOCTOR. I mean it. You probably think because you have 
 fed her and clothed her as well as you could that you have 
 given her all that she needs. That is not enough. There 
 is never enough that you- can do for a small child struggling 
 to live. It needs sunlight. It needs fresh air. It needs 
 quiet and regularity. The most stupid person knows these 
 things. You are a very brilliant young woman, but if 
 you ve ever known these things you ve forgotten them 
 or you don t care. 
 
 ALMA. I don t care ! 
 
 DOCTOR COLLINS. How long have you lived here in this 
 place ? 
 
 ALMA. Oh, I don t know about three years. 
 
 DOCTOR. Ever since little Bambi was born. 
 ALMA. Yes almost think of it ! 
 
 DOCTOR. Look at this place. Two little rooms on a court. 
 Filled with the smell of tobacco smoke. The only sun 
 
FUNICULI FUNICULA 145 
 
 that ever comes in here is reflected from the wall opposite. 
 When you go out at night you take the child with you be 
 cause there is no one to leave her with at home. She 
 goes to concerts and to the theatre. She has been taught 
 to dance and act. At three and a half years she is subjected 
 to all the excitements and nervous strain of an adult s 
 life. 
 
 ALMA. Yovi seem to have been discovering many facts about 
 us, Doctor. 
 
 DOCTOR. It is my duty to know these things. They are 
 true, aren t they ? 
 
 ALMA. Yes, of course. What would you have us do ? We 
 have Bambi to take care of. We can t turn her over to 
 strangers. We haven t enough money to send her to 
 school. She must share our life that s logical. 
 
 DOCTOR. Why shouldn t you share hers! 
 
 ALMA. We have our work to do. We can t give up our 
 work simply for Bambi ? Why should we ? 
 
 DOCTOR. Then your child s life isn t worth as much to you 
 as your art or whatever you call it ? 
 
 ALMA (coldly). I call it my art yes. 
 
 DOCTOR. You haven t answered my question. 
 
 ALMA. I never considered it that way. I never thought 
 about it at all. We have no set plan of life. That would 
 be stupid, and we couldn t live up to it if we had. We all 
 sort of live along somehow. Taddem goes his way, I go 
 mine. Bambi . . . 
 
 DOCTOR. Yes, Bambi . . . 
 
 ALMA. She will go hers in time, I suppose. 
 
 DOCTOR. So she is just to live along, too. A child cannot 
 just live along. A child must be guided and helped to 
 live. It cannot fight existence as a grown person can. 
 That is what parents are for. There is not a moment in 
 the twenty-four hours when your child is not in danger 
 from so^ne cause. This applies to any child and par 
 ticularly to your child. 
 
 ALMA. To my child ? Why ? 
 
146 FUNICULI FUNICULA 
 
 DOCTOR. She has never been strong, I imagine, from birth. 
 She is highly nervous and anaemic. Any infection which 
 she might take in has twice as much power over her as it 
 would have over a normal child leading a regular life. As 
 soon as it is possible for you to do so I advise that you move 
 away from here into the country where she will get 
 fresh air and a great deal of it. 
 
 ALMA. So you would make commuters out of Taddem and 
 me. We would rather die first. 
 
 DOCTOR (rising). Miss Willys, in my work I have seen 
 girls from the street ignorant, brutal, the very dirt of 
 life, you would say I ve seen such girls willing and 
 glad to sacrifice themselves for their children. 
 
 ALMA. Sacrifice ? 
 
 DOCTOR. You hadn t thought of that, had you ? 
 
 ALMA. No. No, I hadn t. It is a dreadful word. 
 
 DOCTOR (gets his bag reaches out his hand to Alma to say 
 good-by. He feels much more sure of himself now) . Good 
 night, Miss Willys. Will you let me know if there is any 
 change ? You know where you can get me ? Greely 2340. 
 Don t fail to call me. Have the prescription made out at 
 once. I will be here first thing in the morning. 
 
 ALMA. But Doctor Collins wait a minute. Those women 
 mothers have they no rights at all ? I remember 
 right after Bambi was born you doctors are so cruel to 
 us mothers you never think of us at all everything is 
 the child, the child Have we no rights of our own at all ? 
 Is everything to be sacrificed to the children ? 
 
 DOCTOR. Everything. 
 
 [Goes out. Alma goes into the room and returns quickly. 
 Taddema Tanner comes in. He is about twenty-eight years 
 old , poetically beautiful. He has never been awake. His 
 dreams are not great enough to carry him victoriously along, 
 rather do they break over him and leave him floundering 
 helplessly. A failure. He is defiantly shabby. There is 
 even a flower in his buttonhole. 
 
 TADDEMA. Hello. Here s your old prescription. Couldn t 
 
FUNICULI FUNICULA 147 
 
 get in earlier. I ve been helping them upstairs. The 
 room looks great, Alma. Gray, orange, and black. The 
 Rebellious Rabelaisian Revel. How s that. 
 
 ALMA. Rather amusing. Whose idea was that ? 
 
 TADDEMA. Don t know. Not particularly good, anyway. 
 Any one could have thought of it. The main thing is to 
 believe it. Want a cigarette ? 
 
 ALMA. Thanks. 
 
 [He lights a cigarette for her. 
 
 TADDEMA. Where s the Bambi ? 
 
 ALMA. The doctor took her into our room. He thought she 
 would be more quiet. 
 
 TADDEMA. And where am I supposed to sleep then ? 
 
 ALMA. I suppose you ll have to sleep here. 
 
 TADDEMA. With all that hellish racket going on upstairs at 
 the dance ? Barnbi d never notice it. She sleeps through 
 any old kind of noise. Why did you let him do it, Alma ? 
 You might have thought of me. You know how noises 
 get on my nerves. I won t be able to sleep the whole 
 night. He takes a lot into his own hands, it seems to me. 
 
 ALMA. He s simply a doctor, Taddem. 
 
 TADDEMA. And the room s so messy you can t turn around 
 in it. Clothes all over everything. Medicine bottles. 
 And what s the decoration on the lamp for ? 
 
 ALMA. I put it there last night to shade Bambi s eyes. 
 Why don t you spend the night again at Hud s as you did 
 last night? 
 
 TADDEMA. Because he doesn t want me. You know that 
 girl s come back that little squint-eye illustrator - 
 why don t you get Mrs. Farrell to come and clean up ? I 
 despise dirt. 
 
 ALMA (sighing). I don t know oh, yes, her husband s 
 drunk again. Although I don t know why we always ac 
 cept that old excuse. But I feel sorry for her. Eight 
 children. Imagine. (Picking up things) I ll see if I 
 can t do something. 
 
 TADDEMA. Where s a broom ? I ll help you. 
 
148 FUNICULI FUNICULA 
 
 ALMA. Oh, don t sweep. It always makes things worse. 
 What costumes are they going to wear, Taddem? 
 
 TADDEMA. Oh, the usual old leopard skin, I suppose. You 
 know, I d like to go. 
 
 ALMA. Taddem ! With Bambi sick ! 
 
 TADDEMA. Oh, I suppose it wouldn t be right. I forgot, 
 and Nina CardelFs come back. 
 
 ALMA. Oh, I see. 
 
 TADDEMA. You know she s grown to be really beautiful, 
 Alma. 
 
 ALMA. I always told you she was, Taddem. 
 
 TADDEMA. Yes, probably that was the reason I didn t 
 think so. 
 
 ALMA. Is she going ? Of course she is. It s strange no one 
 has told me anything of the dance. I never seem to be in 
 anything any more. I wish we could go, Taddem. 
 
 TADDEMA. No, I suppose we shouldn t. It wouldn t do. 
 How does she seem, anyway ? 
 
 ALMA. Who Bambi? Just about the same, that is, as 
 far as I can see. The doctor seemed to think she wasn t 
 getting on so well. 
 
 TADDEMA. Poor little brat. I brought her a toy. (Reach 
 ing in his pocket) A little mannikin one of Hud s. It 
 would amuse her. What in the name of ... did I do with 
 the thing ? (Pulls out a bunch of letters and clippings, but 
 can t find the toy) I must have lost it. Too bad. (Goes 
 to his work table looks over papers) Just saw Lee Hoyt. 
 We had something to eat together. He s starting a new 
 religion very interesting. Sort of a Lily Cup Buddhism. 
 The Banner did him out of his money just the way they did 
 me. It s a shame. Looks fat enough. Fatter than ever. 
 Some one must feed him. 
 
 ALMA. Did they take your poem ? 
 
 TADDEMA. What poem ? Oh, you mean that last one ? No, 
 they sent it back. Got it up at Hud s. I don t seem to 
 be doing the stuff I used to. It s this everlasting . . 
 
 ALMA (quickly). Everlasting what, Taddem? 
 
FUNICULI FUNICULA 149 
 
 TADDEMA. Never mind. We can t help it. No one can. 
 
 We re nothing but worms. Worms under the foot. Even 
 
 you, Alma, you re just a little writhing worm. 
 ALMA. I can t say I m in any mood to be called a worm, 
 
 Taddem, true as it may be. So they sent the poem back. 
 TADDEMA. Well, what difference does it make? I can 
 
 write others. I have an idea now a really great idea, 
 
 Alma. 
 ALMA. I thought sure they d take it it s the worst thing 
 
 you ve done. Oh, Taddem, if you could only reason a 
 
 little. We need money so dreadfully. 
 
 TADDEMA (who has been thinking) . What d you say, Alma ? 
 ALMA. I said we need money. We need it terribly. I don t 
 
 see what we re going to do. Oh, if you d only see. 
 TADDEMA. I do see. I do see. I see everything. What 
 
 can I do ? What can we do ? Just as I said we are 
 
 simply worms. 
 
 ALMA. But where is the money coming from ? 
 TADDEMA. What makes you so uncomfortably practical all 
 
 at once? 
 ALMA. Because we have to live. Because we have bills, 
 
 hundreds of them. The doctor, the druggist to mention 
 
 the least of them. 
 TADDEMA. The doctor and the druggist have nothing to do 
 
 with my immortal soul. 
 ALMA. No, perhaps not but they have something to do 
 
 with Bambi s. 
 TADDEMA. Oh, Bambi. Well, wait and see. We ll get 
 
 money in some place. I m going to get started soon and 
 
 do something big. You ll see. And then there s your 
 
 work. Who s that man you know he liked your 
 
 drawings ? 
 
 ALMA (in disgust and despair). Oh, my drawings ! 
 TADDEMA. Well, what s wrong with them? They re good 
 
 awfully good. Some of them are awfully clever. Every 
 
 one says so, Alma. I don t see what makes you always 
 
 so pessimistic about your work. 
 
150 FUNICULI FUNICULA 
 
 ALMA. Because I haven t the time to give to it. I haven t 
 the time to think of it even. And when I have I m too 
 tired. It s always Bambi first. Bambi all day long. Her 
 food, her bed, her toys, her this, her that, from morning 
 until night. Even when she s well. . . . And when she s 
 sick I m simply worked to death. How can I do anything 
 else ? How can I have an art when I am a slave bound 
 hand and foot ? 
 
 TADDEMA. Funny how an idea comes to you. 
 
 ALMA (who is worn out and nervous and on the point of losing 
 all control). Oh, I m so tired. I m so tired. 
 
 TADDEMA (who has been thinking his own thoughts and has not 
 listened). Hud is an awful fool. He talks too much. 
 But he says so much he can t help being profound some 
 times. He said something last night that impressed me 
 very much. " Elemental people fear death intellectuals 
 fear life." That s not a bad idea. I could work it into a 
 sort of a play. (Starts to write) Damn the doctor and 
 the druggist. 
 
 [Alma goes determinedly to a cupboard and gets out her 
 drawing board, etc. She knows she isn t going to work, but she 
 needs the contact of these things she loves. 
 
 ALMA (turning toward door). They re beginning to go up to 
 the dance already. (After a pause in which he has paid no 
 attention to her) I haven t had any dinner, Taddem. 
 
 TADDEMA. What did you say, Alma ? 
 
 ALMA. Nothing. 
 
 TADDEMA. About dinner. Haven t you had any ? 
 
 ALMA. No, how could I ? There s nothing here. 
 
 TADDEMA. That s a shame. You really ought to. . . . 
 [And he gets engrossed in work again. 
 
 ALMA. I wonder who s going ? Probably* would be a bore, 
 anyway, don t you think, Taddem ? 
 
 TADDEMA. I wish you could keep quiet, Alma. 
 
 ALMA. Excuse me. I m sorry. (After a minute) Do you 
 know any of the men who re going ? (As he doesn t answer) 
 I probably wouldn t know any one if we did go. Still 
 
FUNICULI FUNICULA 151 
 
 there s sure to be some one of the old crowd. (Putting 
 away her things in disgust) Oh, how rotten I am. Oh, 
 how worthless I am ! 
 
 TADDEMA. Oh, if you d only keep quiet. 
 
 ALMA. If you d only stop writing and pay some attention 
 to me. 
 
 TADDEMA. Oh, if I could only have a little peace. 
 [Starts to go into room left. 
 
 ALMA (staying him). You can t go in there, Taddem. The 
 doctor said Bambi wasn t to be disturbed. 
 
 TADDEMA. Where am I to go then ? 
 
 ALMA. You ll have to stay here and make the best of it 
 as I have to. Listen ! Is she calling me ? 
 
 TADDEMA. I didn t hear anything. 
 
 ALMA. My imagination. . . I m always hearing her call 
 ing. Even in my sleep. Oh, if she d only get well again. 
 We d have some peace. 
 
 TADDEMA. Well, at least you could keep quiet and let me 
 work. 
 
 ALMA. Yes, let you work. That s just it. You can work. 
 You can go on being yourself no matter what happens. 
 But I must give up everything. I must be a mere pro 
 tective animal. I must sacrifice everything. I m to be 
 nothing but a mother ! 
 
 TADDEMA. Well, I m sure you have yourself to blame for that. 
 You insisted upon being a mother, didn t you? 
 
 ALMA (sitting). Yes, I did. It was a beautiful dream. 
 Taddem when we were in Rome all that time was 
 that real ? Or is this ? Or is nothing real ? 
 
 TADDEMA (interested always ready to discuss them and their 
 life). Yes when we were in Rome. 
 
 ALMA. I wonder why it is that all of our highest dreams al 
 ways lead us to our worst miseries. 
 
 TADDEMA. Because we try to make our dreams realities. 
 ALMA. Poets joined in passion. That was your phrase, 
 Taddem. And it was all so fine and high. Let us never 
 do anything ugly, we vowed, let us never do anything 
 
152 FUNICULI FUNICULA 
 
 unworthy. And we married ourselves in the Browning 
 villa with these rings. They did it, we said, why shouldn t 
 we ? And our dream of the Bambino. That was to prove 
 it. Oh, Taddem, can you forget ? Do you remember how 
 eager I was ? Never a painter, never a sculptor, planned 
 and moulded as I did. 
 
 TADDEMA. Do you remember the day we burned the candles 
 to the Virgin in the little church ? There was an Italian 
 woman there and you knelt together. You both bent your 
 heads. I cried. But your eyes were shining, and you 
 looked so strong. You were a saint to me then. 
 
 ALMA. Oh, don t say that. It was all so wrong, so foolishly 
 wrong. We couldn t do it. We couldn t carry it through. 
 We ve failed. The passion has gone. All the poetry and 
 splendor we drew from each other that has all gone. 
 We ve done what we vowed we would never do. We ve 
 become ugly. We ve become unworthy. We re petty and 
 commonplace. We re like all married people from here to 
 Harlem. We ve a few pieces of furniture, a place to come 
 to and pay for, and a child a child we both hate. 
 
 TADDEMA. Hate ! Why, Alma ! 
 
 ALMA. Oh, don t say that we don t hate her. We do. She s 
 in our way. She s always been in our way ever since she 
 was born. Ever since she became a reality she s annoyed 
 us. She s cost us money. She s kept us home when we 
 wanted to go out. She s cried when we wanted to work. 
 She s made our love ridiculous. She s made a family out 
 of us something we can t stand. We ve never forgiven 
 her for making us feel that all our passion was for her sake. 
 
 TADDEMA. That isn t true. Don t say such bitter, cruel 
 things. 
 
 ALMA. Oh, you know they re true. 
 
 TADDEMA. I m fond of Bambi awfully. 
 
 ALMA. Yes, when you re not at home, when you re away, 
 free to do what you please, when I m here all alone, doing 
 my duty. My duty ! How I despise my duty ! 
 [Just now the door bursts open and a young man and a young 
 
FUNICULI FUNICULA 153 
 
 girl, both in costume, stumble backward into the room. The 
 man has been chasing the girl upstairs and has just now 
 caught her and is ardently trying to kiss her. The girl isn t 
 really unwilling, but laughingly and temptingly pretends that 
 she is. When they realize where they are, they laughingly 
 run away. 
 
 ALMA (passionately). I want to go up to the dance ! 
 
 TADDEMA. We oughtn t to. 
 
 ALMA. If I could only go ! 
 
 TADDEMA. Do you think we could ? We could run up for 
 an hour or so. We could come down from time to time. 
 
 ALMA. Oh, no, I should hate that. You don t want to 
 think of medicine bottles when you re dancing. I d rather 
 not go at all then. 
 
 TADDEMA. We could ask one of the women to look down 
 here every now and then. Lots of them like Bambi. Do 
 you suppose we could, Alma ? I d love to go to-night. 
 
 ALMA. He gave her something to make her sleep. Oh, Tad- 
 dem, I forgot the prescription. Well, we can have it 
 filled in the morning. I ll go in and see how she is. 
 [Starts to go to room left. 
 
 TADDEMA. Yes, you go and see how she is. I ll get the cos 
 tumes. Do you know where they are ? 
 
 ALMA. I think they re in that box under the couch. (Hesi 
 tating) Do you think it s all right, Taddem ? 
 
 TADDEMA. O, of course. It s just upstairs. (Hesitating) 
 But if you don t . . . 
 
 ALMA. Get out that yellow thing I wore - 
 
 [She goes out left. The orchestra is heard playing upstairs. 
 It is very faint. It is playing Funiculi Funicula. Taddema 
 gets out a Pierrot costume and puts it on, singing the words 
 to the song. 
 
 ALMA (r centering) . Taddem ! 
 
 TADDEMA. What s wrong now? What s the matter, 
 Alma? 
 
 ALMA. Taddem ! 
 
 TADDEMA. What is it, Alma ? What s wrong with you ? 
 
154 FUNICULI FUNICULA 
 
 ALMA. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing s wrong. I was think 
 ing . . . But why shouldn t we go? We must go. 
 I ve got to go. Give me my domino. Where is it? 
 What did you do with my domino, Taddem ? 
 
 TADDEMA. Here it is. 
 
 ALMA. It s all dusty. The moths have been in it. (Laugh 
 ing) Moths in my gay little domino. Where s my hat, 
 Taddem. Get it for me. We must hurry. Oh, please 
 hurry. There it is don t you see in the paper Give 
 it to me. Oh, my face - 1 have some powder here Oh, 
 I look dreadful -- (She rouges and powders her face) 
 Are you all dressed, Taddem ? Powder your face. Pierrot 
 . . . Pierrot . . . 
 
 TADDEMA. If you think we shouldn t go, Alma . . . 
 
 ALMA. Keep quiet. Of course we re going. There, do I 
 look all right. Do I look pretty ? I m not an old woman, 
 am I? Am I, Taddem? (Clinging to him) Am I? 
 Answer me. Tell me something. Say something, say 
 something mad . . . Oh, Taddem, if I could only bring 
 you back to me. . . (Pulling him to the door) Be my 
 lover again Come, be my lover You are my lover, 
 aren t you ? Aren t you ? Tell me, tell me, tell me. 
 
 TADDEMA (trying to resist). But I don t understand . . . 
 
 ALMA (pulling him to the door). Understand, understand. 
 What is there to understand ? You must understand that 
 I want to go to the dance. I want to dance and dance. 
 Don t pull back now. Come with me. Come with me. 
 
 TADDEMA. Alma, Bambi s worse. You re running away. 
 
 ALMA. Oh, please come. Hurry. 
 
 TADDEMA. She s all right then? 
 
 ALMA. Of course, of course. Oh, if you d only hurry. 
 
 TADDEMA. I don t believe you. I am going to see for myself. 
 [Starts left. 
 
 ALMA (staying him frantically). Don t. Don t do that. 
 You mustn t go in there. You mustn t go in there. Tad 
 dem, for God s sake, don t go in there now. 
 
 TADDEMA. What is it ? Is she worse . 
 
FUNICULI FUNICULA 155 
 
 ALMA. Oh, come with me. Come away with me. (Wind 
 ing herself about him) Dearest, come with me. You do 
 love me. I know you do. Think only of me, and I will 
 think only of you. Nothing else matters. Taddem, look 
 at me. Look at me. Kiss me. Just once kiss me. 
 TADDEMA (fascinated). Alma, I don t know you now. 
 ALMA (breaking away as he is about to kiss her). Oh, I can t. 
 I can t. 
 
 [She comes staggering back into the room. 
 TADDEMA (hoarsely) . Bambi . . . 
 
 ALMA. I went in ... I couldn t hear anything not a 
 sound then the curtain blew I saw a light there 
 I went over I went over I touched her her little 
 face, Taddem her little face cold cold, Taddem. 
 (She sees the little bathrobe and snatches it to her breast, 
 sobbing) 
 
 Oh, my baby. My baby. My little, little baby ! 
 [She staggers out left, weeping hysterically. Taddema fol 
 lows her to the door and looks into the other room. Then he 
 comes back. He walks over to the light and puts it out. He 
 goes to the window where the light is streaming in and opens it. 
 The music from upstairs is, of course, heard more plainly. 
 He crouches a moment by the window. He is very young. He 
 has loved his child in his own way. Now that she is dead he 
 loves her more. He has real grief, but this was the night he 
 wanted to be gay. He hates his grief. He is passionately angry 
 that he is sad when others are gay. A man s voice is heard now 
 singing the words to Funiculi Funicula, very gaily. A girl s 
 voice chimes in. Taddema turns to his couch and with pas 
 sionate anger bursts out "Damn! Damn!" Then he falls face 
 down, bitterly weeping. 
 
 CURTAIN 
 
HUNGER 
 
 EUGENE PILLOT 
 
 MR. EUGENE PILLOT was born in Houston, Texas, and has 
 studied at Culver Military Academy, the New York School 
 of Fine and Applied Art, the University of Texas, Cornell 
 University, and Harvard University. 
 
 He has written several plays, all of which have seen suc 
 cessful production. His "Simms Vane Incident", a one- 
 act play, was produced at the 47 Workshop of Harvard in 
 1917, and his "The Middle Window", a three-act play, at 
 the same place in 1918. "The Glazing Globe", a one-act 
 play, was produced at Houston, Texas, 1918. " Hunger " has 
 been given by the Boston Community Players, and at recitals. 
 
HUNGER 
 
 BY EUGENE PILLOT 
 
"Hunger" was originally produced by The Boston Com 
 munity Players, Boston, Massachusetts, May 15 and 16, 1918. 
 
 Original Cast 
 
 THE BEGGAR Robert Winternitz 
 
 THE POET Frank Carson 
 
 THE GIRL Beulah Auerbach 
 
 THE MAN Reginald Coggeshawl 
 
 THE SATISFIED ONE Eugene Pillot 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1918, BY EUGENE PILLOT. 
 All rights reserved. 
 
 Published originally in The Stratford Journal. 
 
 Application for the right of performing "Hunger" must be made to Mr. Eugene 
 Pillot, 47 Workshop, Harvard University, Cambridge, Massachusetts. 
 
HUNGER 
 
 SCENE. A great gray tower, so tall that you cannot see its top, 
 is beside a gray road. A purple door, outlined with a latticed 
 band of gold, is in the center of the tower, and there are huge 
 light-green rocks on each side. In the distance are several 
 poplar trees and a rolling country. 
 TIME. A day before now. 
 
 When the curtain rises, the Beggar is asleep on the rock at the 
 left of tower. The mass of brown and yellow rags that cover 
 his fat body brings into bold relief his mop of shaggy red hair. 
 He sighs, sits up, yawns, rubs his eyes, and nods again sleepily. 
 BEGGAR (suddenly sitting erect, blinking). Aw, tis a pity good, 
 sound sleep should ever end. (Leans forward and looks up 
 at door) So you re not open yet, old door, eh? (Rises, 
 glances quickly to right, then to left, and limps up the three 
 stone steps to door, grabs door knob and feverishly tries to open 
 door, which remains immobile. Despondent, he slaps his 
 hand against the door) Aw, ain t you going to ever open ? 
 (Pushes himself away from door and regards it contempla 
 tively) You might show just a crack of your inside any 
 how. Stingy ! 
 
 [Slaps door. The sound of approaching footsteps from off 
 right causes him to scramble to his rock, where he sits with out 
 stretched hand. 
 
 From right, enter the Poet, a thin, pale man with a thin, pale 
 voice. He is a curly-headed blond and wears loose-fitting 
 trousers of rather a dark blue; a long-waisted blouse oj 
 light blue embroidered with gold; soft gold shoes, and carries 
 a long, light green quill. His head in the air, he walks along 
 dreamily until he sees the tower and hastens to its door. 
 
HUNGER 
 
 BEGGAR (quickly). Alms for a poor lame beggar! Alms for 
 a poor lame beggar ! 
 
 POET (with a flourish of his hands). Alms I have none. 
 
 BEGGAK (grabs his stomach with one hand, while the other re 
 mains outstretched). Oh, but I ask for my hunger, sire! 
 My hunger for bread ! 
 
 POET. Bread ? Forsooth, tis an earthly thing. 
 
 BEGGAR. Even so, my belly would feel the weight of it - 
 so hungry am I, sire, so hungry ! 
 
 POET. Yours is not the only hunger in the world. Alas, I 
 have one of my own. (Grabs door knob with both hands and 
 tries to force open the door) And I shall be fed ! I shall ! 
 (Appealingly, to door) O Muses, Muses, let it open ! Open 
 the door or I die of hunger. (Sighs, drops his hands, and 
 goes to rock at right of tower where he sits weeping, his face in 
 his hands) O-oh, oh, oh. 
 
 BEGGAR. Forsooth, you must have a long hunger, if it has 
 brought you to dropping tears. 
 
 POET (forlornly). I have felt it since I was born. 
 
 BEGGAR. Aw, I ve been hungry as an ox for longer than my 
 belly will let me remember ; but never could I afford to 
 drop tears. Wastes too much salt. And my belly so 
 needs salt for bread. (Rocks himself) Oh, how it needs 
 the bread, too ! 
 
 POET. Salt ! The salt of desire ! 
 [Weeps. 
 
 BEGGAR. Losing so much salt is what s made you so skinny, 
 do you know it ? 
 
 POET (weeping). Who knows! (Weeps louder) Who knows! 
 
 BEGGAR. Father of suffering pussy-cats! Stop wailing! 
 Forsooth, you make me hungrier. (Rocks himself) Aw, 
 stop it ! Soon you ll be having me lose my own salt. 
 Stop, I say, stop ! 
 
 POET (stops weeping and looks at him tearfully) . Ah, tis hard 
 to stop, once you ve begun. (Sighs) Seems to soothe 
 like great waves rolling in from the sea. 
 
 BEGGAR. Huh, how you people with brains do fool your- 
 
HUNGER 163 
 
 selves. Just how long have you been hungry for bread, 
 
 anyhow ? 
 
 POET (insulted). I m not hungry for bread! 
 BEGGAR. What ! Not hungry for bread ? 
 POET. Certainly not. 
 BEGGAR. Ye lolly-pop gods ! How can you wail so, if your 
 
 belly s not empty? In pretending you shame our best 
 
 actor-men. You re a wonder of wonders ! (Rises) What 
 
 do you call yourself ? 
 POET. A poet a hungry poet. 
 BEGGAR. Indeed. (Moves nearer, interested) If not for 
 
 bread, for what can a poet hunger? 
 POET. For love ! 
 BEGGAR (sarcastically) . For love ? That puny thing that s 
 
 always dying? 
 
 POET. It alone can make you live really live ! 
 BEGGAR (scornfully, as he resumes his seat on the rock). I 
 
 breathe without it. 
 POET. But it warms the heart and makes of the world an 
 
 Elysian field of rose-colored jasmines, where doves have 
 
 the voices of angels and - (Beggar is bowled over with 
 
 hilarious laughter) Tis no more of a jest to me than 
 
 your bread is to you. 
 BEGGAR. Bread ! Ha, if I had it now, my teeth would bite 
 
 into it and I d jam it through my system till it was stuffed 
 
 to the bursting. 
 POET. Alas, the hunger of the stomach is as nothing when 
 
 compared to the hunger of the heart. 
 BEGGAR. Heart ? Your grandmother s fiddlesticks ! 
 POET (his emotion causing him to spring from his rock) . But 
 
 the heart-hunger makes you mad with desire ! And love 
 
 only sweet love can still it. Tis the only food that 
 
 satisfies an empty heart ! 
 BEGGAR (fretfully). Bread s the only food. Eat some and 
 
 you won t need this sweet love. 
 POET (not heeding him). The verses I write possess every 
 
 charm but love. Ah, how I could write if I had it ! Love ! 
 
164 HUNGER 
 
 LOVE ! ! So long have I hungered for you ! 
 
 [Weeps. . 
 BEGGAR. Stop, you weepy, poesy poet ! My salt s ready to 
 
 slip from jne. Stop, I say, stop ! 
 POET (stops weeping, looks at Beggar). All right, I ll stop 
 
 but I feel like starting all over again, when I think about 
 
 what s on the other side of that door. 
 
 [Points to purple door. 
 BEGGAR (eagerly). What do you know about the other side 
 
 of that door ? 
 POET. That there is abundance of food there for all who 
 
 hunger. 
 BEGGAR. So you know that too. (Sits on steps before door) 
 
 Ain t it a wonderful thing to think about? In a great 
 
 golden hall, yellow as the yolk of a healthy egg, is a table 
 
 piled higher than anybody can see with every kind 
 
 of food ! Why, no matter what you re hungering for, your 
 
 food s there on that table and more of it than you could 
 
 eat, if you lived till you were born again. A-ah, it must 
 
 be a happy place. 
 
 [Rises, moves toward right. 
 POET (rushing to door). But I don t want to think about the 
 
 food that s there ! I want to get to it ! 
 
 [Fumbles with door knob. 
 BEGGAR. Alas, getting through the door is the problem of 
 
 the ages. 
 POET. But I don t see why I can t solve it ! (Jerks at door knob) 
 
 If I only knew the secret of your turn ! If I only knew ! 
 BEGGAR (dryly). Only one man knows that. 
 POET. Yes ! Yes ! 
 
 BEGGAR. Preserve your exclamations, for he won t tell. 
 POET. Who is he? 
 BEGGAR. The Satisfied One. 
 
 POET (blandly). I never heard of the Satisfied One. 
 BEGGAR. Well, he s the only one who s gone through that 
 
 door and satisfied his hunger. That s doing enough to 
 
 be talked about, let me tell you. 
 
HUNGER 165 
 
 POET. But can t he be made to tell ? 
 
 BEGGAR. No one s ever got the secret from him yet ; but 
 some day we shall, mark my word for that. 
 
 POET. How ? 
 
 BEGGAR (looking toward right). Quiet! Some one s com 
 ing. 
 
 POET. But I want to know how ? 
 
 BEGGAR. Hush ! Take to your rock. 
 
 POET (sits on his rock). Can you see who it is ? 
 
 BEGGAR. No, the dust still flies in the road. (Half -whisper, 
 turning to Poet) But it might be the Satisfied One who 
 knows ? 
 
 POET. Why do you think so ? 
 
 BEGGAR (confidentially). Oh, I heard it spoken on the edge 
 of a quiet corner the Satisfied One might pass this 
 way to-day. Ah, your ears get sharp when your belly s 
 empty and hungry for bread. 
 
 POET. And I hungry for sweet love ! 
 
 BEGGAR. Hist ! He s here ! 
 
 [Quickly assumes a crouching position to left of door and 
 extends his hand across the steps for alms. 
 From the right, enter the Man large and handsome, the 
 orator type. Bare-limbed and sandalled, he wears a robe 
 not unlike a Roman toga, light-green with a wide band of 
 gold near the hem and across the chest. Bracelets of heavy 
 gold. He walks straight to the door and is about to turn the 
 knob, when the Beggar speaks. 
 
 BEGGAR. Alms for a poor, lame beggar ! Alms for a very 
 poor lame beggar ! 
 
 MAN. Alms? Alms, fellow? 
 
 BEGGAR. For my hunger, sire ! Give to a very, very poor 
 lame beggar ! 
 
 MAN. For your hunger ? 
 
 BEGGAR. Yes, for all of it. Tis a long hunger, sire a 
 long one. 
 
 MAN (stoutly). Fellow, I will give you all the bread in the 
 kingdom 
 
166 HUNGER 
 
 BEGGAR (licking his mouth in anticipation). At last a man 
 after mine own heart ! 
 
 MAN. // you will tell me how to feed my hunger ! 
 
 BEGGAR (exploding) . Father of pussy-cats ! Another one 
 of us ! Are all the hungries let loose to-day ? 
 
 POET (timidly) . Then you are not the Satisfied One ? 
 
 MAN. Satisfied ? Indeed not ! (Oratorically) My hunger 
 runneth through the ages ; and from the beginning of time 
 to the Day of Judgment shall I seek its satisfaction. It is 
 a thing eternal ! 
 
 BEGGAR. Even eternal hunger is with us. (Moans) Un 
 happy day, unhappy day ! 
 
 POET (to Man) . My hunger for love sweet love is that 
 great too. What food do you seek to appease your hunger ? 
 
 BEGGAR (moaning) . Hunger ! Hunger ! 
 
 MAN (leans back against the door, glances at Poet, then at Beg 
 gar, who has crept to his rock) . Ah, what do either of you 
 poor souls know of hunger ? Wait until you feel mine 
 a hunger more than bread or love or any earthly thing ! 
 
 BEGGAR. Forsooth, yours must give you the belly-ache. 
 
 POET. W r hat is yours ? 
 
 MAN. The only hunger that gives a hot, clear passion 
 fills you with a lust for life and power thrills you with 
 youth and love and wild desire ! 
 
 BEGGAR. Name it quickly, Man, name it ! Perhaps twill 
 make ours seem sickly by comparison. 
 
 POET. Ah, yes. For what do you hunger? 
 
 MAN (striking a dramatic pose) . For fame ! 
 
 BEGGAR. What? Do my ears do their duty? For fame, 
 you say ? 
 
 MAN. Yes glorious, glittering fame ! 
 
 BEGGAR (scornfully). Huh, you rate your hunger high. 
 
 MAN (facing door) . So high that the very stars will look down 
 and give me strength to force this door that I may feed 
 my lust for fame. ( Tries to force open door) I ve sacrificed 
 every earthly joy to get through you. (Tugs at knob) 
 And you shall open ! You shall ! 
 
HUNGER 167 
 
 BEGGAR (laughing) . Ha, ha, ha-h-a-a- ! 
 
 MAN. Why do you laugh ? 
 
 BEGGAR. Because you are as simple as a cow. 
 
 MAN. What? 
 
 BEGGAR. Butting a pasture never filled the cavity of a heifer. 
 But do not take it so scowlingly. I will tell you something. 
 Only the Satisfied One knows the way through the door and 
 he s coming this way soon. 
 
 POET (he has been looking toward right). Some one s coming 
 now ! And in a hurry. 
 
 BEGGAR (to Man). Perhaps the Satisfied One! Quick, get 
 your lowers under your uppers. 
 
 MAN. What? 
 
 BEGGAR. I mean sit over there on the rock ! Quick, be 
 fore he gets here ! 
 [Beggar returns to his own rock. 
 
 Man sits on rock at extreme right. From the right, enter 
 the Girl, running. She is a wild, graceful creature, bare- 
 armed, and clothed in lengths of many colored chiffons that 
 hang from a band of gold at her shoulders. Seeing the door, 
 she gives a gasp of joy and with outstretched arms rushes to 
 it, gives the knob a quick turn, extracts a large gold hairpin 
 from her flowing hair and wiggles it in the keyhole. 
 
 BEGGAR. A hairpin ! Woman s refuge in all emergencies. 
 [The hairpin is unsuccessful and the Girl goes to band that 
 outlines the door, attempts to climb it. Interested, the others 
 crowd round to see what she intends to do. She looks at 
 band, contemplates its height. All are breathless as she 
 makes an effort to climb up band. She slips back and all 
 sigh, disappointed except the Beggar, who laughs. 
 
 GIRL (faces them, angrily). If any one of you can do it bet 
 ter, show me how. (Embarrassed, they remain silent) I 
 thought not. Then get back ! Get back ! And let me 
 do it my own way ! 
 
 [They move aivay from her. Reaching higher, she tries to 
 - climb, but slips back to the ground. The Beggar holds his 
 sides with laughter. All are annoyed. 
 
168 HUNGER 
 
 MAN. Don t laugh, you foolish Beggar. 
 
 POET. No, don t; the Satisfied One may show us the 
 way. 
 
 BEGGAR (laughing louder than ever) . Ho, ho, ho ! That s 
 not the Satisfied One ! 
 
 POET. Are you sure it isn t ? 
 
 BEGGAR. Sure as a pig s egg that Easter comes on a Sunday. 
 
 MAN. But it might be 
 
 BEGGAR. Might be an elephant s pig-tail ! Why, look how 
 she scrambles at the wall ! She s as hungry as we are. 
 
 POET. Surely, that s so. (Then to Girl) Sweet Girl, are 
 you really hungry, too ? 
 
 GIRL (fiercely). Hungry? HUNGRY? I m starving II 
 
 BEGGAR. Forsooth, this one has a rabid hunger ! 
 
 MAN. Then you aren t the Satisfied One either ? 
 
 GIRL. Satisfied? Huh, I ve never had even one dress to 
 satisfy me ! 
 
 BEGGAR. Dress ? Dress ? Father of pussy-cats, what kind 
 of a hunger is this ? 
 
 GIRL. Oh, you d hardly understand it it s so much a 
 woman s hunger. 
 
 BEGGAR. Nevertheless, twould be a pleasure to know your 
 hunger. (Coaxing) Come, tell us, won t you? 
 
 POET (as all go nearer Girl) Oh, do tell, sweet one. 
 
 GIRL. The world would call it beauty. That s what it 
 would call my hunger ; but to me it means clothes ! Soft, 
 beautiful clothes ! 
 
 BEGGAR. Clothes ! Such a hunger ! (Laughs) Soft, beau 
 tiful clothes ! ha, ha, ha ! 
 [He is bowled over with laughter. 
 
 GIRL. No man ever quite understands my hunger ; but a 
 woman would know what it is for your very soul to ache 
 for a gown of golden-blue, shimmering with threads of 
 green and gold that run through it like rivers of light ! 
 A-ah, that is a hunger indeed. And to throb and yearn 
 for garments as sweeping as the singing winds over moon 
 lit fields, lavender and milk-white in the shifting shadows 
 
HUNGER 169 
 
 that make all the world into waves of silver-pearl and 
 blurs of maddening blue ! 
 
 MAN. But, child, in your own garments you have bits of all 
 that you hunger for. 
 
 GIRL. Yes, bits, bits -like feathers from a last year s 
 hat! 
 
 MAN. Tis something. 
 
 GIRL. Not to a woman, when she wants something new. Be 
 sides, these bits are but to keep me from forgetting what I 
 want. 
 
 BEGGAR (laughs). Ha! 
 
 GIRL. Oh, you would not even smile, if you knew how hard 
 it was to get them. This, for instance (holds up a length 
 of blood-orange chiffon) I stole from the sash of a gypsy 
 man, because its flaming orange leaped at me ! 
 
 BEGGAR. I don t see how a sash could leap at anybody. 
 
 GIRL. That s because you never passed shop windows in the 
 springtime and had the clothes in them simply cry out for 
 you to come and buy them. 
 
 BEGGAR. No, but maybe a bakery shop would. 
 
 GIRL. Well, this flaming orange leaped at me and cried out : 
 " I am your soul from the sun-burned tropics ! Take me, 
 and know the delirium of the scorching sands at mid-day." 
 I took it and paid for it with the laughter of my youth - 
 a laughter as fresh and dewy as a summer s morn. And 
 this (holds up a length of cold blue chiffon) this I bought 
 with my tears from a vendor of sorrows. But for this - 
 (holds up length of brilliant yellow chiffon) I gave the highest 
 price of all the rapture of my betrothal kiss for this 
 thing of golden sunlight was in the robe of the man I 
 loved and loved and loved 
 
 MAN. But you hunger for a most vanishing thing. Clothes 
 
 will wear out and then you will have nothing. 
 BEGGAR. Nothing but the holes. 
 
 GIRL. How little you understand a woman s hunger. Bread 
 passes away, love dies, and fame vanishes overnight ; but 
 the memory of one beautiful, glorious dress is everlasting. 
 
170 HUNGER 
 
 BEGGAR. Yes, no doubt it makes conversation for many a 
 supper-time. 
 
 GIRL. Oh, I d see it and feel it clinging to me always even 
 though the styles did change. 
 [Turns to door. 
 
 BEGGAR. Well, if you try to climb that door, you ll feel 
 nothing but a hurt. 
 
 GIRL (confidentially, to all). You know, I thought if I could 
 climb up this band, perhaps I could get to the top of the 
 tower and slide down on the inside. 
 
 BEGGAR. It s not to be done. I tried that once already my 
 self. 
 
 GIRL. And what happened ? 
 
 BEGGAR. I got just as far as the middle up there over the 
 door and 
 
 GIRL. Yes, go on ! 
 
 BEGGAR. That was the pinch couldn t go on. Nothing 
 to step on. 
 
 GIRL. Nothing at all ? 
 
 BEGGAR. Nothing but bare wall that keeps stretching up 
 and up and up. The blame tower ain t got no top. OL, 
 I tried to slip up; that s how I fell down and got my 
 limp. I tell you the only way s to go through the door. 
 
 GIRL (despondently). Then I ll never get there. 
 
 BEGGAR. Aw, buck up ! Buck up ! You got enough clothes 
 to last you till we go through the door. We re waiting 
 now for the Satisfied One. He knows how to get through. 
 
 GIRL. But will he tell ? 
 
 BEGGAR. We ain t been starving for nothing. We ll make 
 him tell, all of us together. Now go sit on that rock and 
 keep the wait with us. (Girl sits on rock that is between 
 Man and Poet. Beggar sees some one coming down the road, 
 right. Excitedly, to all) See ! He s coming ! He s coming! 
 [All look eagerly. 
 
 POET. Who a sweet one ? 
 
 BEGGAR. Naw, the Satisfied One. Now we ll get through 
 the door ! 
 
HUNGER 171 
 
 MAN. It might be just another poor hunger. 
 
 BEGGAR. There ain t any more hungers in the world ex 
 cept the little ones ; and they don t count. Besides, this 
 is an old man coming. 
 
 GIRL. Are you sure we re all the great hungers of the world ? 
 
 BEGGAR. Sure. (Pointing to each) Clothes, love, fame 
 and bread, that s me. Only little fish would hunger for 
 anything else. 
 
 GIRL. He s almost here. What shall we do to make him tell ? 
 
 BEGGAR. We must hit upon a plan. Come nearer. (All 
 crowd round him) Now what have you to suggest ? You ? 
 You ? (All stare at him blankly) Don t open your mouths 
 without saying anything ! Be quick ! He s almost here ! 
 Quick! (All "er" and "ah", but can think of nothing to 
 suggest. Beggar is disgusted) You don t deserve to get 
 through the door. (Ponders) We must think of some 
 thing. We must ! 
 
 POET. I can think of nothing but that he shall not escape 
 without telling us the secret. 
 
 BEGGAR. A mouthful of wisdom. That s the thing he 
 must not escape without telling us the secret. 
 
 ALL. No, not without telling ! 
 
 BEGGAR. We may be stiff in our deaths when he comes 
 again. 
 
 POET. It s our only chance. 
 
 BEGGAR. Hush ! There hk is ! 
 
 [From the right the Satisfied One enters slowly and stands 
 watching them, sadly. He is a gray, weary old man in a 
 trailing robe of silver-gray with a wide strip of scarlet down 
 the back and front, full length. All smirk and smile before 
 him. Then, abashed, each slinks to his rock and sits there, 
 staring at the Satisfied One, who now sighs wearily and 
 walks slowly across the stage. 
 
 MAN. He did not even glance at the door. I shall walk 
 that way when I have fame. 
 
 BEGGAR (excited). Bother the way you ll walk. He s get 
 ting away from us ! 
 
172 HUNGER 
 
 POET. He he must not because of my love ! 
 BEGGAR. All of you sit there like bricks ! (Scrambles up and 
 
 runs to Satisfied One, tugging at his robe) Er er er 
 
 would you please be so so come-downish as to let us 
 
 speak with you ? 
 SATISFIED ONE (facing beggar). Assuredly. (Beggar tries to 
 
 find words for his thoughts, but fails. The others come for 
 ward and try, too*, but with the same result) Then you really 
 
 have nothing to say to me, after all. 
 
 [Turns to go. All become agitated. 
 BEGGAR (bowing) . Oh, yes, sire ; but we we have. 
 GIRL (appealingly) . We would ask you something ! 
 POET (plaintively) . And you must answer or we famish. 
 MAN (grimly). You must tell us. 
 SATISFIED ONE. My good people, what is it you wish me to 
 
 tell you ? 
 
 ALL. How to open the door ! How to open the door ! 
 SATISFIED ONE. And why do you wish to open the door ? 
 BEGGAR (whispers to Poet) . He s trying to get out of telling. 
 
 He always asks questions like that. We must make him 
 
 tell! 
 
 SATISFIED ONE. Well, you have not answered me. 
 GIRL. Because we are hungry the same as you were ! 
 SATISFIED ONE (sadly) . The same as I was 
 BEGGAR. Sure. Didn t you go through the door and get 
 
 fed? 
 SATISFIED ONE. Yes, and like all who are fed there, I was 
 
 gorged with food. 
 BEGGAR (to the others). You see, I told you. That s why he 
 
 is the Satisfied One. That s why ! 
 SATISFIED ONE. It is why I am the ZHVsatisfied One. 
 BEGGAR. Nevertheless, we ll take the food. (Tries to pull 
 
 the Satisfied One to the door) Come, show us how you 
 
 opened the door. 
 SATISFIED ONE (resisting, throws off Beggar) . No ! I will 
 
 not! 
 
 [All rush to him and cling to his robe in angry appeal. 
 
HUNGER 173 
 
 POET. You really must tell us ! 
 
 MAN. You must ! 
 
 BEGGAR. You shall ! 
 
 GIRL. Tell me, for I hunger ! 
 
 SATISFIED ONE. Better, my child, to hunger than to know 
 the disillusionment beyond that door. 
 
 BEGGAR. You can well say that. Your belly s been filled. 
 
 SATISFIED ONE. Yes, but I would save you from what I 
 learned there. 
 
 GIRL. What did you learn ? 
 
 SATISFIED ONE. That abundance of food never satisfies so 
 much as just a little. (Grunts of disapproval from the 
 others) Oh, I know what it is to hunger for a thing and 
 I know what it means to get it. You satiate yourself 
 with the object of your desire, like an animal wallowing in 
 the mire ; and you cannot help it, especially when you 
 have hungered long. So I say, better a great hunger, 
 with a little food, than the dullness of satisfaction. 
 
 BEGGAR. Aw, I know the taste of bread. I ll take my 
 chances. 
 
 GIRL. And a woman never could have too many clothes. 
 
 SATISFIED ONE. But the quantities of food in there will not 
 satisfy so much as the hunger you have now. It is better 
 just to have a little of the good things of life. 
 
 BEGGAR. Aw, that s turkey-dressing talk. How did you 
 get through the door? That s what we want to know. 
 (Pulling on him) How did you ? 
 
 SATISFIED ONE. I will not tell you. 
 
 ALL. Oh, but you shall ! You shall ! 
 
 BEGGAR. Come, all of you ! We ll make him show us ! 
 [They grab him fiercely. He struggles to get away, but they 
 are too many for him. They drag him to the door and hurl 
 him against it. 
 
 BEGGAR. Show us how to turn that knob ! 
 
 SATISFIED ONE. No ! I want to save you not open the 
 door to your destruction ! 
 
 BEGGAR. Save us ? Listen to the man ! 
 
174 HUNGER 
 
 ALL. We will get in ! We will ! 
 
 [Like madmen, they pounce upon him, pressing him against the 
 
 door. 
 BEGGAR (suddenly). Oh, it s giving! The door s giving! 
 
 All of us together are pushing it in ! 
 POET (pushing feebly) . All together now ! 
 BEGGAR. I see a crack into the golden room ! 
 GIRL. It s opening ! We re opening the door ! 
 
 [The door swings inward, partly revealing a brilliant golden 
 
 room. 
 SATISFIED ONE (barring the doorway) . Do not enter f Oh, I 
 
 beg of you, do not ! 
 BEGGAR. Aw, I see bread now for it ! 
 
 [Knocks Satisfied One aside, rushes through the door and off 
 
 left, followed pell-mell by the others, exclaiming as they go : 
 
 "Oh, I see the clothes I want!" "Fame, Fame!" "Love, 
 
 I speak to you!" 
 
 BEGGAR (within the tower, but not seen) . Satisfied at last ! 
 SATISFIED ONE. Satisfied? Ha! (Shakes a despairing hand 
 
 after the departed ones) Fools ! Stupid Fools ! ! 
 
 CURTAIN 
 
IN THE ZONE 
 
 EUGENE G. O NEILL 
 
 MR. EUGENE G. O NEILL was born October 16, 1888, in New 
 York City. He spent one year at Princeton University 
 (Class of 1910), after which he became secretary of a small 
 mail-order concern in New York City. In 1909 he joined 
 a gold prospecting expedition to Spanish Honduras. He 
 found no gold, but plenty of fever. The latter part of the 
 season of 1910 he worked as an assistant manager of a theatri 
 cal company on the road, playing in all "big" towns through 
 the Middle West. In June of that year he made his first 
 voyage as a sailor, Boston to Buenos Aires, on a Norwegian 
 bark which took sixty-five days to make the trip. In the 
 Argentine he found work first in the drafting department of 
 the Westinghouse Electrical Company in Buenos Aires, and 
 then in the Swift Packing Company s plant at La Plata. 
 Later he worked for the Singer Sewing Machine Company 
 in Buenos Aires. He made his second trip to sea on a British 
 tramp, Buenos Aires to Durban, South Africa, and return. 
 Finally he shipped on a British tramp steamer back to New 
 York. He did not stay in New York long, however, but 
 signed as an able seaman he had been an ordinary seaman 
 before on the S.S. New York of the American Line. The 
 New York was later laid up in Southampton for repairs and 
 Mr. O Neill was transferred to the Philadelphia of the same 
 line, on which he made his return trip. This was his last 
 experience as a sailor. 
 
 The following winter, Mr. O Neill played a part in his 
 father s tabloid version of "Monte Cristo" on the Orpheum 
 
176 IN THE ZONE 
 
 vaudeville circuit in the Far West. The next summer and 
 fall he worked as a reporter on the New London, Connecticut, 
 Telegraph. Soon after, in 1914, he began to write. He 
 studied the technique of the drama in Professor Baker s 
 class at Harvard the next winter, and since then he has 
 devoted himself exclusively to writing. 
 
 He has written seventeen short plays, of which eleven have 
 been produced. The eleven are: "Thirst *, "Bound East 
 for Cardiff", "Before Breakfast", "Fog", "The Sniper" 
 (1916-1917); "In the Zone", "The Long Voyage Home", 
 "The Rope", "He" (1917-1918); " Where the Cross is Made " 
 and "The Moon of the Caribbees " (1918-1919). All of these 
 have been produced in New York, and many have been 
 seen in Little Theatres throughout the country. Mr. O Neill 
 has published "The Moon of the Caribbees and Six Other 
 Plays of the Sea", and "Fog and Other One-Act Plays." 
 "In the Zone" is one of a cycle in which Mr. O Neill has 
 endeavored to portray different characteristic incidents of 
 merchant-sailor life. He uses the same characters, members 
 of the crew of a British tramp steamer, in each of the plays ; 
 and although each play is complete in itself and is in no way 
 dependent on any of the others for its action or meaning, 
 still there is a certain connection between them. The other 
 plays of the cycle are: "Bound East for Cardiff", "He", 
 "The Long Voyage Home", and "The Moon of the Carib 
 bees." 
 
IN THE ZONE 
 
 BY EUGENE G. O NEILL 
 
"In the Zone" was originally produced by the Washington 
 Square Players, October 31, 1917, at the Comedy Theatre, 
 New York. 
 
 Original Cast 
 Seamen of the tramp steamer (British) Glencairn 
 
 SMITTY, the "Duke." Twenty-five slender his face 
 
 is refined, and handsome in a weak way. He wears a 
 
 short blond mustache Frederick Roland 
 
 DAVIS. Middle-aged thin face with a black mustache. 
 
 Robert Strange 
 
 OLSON. Middle-aged short stocky Swede with a bushy 
 
 blond mustache William Gillette 
 
 SCOTTY. Just past twenty thin and wiry sandy 
 
 hair Eugene Lincoln 
 
 IVAN. In the thirties hulking and awkward, with a 
 
 broad, stupid, swarthy face .... Edward Balzerit 
 YANK. Twenty-eight tall, well-built, dark, and rather 
 
 good-looking in a tough sort of way . . . Gay Strong 
 DRISCOLL. Thirty a powerfully-built Irishman with a 
 
 battered, good-natured face Arthur Hohl 
 
 COCKY. Fifty a wizened runt of a man with a straggling 
 
 wisp of gray mustache Rienzi de Cordova 
 
 COPTBIGHT, 1919, BY BONI & LlVEBIGHT 
 
 All rights reserved. 
 
 Reprinted from " Moon of the Caribbees and Six Other Plays of the Sea " by 
 permission of Boni & Liveright. 
 
 Application for the right of performing "In the Zone" must be made to Mr. 
 Eugene O Neill, Provincetown, Massachusetts. 
 
IN THE ZONE 
 
 SCENE. The seamen s forecastle of the British tramp steamer 
 Glencairn, an irregular-shaped compartment, the sides of which 
 almost meet at the far end to form a triangle. Sleeping bunks 
 about six feet long, ranged three deep, with a space of two feet 
 separating the upper from the lower, are built against the sides. 
 On the right, above the bunks, three or four portholes covered with 
 black cloth can be seen. In front of the bunks, rough wooden 
 benches. Over the bunks on the left, a lamp in a bracket. In 
 the left foreground, a doorway. On the floor near it, a pail with 
 a tin dipper. Oilskins are hanging from hooks near the doorway. 
 
 The far side of the forecastle is so narrow that it contains only 
 one series of bunks. In under the bunks a glimpse can be had 
 of sea chests, suitcases, sea boots, etc., jammed in indiscrimi 
 nately. 
 
 The lamp is not lit. A lantern in the middle of the floor, 
 turned down very low, throws a dim light around the place. 
 Five men Scotty, Ivan, Olson, Smitty, and the Norwegian, 
 Paul are in their bunks, apparently asleep. There is no sound 
 but the deep breathing of the sleepers and the rustling of the oil 
 skins against each other as the ship rolls. It is about ten minutes 
 of twelve in the night. The time is the spring of 1915. 
 
 Smitty turns slowly in his bunk, and, leaning out over the side, 
 looks from one to another of the men as if he were assuring^ 
 himself they were asleep. Then he climbs carefully out of his 
 bunk and stands in the middle of the forecastle, fully dressed, 
 but in his stocking feet, glancing around him suspiciously. Re 
 assured, he leans down and cautiously pulls out a suitcase from 
 under the bunks in front of him. 
 
180 IN THE ZONE 
 
 Just at that moment Davis appears in the doorway, carrying 
 a large steaming coffee pot in his hand. He stops short when he 
 sees Smitty. A puzzled expression comes over his face, followed 
 by one of suspicion, and he retreats farther back in the alleyway, 
 where he can watch Smitty without being seen. 
 
 All of the latter s movements indicate a fear of discovery. He 
 takes out a small bunch of keys and unlocks the suitcase, making 
 a slight noise as he does so. Scotty wakes up and peers at him 
 over the side of his bunk. Smitty opens the suitcase and takes 
 out a small black tin box. Scotty s eyes nearly pop out of his 
 head with fright when he sees this, but he shuts them tight as 
 Smitty turns around, and opens them again in time to see him 
 place the black box carefully under his mattress. Smitty 
 then climbs back into his bunk, taking great care to make no 
 noise, closes his eyes, and commences to snore loudly. 
 
 Davis enters the forecastle, places the coffee pot beside the 
 lantern, and goes from one to the other of the sleepers with the 
 exception of Paul, who is day man and shakes them vigorously, 
 saying to each in a low voice, "Near eight bells, Scotty. Arise 
 and shine, Ollie. Eight bells, Ivan." He stops before Smitty s 
 bunk and looks at him with a keen glance of mistrust which is 
 both curious and timid. He reaches out his hand to grab 
 Smitty s shoulder, hesitates, and finally ends up by saying 
 gruffly: "Eight bells, Smitty." Upon which he sits down on 
 a bench as far away from Smitty as the narrow forecastle will 
 permit, glancing at him every moment out of the corner of his 
 eye. 
 
 Smitty yawns loudly with a great pretence of having been dead 
 asleep. All the rest of the men tumble out of their bunks, 
 stretching and gaping, and commence to pull on their shoes. 
 Except for these, they are fully dressed. Scotty betrays great 
 inward uneasiness, staring suspiciously at Smitty whenever the 
 latter* s back is turned. 
 
 They go one by one to the cupboard which is near the open 
 doorway, front, and take out their cups and spoons, put sugar 
 in the cups, grab a couple of sea-biscuits, and sit down together 
 on the benches. The coffee pot is passed around and placed 
 
IN THE ZONE 181 
 
 back again beside the lantern. They munch their Uscuits and 
 
 sip their coffee in a dull silence. 
 
 DAVIS (suddenly jumping to his feet nervously). Where s 
 that air comin from? 
 [All are startled and look at him wonderingly. 
 
 OLSON (grumpily). What air? I don t feel not ing. 
 
 DAVIS (excitedly). I kin feel it a draft. (He stands on 
 the bench and looks around suddenly exploding) Damn 
 fool square-head ! (He leans over the upper bunk in which 
 Paul is sleeping and slams the porthole shut) I got a good 
 notion to report him. Serve him bloody well right ! 
 What s the use o blindin the ports when that thick-head 
 goes an leaves em open ? 
 
 OLSON (yawning too sleepy to be aroused by anything 
 carelessly). Dey don t see what little light go out yust 
 one port. 
 
 SCOTTY (protestingly) . Dinna be a loon, Ollie ! D ye no ken 
 the dangerr o showin a licht wi a pack o submarrines 
 lyin aboot? 
 
 IVAN (shaking his shaggy ox-like head in an emphatic affirm 
 ative}. Dot s right, Scotty. I don li-ike blow up, no, by 
 devil ! 
 
 SMITTY (his manner slightly contemptuous). I don t think 
 there s much danger of meeting any of their submarines, 
 not until we get into the war zone, at any rate. 
 
 DAVIS (he and Scotty look at Smitty suspiciously harshly) . 
 You don t, eh? (He lowers his voice and speaks slowly) 
 Well, we re in the war zone right this minit if you wants to 
 know. 
 
 [The effect of this speech is instantaneous. All sit bolt up 
 right on their benches and stare at Davis. 
 
 SMITTY. How do you know, Davis ? 
 
 DAVIS (angrily). Cos Drisc heard the First send the Third 
 below to wake the skipper when we fetched the zone 
 bout five bells, it was. Now whata y got to say ? 
 
 SMITTY (conciliatingly) . Oh, I wasn t doubting your word, 
 Davis ; but you know they re not pasting up bulletins to 
 
182 IN THE ZONE 
 
 let the crew know when the zone is reached especially 
 
 on ammunition ships like this. 
 IVAN (decidedly}. I don li-ike dees voyage. Next time I 
 
 ship on windjammer Boston to River Plate, load with 
 
 wood only so it float, by golly ! 
 OLSON (fretfully). I hope British navy blow em to hell, 
 
 those submarines, py damn ! 
 SCOTTY (looking at Smitty, who is staring at the doorway in a 
 
 dream, his chin on his hands. Meaningly). It s no the 
 
 submarrines only we ve to fear, I m thinkin , Ollie. 
 DAVIS (assenting eagerly). That s no lie, Scotty. 
 OLSON. You mean the mines ? 
 SCOTTY. I wasna thinkin* o mines eitherr. 
 DAVIS. There s many a good ship blown up and at the bot 
 tom of the sea, Ollie, what never hit no mine or torpedo. 
 SCOTTY. Did ye neverr read of the Gerrman spies and the 
 . dirrty work they re doin all the war ? 
 
 [He and Davis both glance at Smitty, who is deep in thought 
 
 and is not listening to the conversation. 
 DAVIS. An the clever way they fool you ! 
 OLSON. Sure ; I read it in paper many time. 
 DAVIS. Well (He is about to speak, but hesitates and finishes 
 
 lamely) You got to watch out, that s all I says. 
 IVAN (drinking the last of his coffee and slamming his fist on 
 
 the bench explosively). I tell you dis rotten coffee give 
 
 me belly-ache, yes ! 
 
 [They all look at him in amused disgust. 
 SCOTTY (sardonically). Dinna fret aboot it, Ivan. If we 
 
 blow up ye ll no be mindin the pain in your middle. 
 
 [Yank enters. He wears dungarees and a heavy jersey. 
 YANK. Eight bells, fellers. 
 IVAN (stupidly). I don hear bell ring. 
 YANK. No, and yuh won t hear any ring, yuh boob 
 
 (lowering his voice unconsciously) now we re in the war 
 
 zone. 
 
 OLSON (anxiously) . Is the boats all ready ? 
 YANK. Sure ; we can lower em in a second. 
 
IN THE ZONE 183 
 
 DAVIS. A lot o good the boats ll do, with us loaded deep 
 with all kinds o dynamite and stuff the like o that ! If 
 a torpedo hits this hooker we ll all be in hell b fore you could 
 wink your eye. 
 
 YANK. They ain t goin to hit us, see? That s my dope. 
 Whose wheel is it? 
 
 iv AN, (sullenly). My wheel. 
 [He lumbers out. 
 
 YANK. And whose lookout ? 
 
 OLSON. Mine, I tink. 
 [He follows Ivan. 
 
 YANK (scornfully). A hell of a lot of use keepin a lookout ! 
 We couldn t run away or fight if we wanted to. (To 
 Scotty and Smitty) Better look up the bo sun or the Fourth, 
 you two, and let em see you re awake. (Scotty goes to 
 the doorway and turns to wait for Smitty, who is still in the 
 same position, head on hands, seemingly unconscious of every 
 thing. Yank slaps him roughly on the shoulder and he comes 
 to with a start) Aft and report, Duke ! What s the matter 
 with yuh in a dope dream ? (Smitty goes out after 
 Scotty without answering. Yank looks after him with a 
 frown) He s a queer guy. I can t figger him out. 
 
 DAVIS. Nor no one else. (Lowering his voice meaningly) 
 An he s liable to turn out queerer than any of us think, if 
 we ain t careful. 
 
 YANK (suspiciously). What d yuh mean? 
 
 { They are interrupted by the entrance of Driscoll and Cocky. 
 
 CO CKY (protestingly) . Blimey if I don t fink I ll put in this 
 ere watch ahtside on deck. (He and Driscoll go over and 
 get their cups) I down t want to be caught in this ole if 
 they its us. 
 [He pours out coffee. 
 
 DRISCOLL (pouring his). Divil a bit ut wud matther where 
 ye arre. Ye d be blown to smithereens b fore ye cud say 
 your name. (He sits down, overturning as he does so the 
 untouched cup of coffee which Smitty had forgotten and left 
 on the bench. They all jump nervously as the tin cup hits the 
 
184 IN THE ZONE 
 
 floor with a bang. Driscoll flies into an unreasoning rage) 
 Who s the dirty scut left this cup where a man ud sit on ut ? 
 
 DAVIS. It s Smitty s. 
 
 DRISCOLL (kicking the cup across the forecastle) . Does he think 
 he s too much av a bloody gentleman to put his own away 
 loike the rist av us ? If he does, I m the bye ll beat that 
 noshun out av his head. 
 
 COCKY. Be the airs e puts on you d think e was the Prince 
 of Wales. Wot s e doin on a ship, I arsks yer? E 
 ain t now good as a sailor, is e ? dawdlin abaht on deck 
 like a chicken wiv is ead cut orf ! 
 
 YANK (good-naturedly). Aw, the Duke s all right. S posin 
 he did f erget his cup what s the dif ? (Pie picki up the 
 cup and puts it away with a grin) This war zone stuff s 
 got yer goat, Drisc and yours too, Cocky and I 
 ain t cheerin much fur it myself neither. 
 
 COCKY (with a sigh). Blimey, it ain t no bleedin joke, it 
 ain t, yer first trip, to know as there s a ship full of shells 
 li ble to go orf in under your bloomin feet, as you might 
 say, if we gets it be a torpedo or mine. (With sudden 
 savagery) Calls theyselves uman bein s, too ! Blarsted 
 Uns ! 
 
 DRISCOLL (gloomily). Tis me last trip in the bloody Zone, 
 God help me. The divil take their twenty-foive per cent 
 bonus and be drowned like a rat in a trap in the bar 
 gain, maybe. 
 
 DAVIS. Wouldn t be so bad if she wasn t carryin ammunition. 
 Them s the kind the subs is layin for. 
 
 DRISCOLL (irritably) . Fur the love av hivin, don t be talkin 
 about ut. I m sick wid thinkin and jumpin at iviry bit 
 av a noise. 
 
 [There is a pause during which they all stare gloomily at the 
 floor. 
 
 YANK. Hey, Davis, what was you sayin* about Smitty when 
 they come in ? 
 
 DAVIS (with a great air of mystery). I ll tell you in a minit. 
 I want to wait an see if he s comin back. (Impressively) 
 
IN THE ZONE 185 
 
 You won t be callin him all right when you hears what 
 I seen with my own eyes. (He adds with an air of satis 
 faction) An you won t be feelin no safer, neither. 
 [ They all look at him with puzzled glances full of a vague 
 apprehension. 
 DRISCOLL (fiercely). God blarst ut ! 
 
 [He fills his pipe and lights it. The others, with an air of 
 
 remembering something they had forgotten, do the same. 
 
 Scotty enters. 
 SCOTTY (in awed tones). Mon, but it s clear ootside the 
 
 nicht ! Like day. 
 
 DAVIS (in low tones). Where s Smitty, Scotty? 
 SCOTTY. Out on the hatch starin at the moon like a 
 
 mon half-daft. 
 
 DAVIS. Kin you see him from the doorway? 
 DAVIS (goes to doorway and carefully peeks out). Aye; he s 
 
 still there. 
 DAVIS. Keep your eyes on him for a moment. I ve got 
 
 something I wants to tell the boys and I don t want him 
 
 walkin in in the middle of it. Give a shout if he starts 
 
 this way. 
 SCOTTY (with suppressed excitement). Aye, I ll watch him. 
 
 And I ve somethin myself to tell aboot his Lordship. 
 DRISCOLL (impatienthj). Out wid ut ! You re talkin more 
 
 than a pair av auld women wud be, standin in the road, 
 
 and gettin no further along. 
 DAVIS. Listen ! You member when I went to git the coffee, 
 
 Yank? 
 
 YANK. Sure, I do. 
 DAVIS. Well, I brings it down here same as usual and got as 
 
 far as the door there when I sees him. 
 YANK. Smitty ? 
 DAVIS. Yes, Smitty ! He was standin in the middle of the 
 
 fo c s tle there (pointing) lookin around sneakin -like at 
 
 Ivan and Ollie and the rest, sif he wants to make certain 
 
 they re asleep. 
 
 [He pauses significantly, looking from one to the other of his 
 
186 IN THE ZONE 
 
 listeners. Scotty is nervously dividing his attention between 
 Smitty on the hatch outside and Davis* story, fairly bursting 
 to break in with his own revelations. 
 
 YANK (impatiently) . What of it ? 
 
 DAVIS. Listen ! He was standin right there (pointing 
 again) in his stockin feet no shoes on, mind, so he 
 wouldn t make no noise ! 
 
 YANK (spitting disgustedly) . Aw ! 
 
 DAVIS (not heeding the interruption). I seen right away 
 somethin on the queer was up, so I slides back into the 
 alleyway where I kin see him but he can t see me. After 
 he makes sure they re all asleep he goes in under the bunks 
 there bein careful not to raise a noise, mind! an 
 takes out his bag there. (By this time every one, Yank in 
 cluded, is listening breathlessly to his story) Then he fishes 
 in his pocket an takes out a bunch o keys an kneels 
 down beside the bag an opens it. 
 
 SCOTTY (unable to keep silent longer). Mon, didn t I see him 
 do that same thing wi these two eyes. Twas just that 
 moment I woke and spied him. 
 
 DAVIS (surprised, and a bit nettled to have to share his story with 
 any one). Oh, you seen him too, eh? (To the others) 
 Then Scotty kin tell you if I m lyin or not. 
 
 DRISCOLL. An what did he do whin he d the bag opened ? 
 
 DAVIS. He bends down and reaches out his hand sort o 
 scared-like, like it was somethin dang rous he was after, 
 an feels round in under his duds hidden in under his 
 duds an wrapped up in em, it was an he brings out a 
 black iron box ! 
 
 COCKY (looking around him with a frightened glance). Gawd 
 blimey ! 
 
 [The others likewise betray their uneasiness, shuffling their 
 feet nervously. 
 
 DAVIS. Ain t that right, Scotty ? 
 
 SCOTTY. Right as rain, I m tellin ye ! 
 
 DAVIS (to the others with an air of satisfaction). There you 
 are ! (Lowering his voice) An then what d ycm suppose 
 
IN THE ZONE 187 
 
 he did? Sneaks to his bunk an* slips the black box in 
 under his mattress in under his mattress, mind ! - 
 
 YANK. And it s there now? 
 
 DAVIS. Corse it is ! 
 
 [Yank starts toward Smitty s bunk. Driscoll grabs him by 
 the arm. 
 
 DRISCOLL. Don t be touchin ut, Yank ! 
 
 YANK. Yuh needn t worry. I ain t goin to touch it. (He 
 pulls up Smitty s mattress and looks down. The others stare 
 at him, holding their breaths. He turns to them, trying hard 
 to assume a careless tone) It s there, aw right. 
 
 COCKY (miserably upset). I m gointer op it aht on deck. 
 (He gets up, but Driscoll putts him down again. Cocky pro 
 tests) It fair guvs me the trembles sittin still in ere. 
 
 DRISCOLL (scornfully). Are ye frightened, ye toad? Tis 
 a hell av a thing fur grown men to be shiverin loike childer 
 at a bit av a black box. (Scratching his head in uneasy 
 perplexity) Still, ut s damn queer, the looks av ut. 
 
 DAVIS (sarcastically). A bit of a black box, eh? How big 
 d you think them (he hesitates) things has to be 
 big as this fo c s le ? 
 
 YANK (in a voice meant to be reassuring) . Aw, hell ! I ll bet 
 it ain t nothin but some coin he s saved he s got locked 
 up in there. 
 
 DAVIS (scornfully). That s likely, ain t it? Then why does 
 he act so s picious ? He s been on ship near a year, ain t 
 he? He knows damn well there ain t no thiefs in this 
 fo c s le, don t he ? An you know swell s I do he didn t 
 have no money when he came on board an he ain t saved 
 none since. Don t you? (Yank doesn t answer) Listen! 
 D you know what he done after he put that thing in under 
 his mattress ? an Scotty ll tell you if I ain t speakin 
 truth. He looks round to see if any one s woke up. 
 
 SCOTT Y. I clapped my eyes shut when he turned round. 
 
 DAVIS. An* then he crawls into his bunk an shuts his eyes, 
 an starts in snorin, pretendin* he was asleep, mind ! 
 
 SCOTTY. Aye, I could hear him. 
 
188 IN THE ZONE 
 
 DAVIS. An when I goes to call him I don t even shake him. 
 I just says: "Eight bells, Smitty" in a most a whisper- 
 like, an* up he gets yawnin an stretchin fit to kill hisself 
 sif he d been dead asleep. 
 
 COCKY. Gawd blimey ! 
 
 DRISCOLL (shaking his head). Ut looks bad, divil a doubt 
 av ut. 
 
 DAVIS (excitedly). An now I come to think of it, there s the 
 porthole. How d it come to git open, tell me that? I 
 know d well Paul never opened it. Ain t he grumblin 
 about bein cold all the time ? 
 
 SCOTTY. The mon that opened it meant no good to this 
 ship, whoever he was. 
 
 YANK (sourly). What porthole? What re yuh talkin 
 about ? 
 
 DAVIS (pointing over Paul s bunk). There. It was open 
 when I come in. I felt the cold air on my neck an shut it. 
 It would a been dear s a lighthouse to any sub that was 
 watchin an we s posed to have all the ports blinded ! 
 Who d do a dirty trick like that ? It wasn t none of us, 
 nor Scotty here, nor Olson, nor Ivan. Who would it be, 
 then ? 
 
 COCKY (angrily). Must a been is bloody Lordship. 
 
 DAVIS. For all s we know he might a been signallin with it. 
 They does it like that by winkin a light. Ain t you read 
 how they gets caught doin it in London an* on the coast ? 
 
 COCKY (firmly convinced now). An wots e doin aht alone 
 on the atch keepin isself clear of us like e was afraid ? 
 
 DRISCOLL. Kape your eye on him, Scotty. 
 
 SCOTTY. There s no a move oot o him. 
 
 YANK (in irritated perplexity). But, hell, ain t he an Eng 
 lishman ? What d he want a 
 
 DAVIS. English? How d we know he s English? Cos he 
 talks it? That ain t no proof. Ain t you read in the 
 papers how all them German spies they been catchin in 
 England has been livin there for ten, often as not twenty 
 years, an talks English as good s any one ? An look here, 
 
IN THE ZONE 189 
 
 ain t you noticed he don t talk natural ? He talks it too 
 damn good, that s what I mean. He don t talk exactly 
 like a toff, does he, Cocky ? 
 
 COCKY. Not like any toff as I ever met up wiv. 
 
 DAVIS. No; an he don t talk it like us, that s certain. 
 An he don t look English. An what d we know about 
 him when you come to look at it ? Nothin ! He ain t 
 ever said where he comes from or why. All we knows is 
 he ships on here in London six months b fore the war starts, 
 as an A.B. stole his papers most lik ly when he don t 
 know how to box the compass, hardly. Ain t that queer 
 in itself ? An was he ever open with us like a good ship 
 mate ? No ; he s always had that sly air about him s if 
 he was hidin somethin . 
 
 DRISCOLL (slapping his thigh angrily) . Divil take me if 
 I don t think ye have the truth av ut, Davis. 
 
 COCKY (scornfully). Lettin on be is silly airs, and all, e s 
 the son of a blarsted earl or somethink ! 
 
 DAVIS. An the name he calls hisself Smith ! I d risk a 
 quid of my next pay day that his real name is Schmidt, if 
 the truth was known. 
 
 YANK (evidently fighting against his own conviction). Aw, 
 say, you guys give me a pain ! What d they want puttin 
 a spy on this old tub for ? 
 
 DAVIS (shaking his head sagely). They re deep ones, an 
 there s a lot o things a sailor ll see in the ports he puts in 
 ought to be useful to em. An if he kin signal to em an 
 they blows us up it s one ship less, ain t it? (Lowering 
 his voice and indicating Smitty s bunk) Or if he blows us 
 up hisself. 
 
 SCOTTY (in alarmed tones). Hush, mon ! Here he comes ! 
 [Scotty hurries over to a bench and sits down. A thick silence 
 settles over the forecastle. The men look from one to another 
 with uneasy glances. Smitty enters and sits down beside his 
 bunk. He is seemingly unaware of the dark glances of sus 
 picion directed at him from all sides. He slides his hand back 
 stealthily over his mattress and his fingers move, evidently feel- 
 
190 IN THE ZONE 
 
 ing to make sure the box is still there. The others follow this 
 movement carefully with quick looks out of the corners of their 
 eyes. Their attitudes grow tense as if they were about to 
 spring at him. Satisfied the box is safe, Smitty draws his 
 hand away slowly and utters a sigh of relief. 
 
 SMITTY (in a casual tone ichich to them sounds sinister). It s a 
 good light night for the subs if there s any about. 
 [For a moment he sits staring in front of him. Finally he 
 seems to sense the hostile atmosphere of the forecastle and 
 looks from one to the other of the men in surprise. All of 
 them avoid his eyes. He sighs with a puzzled expression and 
 gets up and walks out of the doorway. There is silence for a 
 moment after his departure and then a storm of excited talk 
 breaks loose. 
 
 DAVIS. Did you see him feelin if it was there ? 
 
 COCKY. E ain t arf a sly one wiv is talk of submarines, 
 Gawd blind im ! 
 
 SCOTTY. Did ye see the sneekin looks he gave us ? 
 
 DRISCOLL. If ivir I saw black shame on a man s face twas 
 on his whin he sat there ! 
 
 YANK (thoroughly convinced at last). He looked bad to me. 
 He s a crook, aw right. 
 
 DAVIS (excitedly). What ll we do? We gotter do somethin 
 quick or 
 
 [He is interrupted by the sound of something hitting against 
 the port side of the forecastle with a dull, heavy thud. The 
 men start to their feet in wild-eyed terror and turn as if they 
 were going to rush for the deck. They stand that way for a 
 strained moment, scarcely breathing, and listening intently. 
 
 YANK (with a sickly smile). Hell ! It s on y a piece of drift 
 wood or a floatin log. 
 [He sits down again. 
 
 DAVIS (sarcastically). Or a mine that didn t go of that 
 time or a piece o wreckage from some ship they ve sent 
 to Davy Jones. 
 
 COCKY (mopping his brow with a trembling hand) . Blimey ! 
 [He sinks back weakly on a bench. 
 
IN THE ZONE 191 
 
 DRISCOLL (furiously). God blarst ut! No man at all cud 
 be puttin up wid the loike av this an* I m not wan to 
 be fearin anything or any man in the worrld ll stand up 
 to me face to face; but this divil s thrickery in thedarrk 
 (he starts for Smitty s bunk) I ll throw ut out wan av the 
 portholes an be done wid ut. 
 [He reaches toward the mattress. 
 
 SCOTT Y (grabbing his arm wildly). Arre ye daft, mon? 
 DAVIS. Don t monkey with it, Drisc. I knows what to do. 
 Bring the bucket o water here, Yank, will you? (Yank 
 gets it and brings it over to Davis) An you, Scotty, see if 
 he s back on the hatch. 
 SCOTTY (cautiously peering out). Aye, he s sittin there the 
 
 noo. 
 
 DAVIS. Sing out if he makes a move. Lift up the mat 
 tress, Drisc, careful now ! (Driscoll does so with in 
 finite caution) Take it out, Yank careful don t shake 
 it now, for Christ s sake ! Here put it in the water - 
 easy ! There, that s fixed it ! ( They all sit down with great 
 sighs of relief) The water ll git in and spoil it. 
 DRISCOLL (slapping Davis on the back). Good wurrk for ye, 
 Davis, ye scut ! (He spits on his hands aggressively) An 
 now what s to be done wid that blackhearted thraitor ? 
 COCKY (belligerently). Guv im a shove in the marf and 
 
 eave im over the side ! 
 DAVIS. An serve him right ! 
 YANK. Aw say, give him a chance. Yuh can t prove nothin 
 
 till yuh find out what s in there. 
 
 DRISCOLL (heatedly). Is ut more proof ye d be needin 
 afther what we ve seen an heard ? Then listen to me - 
 an ut s Driscoll talkin if there s divilmint in that box 
 an* we see plain twas his plan to murrdher his own ship 
 mates that have served him fair (he raises his fist) I ll 
 choke his rotten hearrt out wid me own hands, an over 
 the side wid him, and one man missin in the mornin . 
 DAVIS. An noone the wiser. He s the balmy kind what 
 commits suicide. 
 
192 IN THE ZONE 
 
 COCKY. They angs spies ashore. 
 
 YANK (resentfully). If he s done what yuh think I ll croak 
 
 him myself. Is that good enough for yuh ? 
 DRISCOLL (looking down at the box). How ll we be openin 
 
 this, I wonder ? 
 
 SCOTTY (from the doorway warningly) . He s standin 
 up. 
 
 DAVIS. We ll take his keys away from him when he comes 
 in. Quick, Drisc! You an Yank get beside the door 
 and grab him. (They get on either side of the door. Davis 
 snatches a small coil of rope from one of the upper bunks) 
 This ll do for me an Scotty to tie him. 
 
 SCOTTY. He s turrnin this way he s comin ! 
 [He moves away from door. 
 
 DAVIS. Stand by to lend a hand, Cocky. 
 
 COCKY. Righto. 
 
 [As Smitty enters the forecastle he is seized roughly from both 
 sides and his arms pinned behind him. At first he struggles 
 fiercely, but seeing the uselessness of this, he finally stands 
 calmly and allows Davis and Scotty to tie up his arms. 
 
 SMITTY (when they have finished with cold contempt). If 
 this is your idea of a joke I ll have to confess it s a bit too 
 thick for me to enjoy. 
 
 COCKY (angrily). Shut yer marf, ear ! 
 
 DRISCOLL (roughly). Ye ll find ut s no joke, me bucko, 
 b fore we re done wid you. (To Scotty) Kape your eye 
 peeled, Scotty, and sing out if any one s comin . 
 [Scotty resumes his post at the door. 
 
 SMITTY (with the same icy contempt) . If you d be good enough 
 to explain 
 
 DRISCOLL (furiously). Explain, is ut? Tis you ll do the 
 explainin an damn quick, or we ll know the reason 
 why. (To Yank and Davis) Bring him here, now. (They 
 push Smitty over to the bucket) Look here, ye murrdherin* 
 swab. D you see ut ? 
 
 [Smitty looks down with an expression of amazement which 
 rapidly changes to one of anguish. 
 
IN THE ZONE 193 
 
 DAVIS (with a sneer). Look at him! S prised, ain t you? 
 If you wants to try your dirty spyin tricks on us you ve 
 gotter git up earlier in the mornin . 
 
 COCKY. Thorght yer weren t arf a fox, didn t yer ? 
 
 SMITTY (trying to restrain his growing rage) . What what do 
 you mean? That s only How dare What are you 
 doing with my private belongings? 
 
 COCKY (sarcastically). Ho yus ! Private b longings ! 
 
 DRISCOLL (shouting). What is ut, ye swine? Will you tell 
 us to our faces ? What s in ut ? 
 
 SMITTY (biting his lips holding himself in check with a great 
 effort) . Nothing but That s my business. You ll please 
 attend to your own. 
 
 DRISCOLL. Oho, ut is, is ut ? (Shaking his fist in Smitty s 
 face) Talk aisy now if ye know what s best for you. 
 Your business, indade ! Then we ll be makin ut our s, 
 I m thinkin . (To Yank and Davis) Take his keys 
 away from him an we ll see if there s one ll open ut, 
 maybe. (They start in searching Smitty, who tries to resist 
 and kicks out at the bucket. Driscoll leaps forward and 
 helps them push him away) Try to kick ut over, wud ye ? 
 Did ye see him then ? Tryin to murrdher us all, the scut ! 
 Take that pail out av his way, Cocky. 
 [Smitty struggles with all of his strength and keeps them busy 
 for a few seconds. As Cocky grabs the pail Smitty makes 
 a final effort and, lunging forward, kicks again at the bucket, 
 but only succeeds in hitting Cocky on the shin. Cocky im 
 mediately sets down the pail with a bang and, clutching his 
 knee in both hands, starts hopping around the forecastle, 
 groaning and swearing. 
 
 COCKY. Ooow ! Gawd strike me pink ! Kicked me, e did ! 
 Bloody, bleedin , rotten Dutch og ! (Approaching Smitty, 
 who has given up the fight and is pushed back against the 
 wall near the doorway with Yank and Davis holding him on 
 either side wrathfully, at the top of his lungs) Kick me, 
 will yer ? I ll show yer what for, yer bleedin sneak ! 
 \He draws back his fist. Driscoll pushes him to one side. 
 
194 IN THE ZONE 
 
 DRISCOLL. Shut your mouth ! D you wa nt to wake the 
 
 whole ship ? 
 
 [Cocky grumbles and retires to a bench, nursing his sore 
 
 shin. 
 YANK (taking a small bunch of keys from Smitty s pocket). 
 
 Here yuh are, Drisc. 
 DRISCOLL (taking them). We ll soon be knowin . 
 
 [He takes the pail and sits down, placing it on the floor between 
 
 his feet. Smitty again tries to break loose, but he is too tired 
 
 and is easily held back against the wall. 
 SMITTY (breathing heavily and very pale). Cowards ! 
 YANK (with a growl). Nix on the rough talk, see! That 
 
 don t git yuh nothin. 
 DRISCOLL (looking at the lock on the box in the water and then 
 
 scrutinizing the keys in his hand) . This ll be ut, I m thinkin . 
 
 [He selects one and gingerly reaches his hand in the water. 
 SMITTY (his face grown livid chokingly). Don t you open 
 
 that box, Driscoll. If you do, so help me God, I ll kill 
 
 you if I have to hang for it. 
 DRISCOLL (pausing his hand in the water) . Whin I open this 
 
 box I ll not be the wan to be kilt, me sonny bye ! I m 
 
 no dirty spy. 
 SMITTY (his voice trembling with rage. His eyes are fixed on 
 
 Driscoll s hand). Spy? What are you talking about? 
 
 I only put that box there so I could get it quick in case 
 
 we were torpedoed. Are you all mad? Do you think 
 
 I m (chokingly) You stupid curs ! You cowardly dolts ! 
 
 [Davis claps his hand over Smitty s mouth. 
 DAVIS. That ll be enough from you ! 
 
 [Driscoll takes the dripping box from the water and starts to 
 
 fit in the key. Smitty springs forward furiously, almost escap 
 ing from their grasp, and drags them after him half-way 
 
 across the forecastle. 
 DRISCOLL. Hold him, ye divils ! 
 
 [He puts the box back in the water and jumps to their aid. 
 
 Cocky hovers on the outskirts of the battle, mindful of the 
 
 kick he received. 
 
IN THE ZONE 195 
 
 SMITTY (raging) . Cowards ! Damn you ! Rotten curs ! 
 (He is thrown to the floor and held there) Cowards ! Cow 
 ards ! 
 
 DRISCOLL. I ll shut your dirty mouth for you. 
 
 [He goes to his bunk and pulls out a bi,g wad of waste and 
 comes back to Smitty. 
 
 SMITTY. Cowards ! Cowards ! 
 
 DRISCOLL (with no gentle hand slaps the waste over Smitty s 
 mouth). That ll teach you to be misnamin a man, ye 
 sneak. Have ye a handkerchief, Yank? (Yank hands 
 him one and he ties it tightly around Smitty s head over the 
 waste) That ll fix your gab. Stand him up, now, and 
 tie his feet, too, so he ll not be movin . (They do so and 
 leave him with his back against the wall near Scotty. Then 
 they all sit down beside Driscoll, who again lifts the box out of 
 the water and sets it carefully on his knees. He picks out 
 the key, then hesitates, looking from one to the other uncer 
 tainly) We d best be takin this to the skipper, d you 
 think, maybe? 
 
 YANK (irritably). To hell with the old man. This is our 
 game and we c n play it without no help. 
 
 COCKY. No bleedin horficers, I says ! 
 
 DAVIS. They d only be takin all the credit and makin 
 heroes of they selves. 
 
 DRISCOLL (boldly). Here goes thin. (He slowly turns the 
 key in the lock. The others instinctively back away. He 
 carefully pushes the cover back on its hinges and looks at 
 what he sees inside with an expression of puzzled astonish 
 ment. The others crowd up close. Even Scotty leaves his 
 post to take a look) What is ut, Davis ? 
 
 DAVIS (mystified). Looks funny, don t it ? Somethin square 
 tied up in a rubber bag. Maybe it s dynamite or some- 
 thin you can t never tell. 
 
 YANK. Aw, it ain t got no works, so it ain t no bomb, I ll 
 bet. 
 
 DAVIS (dubiously). They makes them- all kinds, they do. 
 
 YANK. Open it up, Drisc. 
 
196 IN THE ZONE 
 
 DAVIS. Careful now ! 
 
 [Driscoll takes a black rubber bag resembling a large tobacco 
 pouch from the box and unties the string which is wound 
 tightly around the top. He opens it and takes out a small 
 packet of letters also tied up with string. He turns these over 
 in his hands and looks at the others questioningly. 
 
 YANK (with a broad grin). On y letters ! (Slapping Davis 
 on the back) Yuh re a hell of a Sherlock Holmes, ain t 
 yuh ? Letters from his best girl too, I ll bet. Let s turn 
 the Duke loose, what d yuh say ? 
 [He starts to get up. 
 
 DAVIS (fixing him with a withering look) . Don t be so damned 
 smart, Yank. Letters, you says, s if there never was no 
 harm in em. How d you s pose spies gets their orders and 
 sends back what they finds out if it ain t by letters and 
 such things? There s many a letter is worser n any 
 bomb. 
 
 COCKY. Righto ! They ain t as innercent as they looks, 
 I ll take me oath, when you read em. (Pointing at Smitty) 
 Not is Lordship s letters ; not be no means ! 
 
 YANK (sitting down again). Well, read em and find out. 
 [Driscoll commences untying the packet. There is a muffled 
 groan of rage and protest from Smitty. 
 
 DAVIS (triumphantly) . There ! Listen to him ! Look at 
 him tryin to git loose ! Ain t that proof enough ? He 
 knows well we re findin him out. Listen to me ! Love 
 letters, you says, Yank, s if they couldn t harm nothin . 
 Listen ! I was readin in some magazine in New York 
 on y two weeks back how some German spy in Paris was 
 writin love letters to some woman spy in Switzerland who 
 sent em on to Berlin, Germany. To read em you wouldn t 
 s pect nothin just mush and all. (Impressively) But 
 they had a way o doin it a damn sneakin way. They 
 had a piece o plain paper with pieces cut out of it an when 
 they puts it on top o the letter they sees on y the words 
 what tells them what they wants to know. An the French- 
 ies gets beat in a fight all on account o that letter. 
 
IN THE ZONE 197 
 
 COCKY (awed). Gawd blimey ! They ain t arf smart bleed 
 ers ! 
 
 DAVIS (seeing his audience is again all with him}. An even 
 if these letters of his do sound all right they may have 
 what they calls a code. You can t never tell. (To Dris- 
 coll who has finished untying the packet) Read one of 
 em, Drisc. My eyes is weak. 
 
 DRISCOLL (takes the first one out of its envelope and bends down 
 to the lantern with it. He turns up the wick to give him a bet 
 ter light). I m no hand to be readin , but I ll try ut. 
 [Again there is a muffled groan from Smitty as he strains at 
 his bonds. 
 
 DAVIS (gloatingly). Listen to him! He knows. Go ahead, 
 Drisc ! 
 
 DRISCOLL (his brow furrowed with concentration) . Ut begins : 
 "Dearest Man (His eyes travel down the page) An 
 thin there s a lot av blarney tellin him how much she 
 misses him now she s gone away to singin school an 
 how she hopes he ll settle down to rale worrk an not be 
 skylarkin around now that she s away, loike he used to 
 before she met up wid him and ut ends : "I love you 
 betther than anythin in the worrld. You know that, 
 don t you, dear? But b fore I can agree to live out my 
 life wid you, you must prove to me that the black shadow 
 I won t menshun its hateful name, but you know 
 what I mean which might wreck both our lives, does 
 not exist for you. You can do that, can t you, dear? 
 Don t you see you must, for my sake ? " (He pauses for 
 a moment then adds gruffly) Ut s signed : Edith. 
 [At the sound of the name Smitty, who has stood tensely with 
 his eyes shut as if he were undergoing torture during the read 
 ing, makes a muffled sound like a sob and half turns his face 
 to the wall. 
 
 YANK (sympathetically) . Hell ! What s the use of readin 
 that stuff even if 
 
 DAVIS (interrupting him sharply) . Wait ! Where s that 
 letter from, Drisc? 
 
198 IN THE ZONE 
 
 DRISCOLL. There s no address on the top av ut. 
 
 DAVIS (meaningly). What d I tell you? Look at the post 
 mark, Drisc, on the envelope. 
 
 DRISCOLL. The name that s written is Sidney Davidson, 
 wan hunderd an* 
 
 DAVIS. Never mind that. O corse it s a false name. Look 
 at the postmark. 
 
 DRISCOLL. There s a furrin stamp on ut by the looks av ut. 
 The mark s blurred so it s hard to read. (He spells it out 
 laboriously) B-e-r-, the nixt is an 1, 1 think, i an an n. 
 
 DAVIS (excitedly). Berlin! What did I tell you? I knew 
 them letters was from Germany. 
 
 COCKY (shaking his fist in Smitty s direction). Rotten ound ! 
 [The others look at Smitty as if this last fact had utterly con 
 demned him in their eyes. 
 
 DAVIS. Give me the letter, Drisc. Maybe I kin make some- 
 thin out of it. (Driscoll hands the letter to him) You go 
 through the others, Drisc, and sing out if you sees anythin 
 queer. 
 
 [He bends over the first letter as if he were determined to figure 
 out its secret meaning. Yank, Cocky, and Scotty look over his 
 shoulder with eager curiosity. Driscoll takes out some of the 
 other letters, running his eyes quickly down the pages. He 
 looks curiously over at Smitty from time to time, and sighs 
 frequently with a puzzled frown. 
 
 DAVIS (disappointedly). I gottergive it up. It s too deep 
 for me, but we ll turn em over to the perlice when we 
 docks at Liverpool, to look through. This one I got was 
 written a year before the war started, anyway. Find 
 anythin in yours, Drisc ? 
 
 DRISCOLL. They re all the same as the first lovin blarney, 
 an how her singin is doin , an* the grreat things the Dutch 
 teacher says about her voice, an how glad she is that her 
 Sidney bye is worrkin harrd an makin a man av himself 
 for her sake. 
 [Smitty turns his face completely to the wall. 
 
 DAVIS (disgustedly). If we on y had the code! 
 
IN THE ZONE 199 
 
 DRISCOLL (taking up the bottom letter) . Hullo ! Here s wan 
 addressed to this ship S.S. Glencairn, ut says whin 
 we was in Cape Town sivin months ago. (Looking at the 
 postmark) Ut s from London. 
 
 DAVIS (eagerly) . Read it ! 
 
 [There is another choking groan from Smitty. 
 
 DRISCOLL (reads slowly his voice becomes lower and lower as 
 he goes on) . Ut begins wid simply the name Sidney David 
 son no dearest or swaetheart to this wan. "Ut is only 
 from your chance meetin wid Harry whin you were 
 drunk that I happen to know where to reach you. So 
 you have run away to sea loike the coward you are, be 
 cause you knew I had found out the truth the truth you 
 have covered over wid your mean little lies all the time I 
 was away in Berlin and blindly trusted you. Very well, 
 you have chosen. You have shown that your drunkenness 
 means more to you than any love or faith av mine. I am 
 sorry for I loved you, Sidney Davidson but this is 
 the end. I lave you the mem ries ; an if ut is any 
 satisfaction to you I lave you the real-i-zation that you 
 have wrecked my loife as you have wrecked your own. My 
 one remainin hope is that nivir in God s worrld will I 
 ivir see your face again. Good-by, Edith." 
 [As he finishes there is a deep silence, broken only by Smitty s 
 muffled sobbing. The men cannot look at each other. Driscoll 
 holds the rubber bag limply in his hand and some small 
 white object falls out of it and drops noiselessly on the floor . 
 Mechanically Driscoll leans over and picks it up, and looks at 
 it wonderingly. 
 
 DAVIS (in a dull voice). What s that ? 
 
 DRISCOLL (slowly). A bit av a dried-up flower, a rose, 
 maybe. 
 
 [He drops it into the bag and gathers up the letters and puts 
 them back. He replaces the bag in the box, and locks it and 
 puts it back in under Smitty s mattress. The others follow 
 him with their eyes. He steps softly over to Smitty and cuts 
 the ropes about his arms and ankles with his sheath knife, 
 
200 IN THE ZONE 
 
 and unties the handkerchief over the gag. Smitty does not 
 turn around, but covers his face with his hands and leans his 
 head against the wall. His shoulders continue to heave 
 spasmodically, but he makes no further sound. 
 DRISCOLL (stalks back to the others there is a moment of silence 
 in which each man is in agony with the hopelessness of finding 
 a word he can say then Driscoll explodes) . God stiffen us, 
 are we never goin* to turn in fur a wink av sleep ? 
 [They all start as if awakening from a bad dream and grate 
 fully crawl into their bunks, shoes and all, turning their faces 
 to the wall, and pulling their blankets up over their shoulders. 
 Scotty tiptoes past Smitty out into the darkness. Driscoll 
 turns down the lights and crawls into his bunk as 
 
 THE CURTAIN FALLS 
 
THE BRINK OF SILENCE 
 
 ESTHER E. GALBRAITH 
 
 Miss ESTHER E. GALBRAITH was born July 20, 1893, in 
 Washington, D. C. She graduated from George Washington 
 University, where she received the degree of A.B. She has 
 written for the newspapers, and editorially for various mag 
 azines. While in college she had some of her plays produced. 
 
 "The Brink of Silence" was written as an assignment to a 
 playwriting group under the direction of The Drama League 
 Players of Washington, each member of which was to de 
 velop the Enoch Arden situation in some new and original 
 form. "The Brink of Silence" was chosen as the best of 
 the group. It was produced later by The Drama League 
 Players with great success. 
 
THE BRINK OF SILENCE 
 
 BY ESTHER E. GALBRAITH 
 
"The Brink of Silence" was originally produced by The 
 Drama League Players of Washington, D.C., at the Wilson 
 Normal School, April 17, 1917. 
 
 Original Cast 
 
 COLE G. A. Lyon 
 
 MACREADY Frederic B. W T right 
 
 DARTON Ralph Hayes 
 
 JOHNSON Edwin Ludwig 
 
 Scene designed by Alice E. Edwards 
 
 All rights reserved. 
 
 Application for the right of performing "The Brink of Silence" must be made 
 to Miss Esther Galbraith, 3425 Fourteenth St., N. E., Washington, D. C. 
 
THE BRINK OF SILENCE 
 
 SCENE. The scene is inside a log house on a rocky island fat 
 down in the Antarctic. There is an outer door at the back; no 
 windows; down right an inner door to another room. There is 
 a bunk against the left wall; an oil stove burning, down left; a 
 rough table at the center. There is one chair and a box which 
 serves as one. The room is entirely bare of ornament; there are 
 Si few battered books and magazines piled on a packing box which 
 has been improvised for a cupboard in the corner, up right. 
 Cole is seated at the table playing solitaire in the light of an oil 
 lamp. Macready is pacing slowly at the back of the room. 
 Both men wear heavy sweaters and boots. Fur coats and gloves 
 are hung on the wall. Neither speaks for a minute after the 
 curtain rises. 
 
 MACREADY. For God s sake, Cole say something ! Any 
 thing to break this damned quiet. God, I d like to go 
 
 home this winter, wouldn t you ! 
 COLE. England isn t home. No, I m here for a few more 
 
 seasons in this nest of blizzards and I ll see it through. 
 MAC. It isn t too late for the boat to make another trip 
 
 with supplies. 
 COLE. We ve enough to last if she doesn t come before the 
 
 force gets here next summer. 
 MAC. If she does come, I m going back with her and so are 
 
 you. 
 
 COLE. Nope. 
 MAC. Aw nobody cares whether we spend the winter 
 
 here or not. Nothing would be said one way or the other. 
 COLE. Well, you go ahead. There ll be that much more 
 
 tobacco for me. 
 
206 THE BRINK OF SILENCE 
 
 MAC. Go and leave you alone? Suppose you got sick 
 here by yourself. 
 
 COLE. I haven t been sick in the past eight years. 
 
 MAC. But we need to get out. We need to see civilization 
 again. We ll be a pair of savages soon. 
 
 COLE. We don t belong to a race that goes down-hill be 
 cause the climate s hot or cold, nor from living six hundred 
 miles from the nearest human. You know that as well as 
 I do. 
 
 MAC. You couldn t stand the silence, Cole. 
 
 COLE. I don t mind it ; I ve stood it a long time. 
 
 MAC. I ve had two years of it, and it s all I want. I want 
 to see cities and men and women and children. I ve 
 got two little nephews in Manchester. One s nine and the 
 other s twelve. I d give the world to see them to-night. 
 You re a queer one not wanting to go back. 
 
 COLE (after a pause). Mac, I can t go back. 
 
 MAC (staring at him). I don t believe it. 
 
 COLE. Did you ever hear of the Darton expedition ? 
 
 MAC. Think I did Sir Gilbert Darton about ten 
 years ago. Seems to me They never came back, did 
 they? 
 
 COLE. The expedition never came back. I am Darton ! 
 
 MAC. Sir Gilbert Darton? 
 
 COLE. Yes. I lost my ship that was the first of a 
 series of disasters. Two injuries to men tied us up. Our 
 small boats were useless because of ice conditions and our 
 food was nearly gone before five of us were able to get off 
 to try to reach help. We made progress for a few days 
 and then a blizzard that would make ten of yesterday s 
 storm struck us. We d had little to eat and were too weak 
 to handle the boat. It was simply dashed ashore on the 
 rocky side of this island. I got through alive ; no one 
 else did. Lauter was here then and he found me. He 
 didn t know who I was. It was six months before a whaler 
 touched. I learned that the relief expedition had reached 
 the men we were trying to save too late. I went out 
 
THE BRINK OF SILENCE 207 
 
 with the whaler to Buenos Aires, to a hospital. Months 
 later when I recovered, I learned that the Darton ex 
 pedition had been given up as a total tragedy. And I 
 learned that my own place had closed up ; that I was a 
 living dead man. 
 
 MAC. What do you mean ? 
 
 COLE. I read in a London paper that Lady Darton was to 
 be married married to a man named Carruthers. 
 
 MAC. And you didn t ? 
 
 COLE. No one ever knew. I took the name of Ernest Cole 
 and came back here to stay. 
 
 MAC. So that s it. 
 
 COLE. It seemed only justice. I had asked a beautiful, 
 wilful woman to give up the best years of her life to wait 
 ing and loneliness, with an ugly fear always hovering over 
 her heart. That s the portion of an explorer s wife. And 
 I had no right to come back a broken failure and 
 stand between her and happiness. I made my decision, 
 but I had to fight the impulse to claim my own. 
 
 MAC. Were there any children ? 
 
 COLE. A son. He was sixteen when I saw him last. I had 
 planned to take him out with me on my next trip. I d 
 dreamed of months of comradeship that would make up 
 for the years we d spent apart. I thought perhaps he d 
 become an explorer and go on with my work. But his 
 mother s happiness was at stake. I couldn t interfere. 
 God, how I wanted to see the boy ! 
 
 MAC, And haven t you seen him since? 
 
 COLE. No. I couldn t go back. I might have been recog 
 nized. The fear of that drove me back back here. 
 Lauter was gone and I took his place at this station. 
 
 MAC. It s all wrong, Cole. You re too big a man to throw 
 yourself away like this. You re wrong. 
 
 COLE. There was nothing else to do. I ve left them 
 a memory they can t be ashamed of. I seldom think of 
 England now. The distance, the stillness help me to 
 forget. It s only the thought of my work the work that 
 
208 THE BRINK OF SILENCE 
 
 was my life that other men are carrying on. It gnaws 
 and gnaws God ! It s worse than hunger ! 
 
 MAC. Time makes a lot of difference. Things might be 
 changed in England. You might find a way to go back. 
 If not it s a big world. You could go to America and 
 perhaps take up your work. 
 
 COLE. I could never take up my work. Sooner or later I 
 would come in contact with men who would recognize 
 me. 
 
 MAC. I wish you d get out of this with me. 
 
 COLE. Don t worry about me, Mac. What s the use! The 
 only place I have now is here in^ the frozen wilder 
 ness, with my dream of conquering it that I can never 
 make real. And some day I ll learn that Remensen or 
 Courcelle has made the trip. 
 
 MAC. You ought to get out of this. 
 
 COLE (breaking out) . I ought to have drowned out there with 
 my men ten years ago. 
 
 MAC. There, you see. It s this damn silence makes you 
 say things like that. 
 
 COLE. But the silence would always call me back. 
 
 [Macready can think of no more arguments. For a moment 
 neither speaks. Mac gets a book, brings it down near the 
 lamp and begins to read. 
 
 MAC. I think they ll send the whaler down. It isn t often 
 she could make the trip this late. Been a queer season, 
 hasn t it ? 
 
 COLE. There hasn t been a season like it for years. I never 
 saw one like it. We ought to have been frozen in tight two 
 weeks ago. 
 
 MAC. It s pretty solid just south, I think. Yesterday s 
 storm looked like winter, sure enough. 
 
 COLE. With a season like this I could have made it. The 
 best summer I ve ever seen. It s a big dream, Mac, cross 
 ing the end of the earth through that stark desolation 
 and this was the year the right man could have done it. 
 
 DARTON S VOICE (some distance outside). Hallo ! Hallo, there. 
 
THE BRINK OF SILENCE 209 
 
 COLE. What s that ! ! 
 [Both start to the door. 
 
 MAC (opening door). Two men. One s hurt or frozen. 
 
 [Darton and Johnson appear at the door. Both are under 
 thirty. Darton s dress and equipment are in good condition 
 and, in spite of the awkwardness of fur garments, he is fine 
 looking. Johnson has his ar*n. over Darton s shoulder and the 
 latter is practically carrying him. There is a bleeding cut 
 in his forehead and he is rather ragged. 
 
 COLE. What s wrong. 
 
 DARTON (coming in). Nothing much, I guess. Bad landing 
 over there. He was knocked down and got a nasty cut. 
 [Mac -tfcpy to Johnsons side ant? they gel /,/>> rm the bunk. 
 
 COLE" (hurrying into the other room}. W r e can fix him up. 
 [Darton is taking off Johnson s hood. There is a short cry 
 of pain. 
 
 DARTON. Sorry, old man. Is that better ? 
 
 MAC. Better leave your partner to Cole. He s quite a doctor. 
 
 COLE (reenters, carrying a tin box and bandage). I ll put on 
 the bandage. Have something warm. 
 [Darton takes off his gloves and Macready hands him a cup 
 of steaming broth from the pot on the stove. 
 
 DARTON (takes it, smiles and impulsively extends his hand). 
 Thanks. This is great. 
 
 MAC (shaking hands) . How d you get here ? 
 
 DARTON. I came down in the Pathfinder to bring out a party 
 we left last year. Johnson was one of them. We located 
 them but couldn t take the ship in, so ten of us went in 
 boats. Got them all out, but yesterday s storm drove us 
 away from the Pathfinder, and we landed on the other side 
 of the island. Rest of our people are making camp until 
 the ship picks us up. 
 
 COLE. This is Parker s Island. 
 
 DARTON. Yes. We located ourselves after landing. Didn t 
 know there was a settlement. Saw your light and brought 
 Johnson across. He was pretty badly done up before his 
 accident. His party s had a hell of a time since last year. 
 
210 THE BRINK OF SILENCE 
 
 _ _ _,...... . , r ,_ N , .-__, ! -,-, _^ 
 
 We didn t reach them much too soon. You here all 
 alone ? 
 
 MAC. The company sends a force down during the season 
 to get penguin and whale oil; the rest of the time we re 
 alone. No other ships touch here. 
 
 DARTON. Been at it long? 
 
 MAC. Cole s been at it eight years. I ve only been here two. 
 
 DARTON. Isn t it pretty close to the edge ? 
 
 MAC. It is the edge ! 
 
 DARTON (half to himself) . The brink of silence. 
 
 COLE (coming toward him) . That s my name for it t|ie 
 great white silence. 
 
 DARTON. A man can t forget the Antarctic. The crude 
 flaming color of the sunrise the blue of the moon on the 
 great white reaches in the long night, and the weird bright 
 curtains of the Aurora once he s seen them he never 
 forgets. 
 
 COLE. But it s the silence that brings him back. There s 
 none of the muddled, squirming turmoil of life out here. 
 Just the infinite patience of nature, waiting in endless sus 
 pense silent. You seem always very close to the answer. 
 
 MAC. The answer? What are you talking about, Cole? 
 
 COLE (to Darton). Macready s a Presbyterian. 
 
 MAC. What s that got to do with it ? 
 
 COLE. Nothing whatever. 
 
 DARTON (smiling, turns to the stove and throws of his hood). 
 (To Cole) 
 
 You ve been further out? 
 [As Cole hesitates, Johnson stirs and tries to sit up. 
 
 JOHNSON. Darton, are you there ? Darton ! 
 
 [Cole starts violently. His expression is mingled amaze 
 ment and fear, and he stands as if at bay, staring at them. 
 Then as Darton steps to the bunk, he understands. 
 
 DARTON. Lie down, Johnson. It s all right. 
 
 JOHNSON. I thought for a minute I was back in the hut 
 that you hadn t come for us. 
 [His voice is thick and he stammers a little. 
 
THE BRINK OF SILENCE 211 
 
 DARTON. Of course, it s me. Are you cold? 
 
 JOHNSON. Nearly frozen. Can t you give me something to 
 
 eat now? 
 
 [Macready fills a cup. 
 DARTON. Yes, you can have a lot to eat now. Just had to 
 
 be careful at first, you know. 
 
 [He fiands the cup to Johnson,, who, instead of taking it, 
 
 clutches his arm. 
 
 JOHNSON. And you have come, Darton ? 
 DARTON. Of course I have, you big fool. Drink some of 
 
 this now. 
 
 [Cole remains at the window, some distance from the light. 
 
 When he speaks, it is in a strained i\>lce which he tries to 
 
 make natural. 
 
 COLE. Were you trying to make the trip across ? 
 DARTON. Yes. It s the fourth attempt. 
 MAC. Yours ? 
 DARTON. No. My father made the first. You probably 
 
 heard of the Darton expedition about ten years ago 
 MAC (quickly}. Yes, I heard of it. 
 DARTON. He didn t make it and he never got back. Two 
 
 others have tried it since Remensen and Courcelle. 
 COLE. And they 
 DARTON. They had to turn back. We ve had a good season, 
 
 and luck, too, I guess. Anyhow, we did it. 
 COLE. Do you mean ? 
 
 DARTON. We came out at Ross Sea last month. We d sep 
 arated from Johnson s party on this side and hurried over 
 
 to pick them up. Thought something might be wrong, 
 
 and something was. Soon after we left they were caught 
 
 in the nips, drifted for weeks, and finally their ship was 
 
 crushed by the grinding. 
 COLE. You must have come out in fine shape to be here 
 
 already. 
 
 DARTON. We did. Every man ! 
 COLE. And who s your leader ? 
 DARTON. I am 
 
THE BRINK OF SILENCE 
 
 COLE (comes back to him and starts to put his hand on his 
 
 shoulder, then stops) . That s wonderful ! 
 BARTON. It s great of you to understand. 
 COLE. I do understand. You went through that bleak fury 
 
 and came out safe. You made it ! You won ! 
 MAC. It s a queer thing. 
 DARTON. I suppose it is. The spirit of the men who have 
 
 faced it and fought it and died in it seems to draw you on. 
 
 I think that s why I finished my father s job. (There is a 
 
 sound of distant cheering) Listen, that means they ve 
 
 sighted the Pathfinder. I ll have to get back. I m afraid 
 
 Johnson can t travel yet 
 MAC. Can t you leave him here for a while ? 
 DARTON. Thanks. He needs to sleep. I ll be busy and 
 
 I won t get back, but I ll send some one across in half an 
 
 hour. 
 
 MAC. I d like to see the party. Can t I come over with him ? 
 COLE. And if the Pathfinder will take a passenger north 
 DARTON. Yourself? Glad to. 
 COLE. No. Macready was planning to go back if the 
 
 company s ship came down. I m staying. 
 DARTON (to Macready). I ll expect you. (To Cole) Good- 
 
 by, Mr. Cole. 
 COLE. Good-by, my boy. 
 
 [Stands at the door looking after him. 
 MAC. Your son ! 
 COLE. Yes. 
 
 MAC. Are you going to let him go like that ? 
 COLE. Yes. After all, my work is done and my boy 
 
 did it. 
 MAC. Aw it s all wrong. Why 
 
 [But Cole does not hear him. 
 COLE (sits down at the table and slowly takes up the pack of cards). 
 
 Wasn t it funny, Mac. He called me Mr. Cole ! 
 
 CURTAIN 
 
ALLISON S LAD 
 
 BEULAH MARIE DIX 
 
 Miss BEULAH MARIE DIX graduated from Radcliffe, and 
 there received her A.M. degree. Immediately after, she 
 began to write novels, juveniles, stories, and a group of plays 
 in collaboration with Evelyn Greenleaf Sutherland. This 
 group was followed later by a collection of her own plays. 
 Miss Dix (or Mrs. Flebbe, as she is known in private life) 
 is now writing picture plays in California. 
 
 Her publications are many and various. Juveniles: 
 "Hugh Gwyeth", "Soldier Rigdale", "A Little Captive 
 Lad", "Merrylips", "Friends in the End", "Betty Bide at 
 Home", "Blithe McBride", "Kay Danforth s Camp." 
 Novels: "The Making of Christopher Ferringham", "The 
 Beau s Comedy" (in collaboration with C. A. Harper), 
 "Blount of Breckenhow", "The Fair Maid of Graystones", 
 "The Gate of Horn", "Little God Ebisu", "The Fighting 
 Blade", "Mother s Son", "Maid Melicent", "The Battle 
 Months of George Daurella." Plays: "Allison s Lad", 
 "Across the Border", "Moloch." In addition, Miss Dix 
 has contributed various short stories to the magazines. 
 
 The plays written in collaboration with Evelyn Greenleaf 
 Sutherland have had wide production. In "A Rose o Plym 
 outh Town" Miss Minnie Dupree starred during 1902-1903, 
 with Guy Bates Post as her leading man and Douglas Fair 
 banks as the "juvenile." This was Mr. Fairbanks intro 
 duction to Broadway. "The Breed of the Treshams" was 
 first produced in England in 1903 by Mr. Martin Harvey. A 
 
214 ALLISON S LAD 
 
 "second company" played it in the provinces for a time, and 
 it has been toured successfully in South Africa and Australia. 
 "Boy O Carroll", first used by Mr. Harvey in 1906, was re 
 vived by him this autumn. Miss Dix s "The Road to Yester 
 day " was a great New York success. In addition, Miss Dix 
 was a collaborator on "Matt of Merrymount", produced by 
 Fred Terry and Julia Neilson, 1907-1908, "The Lilac Room", 
 Miss* Amelia Bingham s starring vehicle, 1906-1907, and 
 "Young Fernald", produced in this country by Henry Miller 
 and Margaret Anglin, 1906. 
 
 Of the plays of which she is the sole author, "Across the 
 Border" was produced by Holbrook Blinn at the Princess 
 Theater in the fall of 1914, and "Moloch" by Mr. Blinn and 
 Mr. George Tyler in 1915. 
 
 Her best-known one-act play is "Across the Border", but 
 it is a "freak" form (four short acts, playing nearly an hour) 
 and not a genuine specimen of the one-act type. It was 
 very successful at the Princess Theater, and it has since 
 been reproduced at the Toy Theater in Boston, in San Fran 
 cisco, and elsewhere. Her "Legend of St. Nicholas", an 
 imitation of the old Miracle Play, was produced at the Toy 
 Theater in Boston in 1913 and has since been published in 
 Poet Lore. Her first one-act play, "Ciceley s Cavalier", 
 was written while she was still an undergraduate and was 
 acted in the college theatre. This play has since been pub 
 lished. Miss Dix s other early one-act plays are: "Apples 
 of Eden" and "At the Sign of the Buff Bible." 
 
ALLISON S LAD 
 
 BY BEULAH MARIE DIX 
 
"Allison s Lad" was originally produced by the American 
 Academy of Dramatic Arts at the Carnegie Lyceum, New 
 York, on December 23, 1910. 
 
 Original Cast 
 
 COL. SIR WILLIAM STRICKLAND . . . Abner W. Cassidy 
 CAPTAIN GEORGE BOWYER .... James W. Mott 
 LIEUTENANT ROBERT GORING . . . Gerald Quina 
 
 Of the Cavalier Party 
 
 FRANCIS HOPTON Sidney K. Powell 
 
 TOM WINWOOD Donald Macdonald 
 
 Gentlemen Volunteers 
 
 COL. JOHN DRUMMOND of the Roundhead 
 
 Party LeRoy Clemens 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1910, BY HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY. 
 
 All rights reserved. 
 
 Reprinted from "Allison s Lad and other Martial Interludes" by permission of, and 
 special arrangement with, Beulah Marie Dix and Henry Holt and Company. 
 
 Application for the right of performing "Allison s Lad" must be made to Beulah 
 Marie Dir, care of Henry Holt and Company. 
 
ALLISON S LAD 
 
 SCENE. The village of Faringford, in the western midlands 
 of England. 
 
 PERIOD. The dose of the Second Civil War, autumn 1648. 
 
 It is midnight of a cheerless autumn day, with a drizzle of 
 slow rain. In an upper chamber of the village inn of Faring 
 ford, lit by guttering candles and a low fire that smolders on the 
 hearth, are gathered five gentlemen of the Cavalier party, made 
 prisoners that morning in a disastrous skirmish. 
 
 In a great arm-chair by the hearth, at stage left, sits their 
 leader, Sir William Strickland. He is a tall, keen man of 
 middle age, of the finest type of his party, a gallant officer and a 
 high-souled gentleman. He has received a dangerous wound 
 in the side, which has been but hastily dressed, and he now leans 
 heavily in his chair, with eyes closed, almost oblivious of what 
 goes on about him. 
 
 His captain, and friend of long standing, George Bowyer, a 
 sanguine, stalwart gentleman of Strickland s own years, has 
 planted himself in the center of the room, where he is philo 
 sophically smoking at a long pipe, while he watches the play at 
 the rude table, which stands at the stage right. 
 
 Round the table, on rough stools, Goring, Hopton, and Win- 
 wood sit. dicing and smoking, with a jug of ale between them for 
 the cheering of their captivity. Goring is a swaggering young 
 soldier of fortune; Hopton, a gentleman of the Temple, turned 
 soldier, with something of the city fop still to be traced in his 
 bearing. He has been wounded, and bears about his forehead 
 a blood-flecked bandage. Winwood, the third gamester, is a 
 mere lad of seventeen, smoothfaced, comely, with a gallant car 
 riage. 
 
218 ALLISON S LAD 
 
 // is to be noted that the men play but half-heartedly. In 
 deed, the cheerlessness of the midnight hour, in the dim chamber, 
 with the rain tapping on the mullioned windows, may well bring 
 home to them the dubiousness of their captive state and set them 
 to anxious question of what the dawn may have in store. Goring, 
 of the three the most hardened and professionally a soldier, 
 is the first to speak, as he throws the dice. 
 GORING. Cinq and tray ! 
 WINWOOD. The main is yours, Rob Goring. 
 GORING. That s a brace of angles you owe me, Frank Hop- 
 ton. 
 HOPTON. Go ask them of the scurvy Roundhead had the 
 
 stripping of my pockets. 
 BOWYER (with the good-humored contempt of the professional 
 
 for the amateur). The more fool you to bear gold about 
 
 you when you ride into a fight ! 
 WINWOOD. A devil fly off with the money ! The rebels have 
 
 taken my horse a plague rot them ! 
 GORING. Faith, I d care not, if the prick-eared brethren had 
 
 not got me, and got me fast. Tis your throw, Tom 
 
 Winwood. 
 
 [Winwood takes the dice-box, but pauses, anxiously awaiting 
 
 an answer to Hopton s next question. 
 HOPTON. What think you, Captain Bowyer. Are they like 
 
 to admit us speedily to ransom? 
 
 [Bowyer shakes his head, smiling, half indifferent. 
 GORING. You re swift to grumble, Frank. You ve not been 
 
 yet ten hours a prisoner. Throw, Tom, a wildfire burn 
 
 you! 
 
 WINWOOD. There, then ! And vengeance profitable gam 
 ing ! We can t muster four farthings amongst us. 
 GORING. Curse it, man, we play for love and sport ! I ve 
 
 never yet had enough of casting the dice. Look you, 
 
 (casts the dice) I better you by three. 
 WINWOOD. On my life, no ! I threw a tray and quatre. 
 GORING. Go to with your jesting ! You mean a tray and 
 
 deuce. 
 
ALLISON S LAD 219 
 
 WINWOOD. Tray and quatre I threw. 
 
 GORING (starts to his feet, with his hand leaping to draw the 
 
 sword which, as a prisoner, he no longer wears). Will you 
 
 give me the lie in my teeth ? 
 WINWOOD (pluckily springs to his feet, with the same impulse) . 
 
 Aye, if you say I threw 
 
 [At the sound of the angry voices and of the stools thrust back, 
 
 Strickland opens his eyes and glances toward the brawlers. 
 BOWYER (laying a heavy hand upon a shoulder of each) . Hold 
 
 your tongues, you shuttle-headed fools ! 
 
 [Thrusts Goring down into his seat. 
 HOPTON. You ll rouse the Colonel, and he ill and wounded. 
 
 Sit you down again ! 
 WINWOOD (dropping sullenly into his place). Yet twas a 
 
 tray and quatre. 
 GORING. Frank, you saw the cast. A tray and deuce, and 
 
 I will so maintain it. 
 
 [The three at table talk heatedly in dumb-show, Hopton play 
 ing the peace-maker, until at last he wins the disputants to 
 
 shake hands. Meantime Bowyer has gone anxiously to 
 
 Strickland s side. 
 BOWYER. How is it with you, Will, old lad ? Your wound 
 
 is easier? 
 
 STRICKLAND. My wound ? Tis nothing, I tell you. 
 BOWYER. Why, then, take heart! Matters might well be 
 
 worse. 
 
 [He takes a candle from the chimneypiece, and relights his 
 
 pipe. 
 
 STRICKLAND. Cold comfort, George ! 
 BOWYER. We are defeated, prisoners, yes, I grant you. Yet 
 
 we have fought our best. And for the future by this 
 
 light, our enemies have used us handsomely so far ! No 
 
 doubt they ll speedily accept of ransom. 
 STRICKLAND (with eyes fixed on Winwood). From my heart 
 
 I hope so ! 
 BOWYER. Aye, to be taken thus in his first fight, tis pity 
 
 for little Tom Winwood. 
 
ALLISON S LAD 
 
 STRICKLAND. You say 
 
 BOWYKR. Tis of the lad yonder that you are thinking. 
 
 STRICKLAND. Yes. I was thinking of Allison s lad. 
 
 [As the result of Hopton s persuasion., Winwood at that 
 moment is most heartily drinking a health to Goring. 
 
 BOWYER. My cousin Allison s boy. Look but upon him 
 now ! A half minute^agone he and Rob Goring were ready 
 to fly at each other s throats and now they drink good- 
 fellowship together. Faith, by times young Tom is 
 monstrous like unto his father. 
 
 STRICKLAND. Your pardon ! Tom is his mother s son, 
 Allison s lad, every inch of him every thought of him. 
 There s no taint of the father in the boy. 
 
 BOWYER. Yes. I wonder not that you speak thus of Jack 
 Winwood. Twas a damnable trick he served you. when 
 he won Allison from you with his false tales. 
 
 STRICKLAND. Aye, and well-nigh broke her heart thereafter 
 with his baseness. You stood beside me, George, there at 
 Edgehill, when we looked upon the death-wound in his 
 back! 
 
 BOWYER. Poor wretch ! Gallant enough at the charge, but 
 at two o clock in the morning he d no more courage than 
 
 STRICKLAND. He was a coward, and false from first to 
 last. 
 
 For God s sake, George, never say that boy is like his 
 father ! For his mother s sake 
 
 BOWYER. Aye, twould go near to killing Allison, should 
 Tom prove craven. 
 
 STRICKLAND. He ll never prove craven. He s his mother s 
 son. Let be, George ! I m in no mood for speech. 
 [Bowyer goes back to the table, where Winwood, in the last 
 minutes, has played with notable listlessness and indifference. 
 
 HOPTON. Tis your cast, Tom. 
 
 WINWOOD. Nay, but I m done ! 
 
 GORING. Will you give over? 
 
 WINWOOD. But for a moment. My pipe is out. 
 [Rises and goes to Strickland. 
 
ALLISON S LAD 
 
 HOPTON. Come, Captain! In good time! Bear a hand 
 
 with us. 
 
 [Bowyer sits in Winwood s place at table, and dices. 
 WINWOOD. You called me, sir ? 
 STRICKLAND. I did not call, but I was thinking of you. Sit 
 
 you down! 
 
 (Winwood sits on a stool at the opposite side of the hearth, and 
 
 cleans and fills his pipe) 
 
 I watched you to-day, Tom. You bore yourself fairly in 
 
 the fight. I was blithe to see it. 
 WINWOOD. God willing, you ll see better in the next fight, 
 
 sir. 
 STRICKLAND. Go to ! You did all that might be asked of 
 
 a youth for the first time under fire. 
 WINWOOD. Ah, but twas my second time under fire, sir. 
 STRICKLAND. Second time ? How s that, my boy ? 
 WINWOOD. Last June, faith, I was at Bletchingley when 
 
 we held the house four hours against the rebels, my school 
 
 fellow, Lord Bletchingley, and I, and the servants. I 
 
 came by a nick in the arm there. I still have the scar to 
 
 show. 
 
 [Rises eagerly, and puts back his sleeve to show the scar. 
 STRICKLAND (lightly). Twas right unfriendly of you, Tom, 
 
 to keep me so in the dark, touching your exploits. 
 WINWOOD (half embarrassed with the sense of having said too 
 
 much, turns from Strickland and lights his pipe with the 
 
 candle that he takes from the chimney-piece). Truth sir, I 
 
 was shamed to speak to you of Bletchingley. 
 STRICKLAND. Shamed ? What do you talk of ? 
 WINWOOD. Why, our fight at Bletchingley, it must seem 
 
 mere child s play unto you, a tried soldier, my father s 
 
 old comrade. 
 
 [He.speaks the word "father" with all the proper pride thai 
 
 a son should show. 
 STRICKLAND. But your mother. She would have been 
 
 proud to know that you had borne you well in the fight. 
 
 You should have told her, Tom. 
 
ALLISON S LAD 
 
 WINWOOD (in swift alarm). Told my mother? Why, sir, 
 she she would have been troubled. Perchance she 
 would not have heard to my going out for the King with 
 you, because of Bletchingley. 
 STRICKLAND. Why because of Bletchingley ? 
 WINWOOD. Why? Well, you see, sir sure, twas there 
 I had this wound. 
 
 [Reseats himself on the stool opposite Strickland. 
 STRICKLAND. And for that you think she would have kept 
 you from the field ? Lad, you do not altogether know your 
 mother. 
 
 [Bowyer, at the end of a talk in dumb-show with Goring and 
 Hopton, has risen, and now goes out at the single door, wide 
 and heavy, that leads from the chamber center lack to the 
 outer corridor. At the sound of the closing of the door, 
 Strickland starts. 
 What was that ? 
 
 GORING (rises and salutes). Twas Captain Bowyer, sir, 
 went into the outer room to speak with the sentries. 
 [Reseats himself. 
 HOPTON. Heaven send he get them to talk ! I d fain know 
 
 what s to become of us. 
 
 GORING (stretching himself). Go sleep, like a wise man, and 
 cease your fretting ! 
 
 [He presently rests his head on his folded arms, which he 
 places on the table, and goes to sleep. 
 
 STRICKLAND. Sound advice, Tom ! You were best take it. 
 
 WINWOOD (smoking throughout). Sleep? How can I, sir? 
 
 I would it were day. I hate this odd and even time o* 
 
 night. What think you will come of us ? 
 
 STRICKLAND. What matters it, boy ? We have fought our 
 
 fight, and you bore yourself gallantly, Tom. 
 WINWOOD. Easy to do, sir, in the daylight, with your com 
 rades about you, but this this waiting in the dark ! 
 God ! I would it were day. At two in the morning I ve 
 no more courage than 
 STRICKLAND (in sharp terror). Tom ! Hold your peace. 
 
ALLISON S LAD 223 
 
 [Bowyer comes again into the room. H opt on springs eagerly 
 
 to his feet. 
 
 HOPTON. What news, Captain ? 
 
 BOWYER. Bad. They re quitting the village this same hour. 
 GORING. A retreat by night ? 
 
 [Rises and confers in dumb-show with Hopton. 
 BOWYER. Your wound cannot endure this hasty moving, 
 
 Will. In mere humanity they must let you rest here at 
 
 the inn. You ll give them your parole. 
 STRICKLAND. You ll talk to our captors of paroles, after so 
 
 many paroles have been broken by men that are a shame 
 
 unto our party ? 
 BOWYER. But you are known for a man of honor. And by 
 
 happy chance the colonel in command of these rebels has 
 
 come hither within the hour. He will listen to me. I knew 
 
 him of old one John Drummond. 
 WINWOOD. Drummond ! 
 
 [His hand clenches convulsively upon his pipe, which snaps 
 
 sharply under the pressure. 
 
 Colonel Drummond enters the room. He is a grave, stern 
 
 gentleman of middle age, in military dress, with cuirass, and 
 
 sword at side. Winwood, at his entrance, shifts his position 
 
 so that his back is toward him, and sits thus, with head bent 
 
 and hands tight clenched. 
 
 BOWYER. In good time, Colonel Drummond ! 
 DRUMMOND (throughout idth the fine dignity of a soldier and a 
 
 gentleman). I fear not, Captain. There are three of you 
 
 here in presence with whom I must have a word. (Seats 
 
 himself at table) Lieutenant Goring ! 
 GORING (loith some swagger). Well, sir? 
 DRUMMOND. At Raglan Castle you gave your promise never 
 
 again to bear arms against the Parliament. Now that you 
 
 are taken with arms in your hands, have you aught to 
 
 say in your defense ? 
 
 GORING. Before I gave that promise to your damned usurp 
 ing Parliament, I swore to serve the King. I keep the 
 
 earlier oath. 
 
224 ALLISON S LAD 
 
 DEUMMOND. And for that you will answer in this hour. 
 
 Now you, Mr. Hopton ! 
 BOWYER. Frank Hopton, too? 
 DRUMMOND. What defense is yours for your breach of 
 
 parole ? 
 HOPTON. It was forced from me. A forced promise, faith, 
 
 tis void in the courts of law. 
 
 DRUMMOND. It well may be, but not in a court of war. 
 STRICKLAND. George ! Did he say there were three had 
 
 broken faith? 
 DRUMMOND. And now for you, Thomas Winwood ! 
 
 [Winwood starts to his feet, but does not face Drummond. 
 BOWYER. Tom ! Not you ! 
 DRUMMOND. Last June at Bletchingley, you, sir, gave to 
 
 me personally your word of honor never again to take up 
 
 arms 
 STRICKLAND (rising, for the moment unwounded, with all his 
 
 strength] . Face that scoundrel ! Face him and tell him 
 
 that he lies ! 
 
 WINWOOD (unwillingly turns and faces Drummond, but stam 
 mers when he tries to speak) . I I 
 STRICKLAND. Speak out ! 
 DRUMMOND. Well, Mr. Winwood? 
 STRICKLAND. Answer ! The truth ! The truth ! Have you 
 
 broken your parole ? 
 WINWOOD (desperately at bay, with his back to the wall, his 
 
 comely young face for the moment the face of his coward and 
 
 trickster father). God s death! I ve done no more than 
 
 a hundred others have done. They ve not kept faith 
 
 with us, the cursed rebels. Why the fiend s name should 
 
 we keep faith with them? It was a forced promise. 
 
 And the King, I was fain to serve him, as my father served 
 
 him, like my father 
 STRICKLAND. Like your father ! (He staggers where he stands, 
 
 a wounded man, a sick man mortally sick at heart) Allison s 
 
 lad! 
 BOWYER (catching Strickland as he staggers). Will ! 
 
ALLISON S LAD 225 
 
 STRICKLAND (masters himself and stands erect) . Let be ! 
 Colonel Drummond, I ask your pardon for my words, a 
 moment since. I could not believe I could not be 
 lieve 
 
 (He sinks upon his chair) He is his father s son, George ! 
 His father s son ! 
 
 DRUMMOND. Come here, Winwood ! 
 
 (Heavily Winwood goes across the room and halts by the 
 table, but throughout he keeps his dazed and miserable eyes 
 on Strickland) 
 
 You realize well, the three of you, that by the breaking of 
 your paroles you have forfeited your lives unto the Par 
 liament. 
 
 HOPTON. Our lives ? You ve no warrant 
 
 DRUMMOND (laying his hand upon the hilt of his sword). I 
 have good warrant here. I was minded first to stand 
 the three of you against the wall in the court below and 
 have you shot, in the presence of your misguided followers. 
 
 ^BOWYER. Colonel Drummond, I do protest ! 
 
 DRUMMOND. You waste your words, sir. This hour I pur 
 pose to give a lesson to all the promise-breakers of your 
 party. 
 
 GORING. You purpose, then, to butcher us, all three ? 
 
 DRUMMOND. Your pardon ! Two of you I shall admit to 
 mercy. The third - 
 
 HOPTON. Well ! Which of us is to be the third ? 
 
 DRUMMOND. You may choose by lot which one of you shall 
 suffer. You have dice here. Throw, and he who throws 
 lowest 
 
 HOPTON (with a burst of half hysterical laughter). Heaven s 
 light, Rob, for once ye ll have enough of casting the dice ! 
 
 DRUMMOND. Winwood, you are the youngest. You shall 
 throw first. Winwood ! 
 [Winwood stands as if dazed, his eyes still on Strickland. 
 
 GORING. Are you gone deaf, Tom Winwood? 
 
 WINWOOD (thrusts out a groping hand) . I I Give me the 
 dice! 
 
226 ALLISON S LAD 
 
 HOPTON (putting the dice-box into Winwood s hand) . Here ! 
 
 Be quick ! 
 
 [A moment s pause, while Winwood, with twitching face, 
 
 shakes the box and shakes again. 
 GORING. For God s love, throw ! 
 WINWOOD (throws, uncovers dice, and averts his eyes). What 
 
 is it? 
 DRUMMOND. Seven is your cast. You, Hopton ! 
 
 [Feverishly Hopton snatches the box, shakes, and casts quickly. 
 
 Eleven ! 
 HOPTON (almost hysterically). God be thanked for good 
 
 luck ! God be thanked ! 
 GORING. Damn you ! Hold your tongue ! 
 
 [Hopton snatches a cup from the table and drinks thirstily. 
 
 Goring throws and holds dice for a moment covered. 
 
 It s between us now, Tom ! 
 WINWOOD (wiping his forehead with his sleeve). Yes. 
 
 [Goring uncovers the dice. 
 
 DRUMMOND. Eight ! 
 
 GORING (with a long breath of relief) . Ah ! 
 
 DRUMMOND (rising) . The lot has fallen upon you, Mr. Win- 
 wood. 
 
 WINWOOD. I am at your disposal, sir. 
 
 DRUMMOND. You have ten minutes in which to make you 
 ready. 
 
 GORING. Ten minutes ! 
 
 [Winwood sinks heavily into his old seat at table. Presently 
 he draws to him the dice and box, and mechanically throws 
 again and again. 
 
 BOWYER (intercepting Drummond, as he turns to leave the room). 
 You shall listen to me, Drummond. The boy s my kins 
 man. He 
 
 DRUMMOND. Stand aside, George Bowyer! 
 [He goes out of the room. 
 
 BOWYER (following Drummond out). Yet you shall listen! 
 7 Drummond ! Listen to me ! 
 
 HOPTON. But tis mere murder. Tis against all law. 
 
ALLISON S LAD 227 
 
 GORING. Will you prattle of law to Cromwell s men? 
 (Comes to table and lays a hand on Winwood s shoulder) 
 Tom, lad, I would we could help you. 
 
 WINWOOD. I ve thrown the double six twice. Tis mon 
 strous droll, eh, Rob ? Before I could throw no higher 
 than seven no higher than seven ! 
 
 [His voice rises higher and higher, and breaks into shrill 
 laughter. 
 
 GORING. Steady ! Steady, lad ! 
 
 [Strickland looks up, as if rousing from a trance. 
 
 HOPTON (hastly fills a cup and offers it to Winwood). Here, 
 Tom, dri^k this down. 
 
 WINWOOD (snatches the cup and starts to drink, but in the act 
 looks up and reads in his comrades faces the fear that is on 
 them, that he is about to disgrace the colors that he wears. 
 He sets down the cup) . You you think Will you 
 - leave me for these minutes ? A God s name, let 
 me be ! 
 
 [Hopton and Goring draw away to the window and stand 
 watching Winwood anxiously. He has taken up the dice- 
 box, and again is mechanically casting the dice. 
 
 HOPTON. How will he bear himself yonder ? 
 
 GORING. You mean 
 
 HOPTON. There in the courtyard, when they - 
 
 GORING. Speak lower ! 
 
 STRICKLAND (rises with effort, crosses, and lays his hand on 
 Winwood s shoulder) . Tom ! 
 
 WINWOOD (starting up, furiously). You re ashamed of me! 
 You re ashamed! Don t pity me! Let me be! Curse 
 you, let me be ! 
 
 STRICKLAND (sternly). Tom ! Look at me ! 
 
 WINWOOD (turns defiantly, meets Strickland s eyes, and des 
 perately clings to him). I can t! I can t! If they ll 
 wait till it s light but now in the ^ark Make 
 them wait till morning ! I can t bear it ! I x .-tm t bear it ! 
 
 STRICKLAND. Be still ! You must face it, and face it gal 
 lantly. 
 
228 ALLISON S LAD 
 
 WINWOOD (stands erect, fighting hard for self-control). Gal 
 lantly. Yes. My father he died for the King. I 
 mustn t disgrace him. I must bear myself as he would 
 have done. I 
 
 STRICKLAND. Don t speak of him ! Think on your mother. 
 
 WINWOOD. Must you tell her why they shot me ? She 
 would think of it of that broken promise as a woman 
 might. God s life ! Why will you judge me so ? My 
 father would have understood. 
 
 STRICKLAND. Yes. He would have understood you well. 
 
 WINWOOD. What do you mean ? I m a coward a promise 
 breaker. You think that. But my father he died for 
 the King. He 
 
 (In Strickland s face he reads that of which in all these years he 
 has been kept in ignorance) 
 How did my father die ? 
 
 STRICKLAND. Not now, Tom ! 
 [Bowyer comes again into the room. 
 
 WINWOOD (almost beside himself) . Answer me ! Answer me ! 
 Bowyer ! You re my cousin. Tell me the truth ! As 
 God sees us ! How did my father die ? How did my 
 father live? You won t answer? You ve lied! You ve 
 lied! All of you all these years! He was a coward. 
 You don t deny it ! A coward a false coward and 
 I m his son ! I m his son ! 
 
 [Sinks upon a stool, by the table, with face hidden, and breaks 
 into rending sobs. 
 
 BOWYER. Will ! Will ! You can bear no more. 
 
 STRICKLAND (shakes off Bowyer s arm and goes to Winwood). 
 Stand up! Stand up! You are your mother s son as 
 well as his ! 
 
 WINWOOD (rising blindly, as if Strickland s voice alone had 
 power to lift him). A coward! You see. Like him. And 
 there in the courtyard- Ah, God! I ll break! I ll 
 break ! 
 
 STRICKLAND. You will not. For her sake for her blood 
 that is in you Allison s lad ! 
 
ALLISON S LAD 
 
 WINWOOD (with slow comprehension). You loved her! 
 STRICKLAND. Yes. And love that part of her that is in 
 
 you. And know that you will bear you well unto the end. 
 WINWOOD. I ll I ll- It s not the death. It s not 
 
 that. It s the moment before the bullet God! 
 
 If I fail if I fail 
 STRICKLAND. You will not fail. 
 WINWOOD. You believe that? You can believe that of 
 
 me? 
 
 STRICKLAND. I believe that, Tom. 
 BOWTER. Will ! The ten minutes are ended. 
 STRICKLAND. So soon ! So soon ! 
 fiowYER. Drummond will suffer me be with him to the last. 
 
 Come, Tom, my lad ! 
 
 [Goes up, and from a chair beside the door takes a heavy 
 
 military cloak which shall thereafter serve as Winwood s 
 
 shroud. He holds it throughout so that Winwood may not 
 
 mark it. 
 WINWOOD (takes his hat, and turns to Goring and Hopton, 
 
 with a pitiful effort at jauntiness). God be wi you, boys ! 
 
 (Crosses, and holds out his hand to Strickland) Sir William ! 
 
 I ll try. But can t you help me ? Can t you help 
 
 me when 
 
 [Clings to Strickland s hand. 
 STRICKLAND. I can help you. You shall bear you as be 
 
 comes her son. 
 WINWOOD. Aye, sir. 
 
 STRICKLAND. And I shall know it, God keep you ! 
 WINWOOD (faces about, to Bowyer). I am ready, sir. (Goes 
 
 to door, and on the threshold wheels and stands at salute) You 
 
 shall have news of me, Sir William ! 
 
 [Winwood goes out, and Bowyer, with the cloak, follows after 
 
 him. 
 
 HOPTON. What did he mean ? 
 GORING. He ll die bravely, poor lad, I ll swear to that ! 
 
 [Strickland sways slightly where he stands. 
 
 Sir William ! You re near to swooning. Sit you down, sir. 
 
230 ALLISON S LAD 
 
 STRICKLAND. I pray you, gentlemen, for these moments do 
 
 not disturb me. 
 
 [Stands upon the hearth, erect, steady, and very still. 
 HOPTON. Truth, the man s made of stone. I thought he 
 
 had loved poor Winwood as his own son. 
 COKING. Quiet, will you ? 
 . [Removes his hat. 
 HOPTCN.* What 
 
 1 GORING. Think on what s happening in the courtyard, man ! 
 ; [A moment s pause, and then from below, in the rainy court 
 yard, is heard the report of a muffled volley^ 
 HOPTON. Hark ! 
 
 STRICKLAND (in an altered, remote voice) . Well done ! 
 GORING. Grant that he made a clean ending ! 
 * * STRICKLAND (turns slowly, with eyes fixed before him, and the 
 
 sudden smile of one who greets a friend) . Tom ! Well done, 
 
 Allison s lad ! 
 V [Pitches forward. 
 
 GORING (catching Strickland in his arms) . Sir William ! 
 
 Help here, Frank ! 
 
 [They place Strickland in his chair. Goring starts to loosen 
 
 his neck gear. Hopton kneels and lays his hand on Strick- 
 "**""* land s heart. On the moment Bowyer comes swiftly into the 
 
 room. 
 BOWYER. Will ! Will ! The lad died gallantly. He went 
 
 as if a strong arm were round him. 
 HOPTON (lets fall the hand that he has laid on Strickland s 
 
 heart. Speaks in an awe-struck voice). Perhaps ther^ was ! 
 GORING (rises erect from bending over Strickland) . Captain ! 
 
 Sir William - 
 
 [Bowyer catches the note in Goring *s voice, and removes his 
 
 hat, as he stands looking upon what he now knows to be the 
 
 dead body of his friend and leader. 
 
 CURTAIN 
 
MRS. PAT AND THE LAW 
 
 MARY ALDIS 
 
 MRS. ARTHUR ALDIS (MARY ALOIS) was born in Chicago, 
 Illinois, July 8, 1872, and was educated at St. Mary s School, 
 Knoxville, Illinois. In 1892 she married Mr. Arthur Aldis. 
 
 She founded (1910) the Playhouse of Lake Forest, Illinois, 
 a Little Theatre at her country home. This playhouse was 
 one of the first of the typical Little Theatres which have 
 developed so widely throughout the country. There Mrs. 
 Aldis produced not only her own plays, but, in addition, 
 many notable works of foreign and American playwrights. 
 
 Many of her one-act plays have been published in book 
 form under the title of "Mrs. Pat and the Law, and Other 
 Plays " (1915) . She has also written " Florence Nightingale " 
 (a pamphlet, 1914); "The Princess Jack", 1915; "Flash 
 lights", 1916; and "Drift", 1918. 
 
 The story of "Mrs. Pat and the Law" was taken directly 
 from life. Mrs. Aldis has been greatly interested in district 
 nursing for many years and heard the story of the plot from 
 one of the Chicago nurses. 
 
MRS. PAT AND THE LAW 
 
 BY MARY ALDIS 
 
"Mrs. Pat and the Law" was originally produced Sep 
 tember 14, 1913, at the Aldis Playhouse, for the amusement 
 of some visiting nurses. 
 
 Original Cast 
 
 PAT Benjamin Carpenter 
 
 MRS. PAT Mary Aldis 
 
 JIMMY, their son Polly Chase 
 
 Miss CARROLL Isabel McBirney 
 
 JOHN BING .... Charles Atkinson 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1915, BY DUPPIELD AND COMPANY. 
 All rights reserved. 
 
 Reprinted from "Plays for Small Stages" by permission of, and special arrange 
 ment with, Mrs. Arthur Aldis and Duffield and Company. 
 
 Application for the right of performing "Mrs. Pat and the Law" must be made to 
 Mrs. Arthur Aldis, Lake Forest, Illinois. 
 
MBS. PAT AND THE LAW 
 
 SCENE. A small, poor room in a tenement flat. Cook-stove, 
 back; shabby lounge, front; at left, kitchen table with a faded 
 flower in a bottle; a wash-tub on bench, centre left, back near 
 door. At left, door to bedroom. At right, door to hallway. 
 
 When the curtain rises Nora Flaherty is discovered at the 
 wash-tub. She is a large woman, with a worn, sweet face, 
 across her forehead an ugly red cut. The room is untidy, and 
 so is Nora. The stove is blazing hot. After stirring the clothes 
 in the boiler Nora wipes her face with the back of her hand and 
 sighs wearily as she puts afresh lot into the tub of suds. 
 JIMMIE (speaking from bedroom) . Maw, what time is it ? 
 NORA. Most tin, Jimmie-boy. 
 JIMMIE. Whin ll Miss Carroll come? 
 NORA. Well, now, I shouldn t wonder if she d be comin 
 
 along the shtreet and oup the shtairs and right in at that 
 
 door about the time the clock gits round to half past tin, 
 
 or maybe it s sooner she ll be. Do you think it s a flower 
 
 she ll be bringin to-day, Jimmie-boy ? 
 JIMMIE. To-day s Tuesday, ain t it ? 
 NORA. Shure ! 
 JIMMIE. There s no tellin . Sometimes she says there ain t 
 
 enough to go round. 
 
 [A pause. 
 NORA (sorting out clothes). Sakes alive the wash that s 
 
 on me ! I ll niver git through. 
 
 [A short silence. 
 
 JIMMIE. Maw, what time is it now ? 
 NORA. Well, I couldn t rightly say, the steam bein in me 
 
 eyes like. Faith, ye must bear in mind there s many 
 
236 MRS. PAT AND THE LAW 
 
 that s needin her. Maybe at this very minute it s a new 
 born baby just come into the world she s tendin , or an 
 ould man just goin out of it ! She ll be comin soon now, 
 I ll warrant ye. 
 
 JIMMIE. But, Maw, me leg hurts, and Paw takes all the 
 room in the bed, he s sleepin so noisy ! 
 
 NORA. Och, Jimmie darlin , have a little patience! Me 
 name s not Nora O Flaherty if Miss Carroll don t bring us 
 a flower this day, or if there ain t enought to go round, 
 shure it s the bright happy worrd or the little joke or plan 
 she ll have in her mind for ye ull hearten the day as well 
 as a flower. 
 [Another pause. 
 
 JIMMIE. Maw ! Ain t it half past tin yit ? 
 
 NORA. Oh, laddie, an I hadn t the great wash on me hands 
 I d dance a jig t amuse ye ! Shure many s the song I ve 
 sung an the jig I ve danced whin I was a slip o a gurrl 
 back in the ould counthree, afore I had the four of yiz and 
 yer Paw to look af ther ! Now it s me arrms have need to 
 move livelier than me legs, I m thinkin*. Listen, now, an* 
 I ll see if I can call to mind a little song for ye. (Sings, 
 keeping time with the wash-board) 
 
 There was a lady lived at Rhin, 
 
 A lady very stylish, man 
 But she snapped her fingers at all her kin 
 
 And she fell in love wid an Irishman. 
 
 A wild tremenjous Irishman, 
 
 A rampin , stampin Irishman, 
 A devil-may-take- em Bad as you make em 
 
 Fascinatin Irishman ! 
 
 Oh, wan o his een was bottle green 
 And the tother wan was out, me dear, 
 An* the calves o his wicked twinklin legs 
 Were two feet round about, me dear. 
 Oh the slashin , dashin Irishman 
 The blatherin , scatherin* Irishman, 
 
MRS. PAT AND THE LAW 237 
 
 A whiskey, frisky, rummy, gummy, 
 Brandy, dandy Irishman ! 
 
 An* that was the lad the lady loved 
 
 Like all the gurrls o quality. 
 He d smash all the skulls o* the men o Rhin 
 
 Just by the way o jollity. 
 
 Oh, the rattlin , battlin Irishman ! 
 
 The thumpin , bumpin Irishman, 
 The great he-rogue, wid his roarin brogue ! 
 
 The laughin , quaffin Irishman ! l 
 
 There s a song fer ye now ! Ha, Jimrnie-boy, I m thinkin 
 that song u d had more sense an it told what she did 
 wid her rampin , roarin Irishman wanst she got married 
 to him. 
 [Knock on the hall door. 
 
 JIMMIE. Ah, that s her ! 
 
 NORA. There! Didn t I tell ye? (Nora wipes her hands 
 and hurries to open the door, admitting Miss Carroll) . Ah ! 
 Miss Carroll dear, it s welcome ye are this day. Jimmie s 
 been watchin and wearyin for ye since the daylight 
 dawned. How are ye ? 
 
 [She has turned away as Miss Carroll enters so as to conceal 
 her head, but Miss Carroll catches sight of it and, taking hold 
 of her arm, turns her around. 
 
 MISS CARROLL. Why, Mrs. O Flaherty, what an awful cut ! 
 You look as if you had been hit with an axe ! 
 
 NORA. Oh, git along with ye ! 
 
 MISS CARROLL. How did it happen ? 
 
 NORA. Shure, twas nothin at all but his boot, and he that 
 unstiddy he couldn t aim shtraight ! It s most well now. 
 [She turns to tub. 
 
 MISS CARROLL (taking off her coat and opening her satchel). 
 It isn t " most well." It s a fresh wound and a bad, deep 
 cut. As I ve told you before, I ve no patience with you 
 for putting up with such treatment. Don t you know 
 
 1 After Wm. McGinn. 
 
288 MRS. PAT AND THE LAW 
 
 the law would protect you? You ought to swear out a 
 warrant for your husband s arrest on the grounds of per 
 sonal violence. That might teach him a lesson. This is 
 the third time now in a month he s struck you. It s out 
 rageous ! Has he got a job yet ? 
 
 JIMMIE. Ain t you comin , Miss Carroll? Me leg hurts 
 awful. 
 
 MISS CARROLL. Yes, Jimmie-boy, in a minute. (She has been 
 getting hot water from the stove, preparing cotton gauze, etc., 
 for dressing. She stops a moment in her work and regards 
 Mrs. Flaherty) Has he got a job yet ? 
 
 NORA. He had work last week. 
 
 MISS CARROLL. For how long ? 
 
 NORA. For three days an a part o four. 
 
 MISS CARROLL. And then he got drunk and got turned off, 
 eh ? And you gave him your wash money, too, I suppose, 
 as usual. 
 
 NORA. No, no. Miss Carroll dear, I didn t do that at all. 
 I only give him the half of it, and niver any of it would he 
 have had but well knowin it was in the house, it 
 was coaxin me mornin and night he was with that wheed- 
 lin , soft way o him, and the silly loverin talk till the 
 heart just ran melty within me. (Miss Carroll regards her 
 with her lips pursed) I knows it s an ould fool you re 
 thinkin me, but jest let you be listenin* to his talk wanst 
 and see what you d do, and him tellin stories to Jimmie 
 the while so kind and lovely. 
 
 MISS CARROLL (stopping at entrance to bedroom, basin in hand) . 
 "Kind and lovely" indeed! When he takes your wages 
 and hurts and abuses you, and Jimmie hasn t a decent 
 place to live in because his father s a lazy (She stops in 
 amazement on the threshold as she sees Pat asleep in the room 
 within) Well, I never ! (Comes back into the room) Mrs. 
 O Flaherty, you must make Pat get up and get out of there 
 while I take care of Jimmie. 
 
 [Mrs. O Flaherty looks injured, but wipes her hands and does 
 as she is bid. Miss Carroll stands watching at the door. 
 
MRS. PAT AND THE LAW 239 
 
 NORA (within bedroom) . Pat ! Pat ! Wake up, will ye ! 
 (Pat groans) My, but you re sleepin hard ! Pat ! Miss 
 Carroll says ye re to git oup and git out o here while she 
 takes care o Jimmie. Come along, now ! That s right, 
 Jimmie-boy, give him a good thump ! Are ye oup on yer 
 legs now ? Mind what yer doin . There ye are ! 
 
 PAT (entering, yawning). Wha for Miss Carroll says git 
 oup and git out ? 
 
 [Miss Carroll glares at Pat. Pat, turning, catches her eye and 
 smiles sweetly ere she vanishes into the bedroom. 
 
 NORA. Well, Pat O Flaherty, I m thinkin Miss Carroll 
 ain t so awful admirin o your ways ! Sometimes I m 
 thinkin she sees em clearer nor your lovin wife does ! 
 [Pat picks up one of his shoes, sits down on the sofa and looks 
 around for the other; pays no heed to Nora s talk. 
 
 PAT. Where s me other shoe? (Gets down on hands and 
 knees and looks under the sofa) Shure I had the two of em 
 on me feet yesterday. (Laughs gaily) Maybe I wore 
 wan on em out lookin for that job that I didn t git ! 
 [Nora watches him a moment, then hands him the shoe she 
 has picked up near the stove. 
 
 NORA. Here s your shoe. 
 
 PAT. Ah! That s the darlin ; thank ye kindly. I d be 
 losin me head some day if twern t for you, Nora gurrl. 
 
 NORA (at tub while Pat slowly puts on shoes). Oh, Pat, ye 
 will thry and git some worrk today, won t ye, man ? Thry 
 hard. If they don t take ye on at the first place, go on 
 an* don t git discouraged. Ye know ye re the grand work 
 man whin ye thry, and ye must git a stiddy job soon. Ye 
 really must, Pat. I m shtrong ; I don t mind the washin 
 fer me own sake. I d do anythin fer you and the childer, 
 but whin Jimmie frets at me to play with him, an the 
 others come rushin in from school a-wantin thur maw to 
 do this and that fer em, shure it comes harrd an I dassn t 
 take me arrms from the suds to tend on em and comfort 
 em and cook em thur meals nice like that visitin house- 
 keepin* lady told me to. 
 
240 MRS. PAT AND THE LAW 
 
 [Pat has not been listening very attentively, but has taken in 
 the drift of Nora s plea. 
 
 PAT (pulling himself together and putting on hat and coat) . Ah, 
 Nora gurrl, I ll be gettin a good job today shure. (Sud 
 denly catches sight of her forehead) Wha s that on your head ? 
 
 NORA (startled). Me head, is it? Miss Carrol was sayin 
 just now it was "personal violence and breakin the law." 
 I was thinkin afore that twas only the heel o an ould boot 
 walked around daytimes on Pat O Flaherty, lookin for a 
 job. 
 
 [Pat regards her uneasily, meditating speech, but appreciates 
 he is too befuddled for argument, so begins to whistle as he 
 gets himself out and down-stairs, leaving the door open. Nora 
 goes to shut it, and stands a moment reflecting, looking after 
 Pat, then returns to the tub near the bedroom door, evidently 
 thinking. Short pause. 
 
 JIMMIE (within bedroom). Say, Miss Carroll, d ye think I ll 
 ever git it? 
 
 MISS CARROLL. Christmas is coming, Jimmie-boy. 
 
 JIMMIE. Huh ! So s Fourth o July. 
 
 MISS CARROLL. We ll see what we can do. 
 
 JIMMIE. The other lady you told about me brung me a suit, 
 but some cove lots bigger n me wore it all out first. I 
 don like it. Gee ! but I wisht I had a bran -new suit 
 just wanst. 
 [Nora makes a little yearning gesture towards the room. 
 
 MISS CARROLL. Now, Jimmie-boy, come along. It won t 
 hurt much. When you re all fixed up on the lounge in 
 there I ve got something pretty for you. 
 
 JIMMIE. Another flower ? What kind is it ? 
 
 MISS CARROLL. We ll see. Now lean on me. 
 [They enter. 
 
 NORA. That s the lad. Are ye all fixed up now? He s 
 gettin lots better, ain t he, Miss Carroll ? 
 [Jimmie is a pale, emaciated child with a wan little face of 
 great sweetness of expression. His clothes are much too large 
 for him. He holds up one bandaged leg and hobbles on 
 
MRS. PAT AND THE LAW 241 
 
 crutches. Miss Carroll helps him on to the lounge, produces 
 from a paper by her satchel two pink roses, holding them 
 up. 
 
 JIMMIE. Gee ! ain t they pretty ! Can I keep ein both ? 
 
 MISS CARROLL. Both for you, Jimmie-boy, and we ll see 
 what can be done about the suit. Perhaps we can find 
 one somewhere that s bran new. (She gets a book from the 
 shelf) See if you can learn all the new words on this page 
 before I come tomorrow, will you ? That s a dear old 
 boy ! Now, Mrs. O Flaherty, let s see about that forehead. 
 Sit down here. 
 [Miss Carroll places a chair, front stage. 
 
 NORA (washing). Oh, what s the use botherin* about me 
 head ? It ll git well of itself. It always does. Don t be 
 mindin me. 
 
 MISS CARROLL. But, Mrs. O Flaherty, you really must let 
 me see to it. It s a bad cut. 
 
 NORA (wiping her hands) . Oh well, you re so good to Jimmie 
 I ll have to oblige you. I suppose you haven t had many 
 persons with holes in their heads made by boots to tind 
 to? But you re young, Miss Carroll dear, you re young 
 yit. (She seats herself with a sigh) I m talkin silly, Miss 
 Carroll, but there s no room for a joke in me heart this 
 day. I ve been thinkin about what you said afore you 
 wint in to Jimmie. 
 
 MISS CARROLL (binding up the injured head) . Yes ? 
 
 NORA. You were tellin me to git out a warrant gainst Pat. 
 Do you think it would keep him from drinkin just for a 
 bit till we git caught up on the rint and the furniture ? Do 
 you think it would ? 
 
 MISS CARROLL. Mrs. O Flaherty, you know it s a shame and 
 an outrage the way Pat s behaving. He s wearing you 
 out. He ll do you harm some day and then what will 
 become of Jimmie ? He ought to be taught a good lesson. 
 
 NORA. Would they do any hurt to him, do you think, an* 
 they locked him up? Would they care for him kindly, 
 and he maybe helpless like ? 
 
242 MRS. PAT AND THE LAW 
 
 MISS CARROLL. They certainly would care for him. Now, 
 Mrs. O Flaherty, you go over to the Maxwell Street Sta 
 tion and show them your forehead, and say you want Pat 
 "took up* for a day or so just for a lesson, do you under 
 stand ? 
 
 NORA. Yes, I understand. Oh, it seems an awful thing to 
 be doin to your own man, don t it ? After all them things 
 I said when we got married ? No, no, I niver could do it, 
 niver ! 
 [Goes back to tub. 
 
 MISS CARROLL. Well, then, tell Pat you may do it, anyway. 
 It will make him respect you. But you re such a softy, 
 of course you ll do nothing. I must go now. Mrs. 
 Flaherty, you must not let Pat sleep with Jimmie. It is 
 not good for him. 
 
 NORA (while Miss Carroll is packing satchel and getting on bon 
 net and coat). Shure now, Miss Carroll, you re down on 
 Pat for every thin . He s a good, lovin paw to Jimmie- 
 boy he is makin him happy and pleasin him like no 
 body else can. Everybody s kind to Jimmie and nobody s 
 kind to Pat and they re just alike two childer they 
 are both on em foolish and lovin and helpless like, 
 and I love em both. Oh, I love em ! If you d hear em 
 together an you wid your eyes shut, it s hard set you d be 
 to say which was the man and which was the child. Some 
 times I can t tind to me washin fer listenin to the funny 
 talk o the two o them. Wan time they ll be settin on 
 the high moon for a throne, with the little shtars to wait 
 on em and shootin -shtars to run errands ; another, they ll 
 be swimmin along through the deep green sea, a-passin 
 the time o day an makin little jokes to the fishes. Ah, 
 ye ought to hear em go on ! 
 
 MISS CARROLL. Well, I m glad he amuses Jimmie when he s 
 at home, but he ought to be at work, a great strong man 
 like him ! He needs a good lesson, Pat does. Good-bye, 
 Jimmie-boy. Be sure and have the new words learned. 
 [She gives him a little pat, and with a wave of the hand goes 
 
MRS. PAT AND THE LAW 243 
 
 out. Nora is unheeding Jimmie s call of "Maw." Jimmie 
 has not listened to the conversation between Nora and Miss 
 Carroll. 
 
 JIMMIE (raising himself and looking around) . Maw ! She 
 said she d try and git me a bran -new suit. Say, Maw, 
 d ye think she ll pay out her money fer it ? I don t want 
 her to do that. She just gets wages same as Paw. She 
 told me how it was. Say, Maw, why don t Paw bring home 
 no more wages ? 
 
 NORA (coming to him, then taking sudden decision). Jimmie- 
 boy, Maw s goin out. (Hastily gets out a very queer bon 
 net and mantle while she speaks and arrays herself, putting 
 bonnet on crooked to partially conceal bandage) You just 
 lie quiet there like a good boy, an a lamb s tail couldn t 
 whisk itself three times till I ll be back again. I m not 
 goin to be a fool softy no longer, and Paw ll bring home 
 some more wages afther that lesson he s needin . Are ye 
 all right now ? Ye won t be needin anything ? 
 [Pats him on the head, then leans over and kisses him fiercely, 
 protectingly. 
 
 JIMMIE. Where you goin ? 
 
 NORA. I m goin to git the law to help us if it can. (She goes 
 out and bangs the door) 
 
 [Jimmie, left alone, is very bored and listless. He turns over 
 the book, then lets it fall, twists himself wearily. Suddenly 
 his whole face brightens happily at a step outside. Pat s gay 
 whistle is heard coming up-stair8. 
 
 PAT (entering). Hi, Jimmie-boy ! There s the great lad for 
 ye ! All shtuffed full and a-runnin over he is wid fine 
 learnin out of books. Did ye ever see the loike o him ? 
 Sittin up dressed like folks ! Faith, it s the proud Pat 
 I am this day ! Let s see what great thing about the 
 wide worrld is a-hidin itself inside o this yere. 
 [Picks up book. 
 
 JIMMIE. I m tired o that. Tell me a story. 
 
 PAT. A shtory, is it? An me to be sittin here tellin a 
 young lad shtories at the high noon of the day, and the 
 
244 MRS. PAT AND THE LAW 
 
 job takin itself wings to fly off, I might be catchin and 
 holdin down and I to go afther it instid ! (Sitting down by 
 Jimmie) Where s your Maw? 
 
 JIMMIE. I dimno. She said she wasn t going to be no fool 
 softy no more, and then she went out quick like. What s 
 a fool softy? 
 
 [Pat is very uneasy. He does not ansiver, then goes to the 
 door, looks out, comes back slowly. 
 
 JIMMIE. Paw, me leg hurts awful today. Tell me a story. 
 
 PAT. All right, lad, I ll tell ye a story. (Sits down near 
 sofa) Did I ever tell you about the king of Ireland and 
 his siven sons ? No ? Once upon a time there was a great, 
 high-up, noble king reigned over Ireland with a golden 
 crown on his noble head an a rulin shtick in his hand 
 Whin 11 your Maw be back ? 
 
 JIMMIE. I dunno. Go on with the story. 
 
 PAT. Well, this grand king had siven sons, all fair and 
 beautiful they were in armour of silver and shteel, an on 
 their heads helmets covered with precious stones dug up 
 out o the earth that would make your eyes blink for the 
 shinin . Bye-and-bye the siven lads grew up strong and 
 mighty, and whin the king saw that they were gettin to 
 man s eshtate he got him together all of the workmen out of 
 a job there were in the kingdom of Ireland, and he sets 
 em to buildin siven great castles, each wan on a different 
 high-up mountain-top, so high that the peaks and shpires 
 of some of them made holes right through the blue sky, 
 do ye mind? Well, whin the castles were all grand and 
 ready he called his siven sons together, an he stood em 
 all up in a glitterin row and he said to em, "Now, me 
 byes, it s no end of a foine time ye ve been havin a-sky- 
 larkin round me kingdom, but it s siven high castles I ve 
 built for ye now and ye d better be gettin yourselves wives 
 and some bits of furniture on the installment plan, maybe, 
 and settlin down. Go forth now through all the world and 
 find ye siven beautiful princesses, and the wan of ye that 
 ^its the beautifullest shall have the biggest castle." 
 
MRS. PAT AND THE LAW 245 
 
 [Nora enters, grim. Pat notes her demeanor, but concludes 
 comment is unwise. She takes off her bonnet and shawl and 
 goes to her tub, listening to Pat. 
 
 JIMMIE. Go on, Paw, what did they do thin? 
 
 PAT (keeping a weather eye on Nora) . What did they do thin ? 
 Well, they looked and looked fer a year and a day, ivery 
 one o them in a different counthry, but whiniver one of 
 the siven would be findin a princess who seemed hand 
 some and likely, whin he looked again careful like, he d 
 be feared one of his brothers would be findin a handsomer 
 one, so he d let her go and move on. 
 
 JIMMIE. An all the beautiful princesses, weren t there any 
 anywhere no more? 
 
 PAT (slapping his leg in the joy of a sudden inspiration) . Faith, 
 Jimmie-boy, it s just comin into me head what was the 
 throuble ! Shure the siven grand princes must a looked in 
 the church window the day I married your Maw, and 
 seein her that wanst o course no princess could plaze 
 em afther. It was green-eyed envy filled their siven souls 
 that day, I m thinkin , for Pat O Flaherty gettin such a 
 Jewell and nobody left beautiful enough for them at 
 all! 
 
 JIMMIE. Paw, quit yer jokin ! Git along with the story. 
 
 PAT. Jimmie darlin , it s not jokin I am. Your Maw s a 
 Jewell, a rael beautiful Jewell, and that s the truth. I 
 don t deserve her, I don t. 
 [Suddenly breaks down and sobs. 
 
 JIMMIE. Aw, Paw, don t do that don t. 
 
 [He beings to whimper. Nora starts to comfort him when a 
 knock is heard. Pat shakes himself together and opens the 
 door, and John Bing, a policeman, enters. 
 
 PAT (to Nora) . A policeman ! 
 
 JOHN BING (glancing at paper in his hand). Does Patrick 
 O Flaherty live here ? 
 
 PAT. Faith, he does that, an* what would the majestic arm 
 o the law be wantin , if ye please, intrudin in a peaceful 
 man s house? 
 
246 MRS. PAT AND THE LAW 
 
 JOHN BING. I ve a warrant here for the arrest of Patrick 
 O Flaherty on the ground of repeated violence towards his 
 wife. 
 
 PAT. Howly Saints ! An who shwore out that warrant ? 
 
 JOHN BING (glancing at paper). Nora O Flaherty. (Looking 
 at Nora) I guess it s true, all right. Come along. 
 
 PAT. Nora ! You niver did that to your own man ? (Nora 
 makes no reply but a sniffle) Nora ! 
 
 JOHN BING. Well, hurry up. Better come quietly. 
 
 JIMMIE. Paw, what s the matter? What s he come for? 
 Make him go way. 
 
 PAT (taking Bing s coat lapel confidentially). Mr. Officer 
 you see the little lad there ? He s well well, he ll 
 never walk no more. Perhaps you got childer yourself? 
 Would you mind just waitin a bit of a minute, or maybe 
 two, till I finish a shtory I was tellin him ? He ll let me 
 go aisier so. 
 
 JOHN BING (looking at his watch). Five minutes, then. 
 
 PAT. Thank ye kindly. (Returns to Jimmie, giving his lounge 
 a little push so Jimmie will not see John Bing) Now, me 
 lad, where were we in the shtory ? 
 
 JIMMIE. About the beautiful princesses. 
 
 PAT. Shure, I m thinkin* it s mortal weary them siven 
 princes will be lookin for their beautiful princesses all this 
 time, when right here in this room with us two all so happy 
 an lovin -like is your Maw, out o their reach. (Jimmie 
 suddenly laughs out merrily, the first time he has done more 
 than smile wanly) So what do you think they did next ? 
 
 JIMMIE. I dunno. 
 
 PAT. Guess. 
 
 [Here Nora, who has been weeping and washing harder and 
 harder, makes a dash and throws open the door to the hall, 
 grabbing the warrant meanwhile out of the hand of John Bing. 
 
 NORA. Mr. Officer, you walk right out o here and down them 
 shtairs and don t you be waitin no more for Patrick 
 O Flaherty. He ain t goin with you. He s goin* to git 
 a job stiddy and shtay here. 
 
MRS. PAT AND THE LAW 247 
 
 JOHN BING. You withdraw the charge ? I ll have to report 
 it at the station. 
 
 NORA. Charge nothin ! You git out o here. 
 
 JOHN BING (stopping to gaze at her a moment) . Well, what do 
 you think of that ? The next time one of them suffragist 
 ladies asks me what I think, I ll tell her I think women 
 is fools, that s what I ll tell her. Yep, all fools ! (He 
 goes out) 
 
 [Pat has sat discreetly silent, twirling his thumbs rapidly 
 and looking in front of him. 
 
 JIMMIE. Paw! What s Maw talkin about? What Vd 
 he want? 
 
 PAT. Niver you mind, Jimmie-boy. It was just payin the 
 O Flaherty family a call he was, nice and friendly like. 
 Your Maw invited him, but when she saw how dishturbin 
 his august prisence was in our happy home, she invited 
 him out again. Ain t that it, Nora darlin* ? 
 [He holds out his hand to Nora. Nora weakly approaches^ 
 sniffling, then falls on his neck. 
 
 NORA. Oh, Pat, Pat ! I niver meant to do that awful thing 
 I niver did. I dunno what made me. It was that 
 nurse a-talkin at me. She put a spell on me, she did. 
 Oh Pat, oh Pat ! 
 
 PAT (patting her). Niver mind, niver mind. I know ye 
 didn t. It s all right. Niver mind, gurrl. 
 [A knock at the door. Nora pulls herself free and opens the 
 door to Miss Carroll. 
 
 PAT (retreating). It s that dam* nurse ! She ll be the death 
 o me yit. 
 
 MISS CARROLL (coming quickly forward towards Jimmie) . I 
 can t stop a second. I just ran in to tell Jimmie-boy I ve 
 been telephoning and it s all fixed. The bran -new suit s 
 going to happen next Saturday. It s my half -holiday and 
 I ll come for you in a taxi and we ll go down-town 
 and we ll buy it all bran* new to fit, made just for 
 Jimmie. 
 
 JIMMIE. Aw ! tain t so. You re kiddin me ! 
 
248 MRS. PAT AND THE LAW 
 
 MISS CARROLL. Tis so, honor bright ! Cross my heart and 
 hope to die. Well, I must run. (Suddenly appreciating 
 Nora s aspect) Why, Mrs. O Flaherty, what s the matter ? 
 
 NORA. The matter is you re a wicked, interferin woman, 
 a-makin me do them awful things to me pore man there ! 
 Look at him, so sweet and gentle like ! Ain t ye shamed 
 o yourself, a-plottin and workin to put apart them as 
 God as j ined together in the howly estate of matrimony ? 
 It s a bad, wicked woman I am to be listenin to your ter 
 rible talk. That there horrid big officer in his shiny buttons, 
 lookin so fat and so satisfied, waitin there at the door to 
 grab up me pore man hasn t a coat to his back hardly ! 
 
 MISS CARROLL. What about the boot, Mrs. O Flaherty ? 
 
 NORA. The boot, is it ? Shure it s the careless woman I am, 
 happenin* in the way whin he was takin em off and he 
 with a bit of the creature in him made him excited like. 
 
 MISS CARROLL. All right, Mrs. O Flaherty, I m sorry. I 
 won t give any more advice. It s against the rules. I 
 shouldn t have said anything. (She looks at Pat, who has 
 been regarding her quizzically while Nora holds forth, and 
 now, catching her eye, has the impertinence to wink. Miss 
 Carroll struggles hard not to respond to his grin, but can t 
 quite keep her gravity) You see, I haven t any man of 
 my own, so I suppose it s hard for me to understand 
 married life. Good-bye till tomorrow. [She waves her 
 hand to Jimmie, accomplishes one severe look at Pat, and 
 vanishes. Pat waves her off gaily. 
 
 PAT. Goo -bye, Miss Carroll, goo -bye ! Goo -bye ! 
 [He gets his hat and coat, chuckling to himself. 
 
 JIMMIE. Did ye hear that, Maw? A bran -new suit made 
 just for me. Nobody else never wore it at all, an we ll 
 go in a taxi to buy it on Saturday. Gee ! Ain t it nice ? 
 
 PAT (sidling up to Nora at the tub) . Nora darlin , I m thinkin* 
 it s a foine job I ll be gettin this day for the askin ; the 
 heart s that big in me for gratitude, it ll shine right out 
 through me two eyes and make me hopeful and stiddy- 
 lookin , so that some boss ll think he s got a grand man to 
 
MRS. PAT AND THE LAW 249 
 
 work for him. I d better be startin along how, I suppose, 
 er some other chap ll git there before me. Say, Nora, 
 it s only about twinty cints I do be needin for carfare. 
 
 NORA. Pat, twinty cents is a lot. Where you goin ? 
 
 PAT. Well, maybe fifteen cints would do if I walk the wan 
 way where there ain t no transfer. Shure it s hard on the 
 poor when the shtreet-car companies git mad at each other. 
 Say, Nora, I know a place where a good job is waitin for 
 Pat O Flaherty, but the great city lies between us. Cruel 
 long and wide it is, and hard stones all the way. It s too 
 weary and sad like I d look on arrivin , au I couldn t ride 
 on the cars to git there. Oh, come across with the fifteen 
 cents ! 
 
 [Nora dubiously gets down an old china teapot from the shelf 
 and takes out five cents, which she gives him gravely. She 
 then gets five cents from another secret place. 
 
 PAT (as she is getting the money). Faith, there s money all 
 over the place. 
 
 [Nora then gets five pennies from the depths of her pocket and 
 slowly counts out the fifteen cents into his hand. 
 
 PAT (hissing her) . Oh ! That s the shweetest wife ever 
 blessed a bad, bad spalpeen of a husband. Good-bye, 
 gurrl ! Bye, Jimmie-boy. Be thinkin what the siven 
 princes could do, they havin seen your Maw through the 
 church window, and I ll finish the shtory tomorrow. 
 [Pat exits, whistling, Nora watching him at the door. 
 
 JIMMIE. Maw, what s a fool softy ? 
 [Nora wilts. 
 
 CURTAIN 
 
LIMA BEANS 
 
 ALFRED KREYMBORG 
 
 MR. ALFRED KREYMBORG was born in New York City, De 
 cember 10, 1883. He is the exponent of evolution in the form 
 of music, prose, free verse, and the free verse play. He 
 was the founder of The Glebe and edited it while it was in 
 existence. During its life, it was the first publication to 
 issue an imagist anthology (Ezra Pound s collection, 1914). 
 He founded Others, a Magazine of the New Verse, July, 1915, 
 and The Other Players, March, 1918, an organization de 
 voted exclusively to American plays in poetic form. He is 
 the author of "Mushrooms, a Book of Free Forms", "Erna 
 Vitez, a Novel", and "Plays for Poem-Mimes", and has 
 edited two anthologies of free verse: "Others for 1916", 
 and "Others for 1917." 
 
 "Lima Beans" is the most popular of his plays and has 
 been most frequently produced. It exemplifies Mr. Kreym- 
 borg s theory of "pantomime acting or dancing of folk or 
 automatons to an accompaniment of rhythmic lines, in place 
 of music." 
 
 Mr. Kreymborg s idea may be compared with that of Mr. 
 Vachel Lindsay, who has conceived some of his own poems as 
 a chant in lieu of music to accompany a dance. Where, in 
 Mr. Lindsay s experiment, however, one person is needed for 
 the dance and another for the chant, in Mr. Kreymborg s 
 plays the dancer and the speaker are the same person. 
 There is some difference also in the point of view : Mr. 
 Lindsay uses the dance to aid interpretation of the poetry ; 
 Mr. Kreymborg is equally interested in both. 
 
LIMA BEANS 
 
 A SCHERZO-PLAY 
 
 BY ALFRED KREYMBORG 
 
"Lima Beans" was originally produced by The Province- 
 town Players, autumn, 1916. 
 
 Original Cast 
 
 THE WIFE Mina Loy 
 
 THE HUSBAND William Carlos Williams 
 
 THE HUCKSTER William Zorach 
 
 Set and costumes designed by William and Marguerite 
 Zorach. 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1918, BY AWRED KREYMBORG. 
 
 All rights reserved. 
 
 Reprinted from "Six Plays for Poem-Mimes" by permission of, and by special 
 arrangement with, Mr. Alfred Kreymborg and The Other Press. 
 
 Application for the right of performing "Lima Beans" must be made to Mr. Alfred 
 Kreymborg, The Other Press, 17 East 14th Street, New York City. 
 
LIMA BEANS 
 A SCHERZO-PLAY 
 
 SCENE. The characters are four : husband, wife, the voice of a 
 huckster and the curtain ! Husband and wife might be two 
 marionettes. The scene is a miniature dining room large enough 
 to contain a small table, two chairs, a tiny sideboard, an open 
 window, a closed door leading to the other rooms, and additional 
 elbow space. Pantomime is modestly indulged by husband and 
 wife, suggesting an inoffensive parody, unless the author errs, 
 of the contours of certain ancient Burmese dances. The im 
 pedimenta of occasional rhymes are unpremeditated. If there 
 must be a prelude of music, let it be nothing more consequential 
 than one of the innocuous parlor rondos of Carl Maria von 
 Weber. As a background color scheme, black and white might 
 not prove amiss. 
 
 As the curtain, which is painted in festoons of vegetables, rises 
 gravely, the wife is disclosed setting the table for dinner. Aided 
 by the sideboard, she has attended to her place, as witness the 
 neat arrangement of plate, cup and saucer, and knife, fork and 
 spoons at one side. Now, more consciously, she begins the 
 performance of the important duty opposite. This question of 
 concrete paraphernalia, and the action consequent thereupon, 
 might of course be left entirely to the imagination of the beholder. 
 THE WIFE (wistfully whimsical) . Put a knife here, 
 
 place a fork there 
 
 marriage is greater than love. 
 
 Give him a large spoon, 
 
 give him a small 
 
f 
 256 LIMA BEANS 
 
 you re sure of your man when you dine him. 
 
 A cup for his coffee, 
 
 a saucer for spillings, 
 
 a plate rimmed with roses 
 
 to hold his night s fillings 
 
 roses for hearts, ah, 
 
 but food for the appetite ! 
 
 Mammals are happiest home after dark ! 
 
 (The rite over, she stands off in critical admiration, her arms 
 
 akimbo, her head bobbing from side to side. Then, seriously, 
 
 as she eyes the husband s dinner plate.) 
 
 But what shall I give him to eat to-night ? 
 
 It mustn t be limas, 
 
 we ve always had limas 
 
 one more lima would shatter his love ! 
 
 [An answer comes through the open window from the dulcet 
 
 insinuatingly persuasive horn of the huckster. 
 
 Oh, ah, ooh ! 
 THE HUCKSTER (singing mysteriously). 
 
 I got tomatoes, 
 
 I got potatoes, 
 
 I got new cabbages, 
 
 I got caulinower, 
 
 I got red beets, 
 
 I got onions, 
 
 I got lima beans 
 THE WIFE (who has stolen to the window, fascinated). Any 
 
 fruit ? 
 
 THE HUCKSTER. 
 
 I got oranges, 
 I got pineapples, 
 blackberries, 
 currants, 
 blueberries, 
 I got bananas, 
 I got 
 THE WIFE. Bring me some string beans ! 
 
LIMA BEANS 257 
 
 THE HUCKSTER. Yes, mam ! 
 
 [His head bobs in at the window. 
 
 The Wife takes some coins from the sideboard. A paper bag 
 
 is flung into the room. The wife catches it and airily tosses 
 
 the coins into the street. Presently, she takes a bowl from the 
 
 sideboard, sits down, peeps into the bag, dramatically tears it 
 
 open, and relapses into a gentle rocking as she strings the beans, 
 
 to this invocation. 
 
 THE WIFE. String the crooked ones, 
 
 string the straight 
 
 love needs a change every meal. 
 
 To-morrow, come kidney beans, 
 
 Wednesday, come white or black 
 
 limas, return not too soon ! 
 
 The string bean rules in the 
 
 vegetable kingdom, 
 
 gives far more calories, sooner digests 
 
 love through with dinner is quicker to play ! 
 
 Straight ones, crooked ones, 
 
 string beans are blessed ! 
 
 [Enter the husband briskly. In consternation, the wife tries 
 
 to hide the bowl, but sets it on the table and hurries to greet 
 
 him. He spreads his hands and bows. 
 SHE. Good evening, sweet husband ! 
 HE. Good evening, sweet wife ! 
 SHE. You re back, I m so happy - 
 HE. So am I - - twas a day - 
 SHE. Twas a day ? 
 HE. For a hot sweating donkey - 
 SHE. A donkey ? 
 HE. A mule ! 
 
 SHE. My poor, dear, poor spouse 
 HE. No, no, my good mouse 
 SHE. Rest your tired, weary arms 
 HE. They re not tired, I m not weary 
 
 I d perspire tears and blood drops 
 
 just to keep my mouse in cheese. 
 
258 LIMA BEANS 
 
 In a town or in the fields, 
 
 on the sea or in a balloon, 
 
 with a pickaxe or a fiddle, 
 
 with one s back a crooked wish-bone, 
 
 occupation, labor, work 
 
 work s a man s best contribution. 
 SHE. Contribution ? 
 HE. Yes, to Hymen ! 
 SHE. Ah yes 
 HE. But you haven t 
 SHE. I haven t ? 
 HE. You haven t 
 SHE. I haven t ? 
 HE. You have not 
 SHE. Ah yes, yes indeed ! 
 
 [The wife embraces the husband and kisses him daintily six 
 
 times. 
 HE. Stop, queer little dear ! 
 
 Why is a kiss ? 
 SHE. I don t know. 
 HE. You don t ? 
 SHE. No ! 
 
 HE. Then why do you do it ? 
 SHE. Love ! 
 HE. Love ? 
 SHE. Yes ! 
 
 HE. And why is love ? 
 SHE. I don t know. 
 HE. You don t ? 
 SHE. No ! 
 
 HE. And why don t you know ? 
 SHE. Because ! 
 HE. Because ? 
 SHE. Yes ! 
 HE. Come, queer little dear ! 
 
 [The husband embraces the wife and kisses her daintily six 
 
 times. 
 
LIMA BEANS 259 
 
 (solemnly). And now! 
 
 SHE (nervously). And now? 
 
 HE. And now ! 
 
 SHE. And now? 
 
 HE. And now I am hungry. 
 
 SHE. And now you are hungry ? 
 
 HE. Of course I am hungry. 
 
 SHE. To be sure you are hungry, but 
 
 HE. But ? 
 
 SHE. But ! 
 
 HE. But? 
 
 [The wife tries to edge between the husband and the table. 
 
 He gently elbows her aside. She comes back; he elbows her 
 
 less gently, This pantomime is repeated several times; his 
 
 elbowing is almost rough at the last. The husband reaches 
 
 the table and ogles the bowl. His head twists from the bold 
 
 to the wife, back and forth. An ominous silence. 
 
 String beans ? 
 SHE. String beans ! 
 HE. String beans ? 
 SHE. String beans ! 
 
 [A still more ominous silence. The husband s head begins 
 
 fairly to bob, only to stop abruptly as he breaks forth. 
 HE. I perspire tears and blood drops 
 
 in a town or in the fields, 
 
 on the sea or in a balloon, 
 
 with my pickaxe or my fiddle, 
 
 just to come home 
 
 footsore, starving, doubled with appetite 
 
 to a meal of string beans ? 
 
 Where are my limas ? 
 SHE. We had - 
 HE. We had ? 
 
 SHE. Lima beans yesterday we had them 
 HE. We had them ? 
 SHE. Day before yesterday 
 HE. What of it ? 
 
260 LIMA BEANS 
 
 SHE. Last Friday, last Thursday 
 
 HE. I know it 
 
 SHE. Last Wednesday, last Tuesday 
 
 HE. What then, mam ? 
 
 SHE. We had them 
 
 all the way since we were married 
 HE. Two weeks ago this very day 
 SHE. I thought you d have to have a change 
 HE. A change 
 
 SHE. I thought you d like to have a change 
 HE. A change ? 
 
 You thought ? 
 
 I d like? 
 
 A change ? 
 
 What! 
 
 From the godliest of vegetables, 
 
 my kingly bean, 
 
 that soft, soothing, 
 
 succulent, caressing, 
 
 creamy, persuasively serene, 
 
 my buttery entity ? 
 
 You would dethrone it ? 
 
 You would play renegade ? 
 
 You d raise an usurper 
 
 in the person of this 
 
 elongated, cadaverous, 
 
 throat-scratching, greenish 
 
 caterpillar 
 
 you d honor a parochial, 
 
 menial pleb, 
 
 an accursed legume, 
 
 sans even the petty grandeur 
 
 of cauliflower, 
 
 radish, pea, 
 
 onion, asparagus, 
 
 potato, tomato 
 
 to the rank of household god ? 
 
LIMA BEANS 9.QI 
 
 Is this your marriage ? 
 Is this your creed of love ? 
 Is this your contribution ? 
 Dear, dear, 
 
 was there some witch at the altar 
 who linked your hand with mine in troth 
 only to have it broken in a bowl ? 
 Ah, dear, dear 
 SHE. Dear, dear ! 
 
 HE. You have listened to a temptress 
 SHE. I have listened to my love of you 
 HE. You, the pure, the angelic - 
 SHE. Husband, dear 
 HE. Silence ! 
 SHE. Husband ! 
 HE. Silence ! 
 
 (The wife collapses into her chair. The husband seizes the 
 bowl to this malediction) 
 Worms, 
 snakes, 
 reptiles, 
 caterpillars, 
 
 I do not know from whence ye came, 
 but I know whither ye shall go. 
 My love, 
 my troth, 
 my faith 
 
 shall deal with ye. 
 Avaunt, 
 vanish, 
 begone 
 
 from this domicile, 
 dedicated, 
 consecrated, 
 immortalized 
 in the name of Hymen f 
 Begone ! 
 
LIMA BEANS 
 
 [The husband throws the bowl and beans out of the window. 
 The customary crash of broken glass, off-stage, is heard. 
 A smothered sob escapes the wife. The husband strides 
 towards the door. The wife raises her head. 
 
 SHE. Husband. 
 
 HE. Traitress ! 
 
 SHE. Love, sweet husband ! 
 
 HE. Traitress, traitress ! 
 
 [The husband glares at the wife, and slams the door behind 
 him. The wife collapses again. Her body rocks to and 
 fro. Silence. Then, still more mysteriously than the first 
 time, the horn and the voice of the huckster. The wife 
 stops rocking, raises her head and gets up. A woe-begone 
 expression vanishes before one of eagerness, of housewifely 
 shrewdness, of joy. She steals to the window. 
 
 THE HUCKSTER. I got oranges, 
 I got pineapples, 
 I got blackbemes, 
 I got cwrrants, 
 I got 6/weberries, 
 I got bananas, 
 Igot 
 
 THE WIFE. Any vegetables ? 
 
 THE HUCKSTER. I got tomatoes, 
 
 I got potatoes, 
 
 new cabbages, 
 
 cauliflower, 
 
 red beets, 
 
 I got string beans, 
 
 Igot 
 
 THE WIFE. Bring me some lima beans ! 
 THE HUCKSTER. I got onions, 
 
 Igot- 
 
 THE WIFE. Bring me some lima beans ! 
 THE HUCKSTER. Yes, mam ! 
 
 [His head appears again. 
 
 The performance of paper bag and coins is repeated. Ex- 
 
LIMA BEANS 263 
 
 citedly, the wife takes another bowl from the sideboard. She sits 
 down, tears open the bag, clicks her heels, and hastily, recklessly, 
 begins splitting the limas. One or two pop out and bound along 
 the floor. The wife stops. Pensively: 
 THE WIFE. There you go, 
 
 hopping away, 
 
 just like bad sparrows 
 
 no, no, more like him. 
 
 (She smiles a little) 
 
 Hopping away, 
 
 no, he s not a sparrow, 
 
 he s more like a 
 
 poor angry boy and so soon ! 
 
 (She lets the beans slip through her fingers) 
 
 Lima beans, string beans, 
 
 kidney beans, white or black 
 
 you re all alike 
 
 though not all alike to him. 
 
 (She perks her head) 
 
 It s alike to me. 
 
 what s alike to him 
 
 (She looks out of the window) 
 
 though I m sorry for you, 
 
 crooked strings, straight strings, 
 
 and so glad for you, 
 
 creamy ones, succulent 
 
 what did he say of you? 
 
 (She returns to splitting the limas ; with crescendo animation} 
 
 Heigho, it s all one to me, 
 
 so he loves what I do, 
 
 I ll do what he loves. 
 
 Angry boy ? No, a man 
 
 quite young in the practice 
 
 of wedlock and love ! 
 
 Come, limas, to work now 
 
 we ll serve him, heart, appetite, 
 
 whims, crosspatches and all 
 
264 LIMA BEANS 
 
 though we boil for it later ! 
 
 The dinner bell calls us, 
 
 ding, dong, ding, dell ! 
 
 [The husband opens the door and pokes in his head. The 
 wife hears him and is silent. He edges into the room and then 
 stops, humble, contrite, abject. Almost in a whisper : 
 HE. Wife ! 
 
 (She does not heed him. He, louder) 
 
 Sweet wife ! 
 
 (She does not answer. He, still louder) 
 
 Beloved, 
 
 dear, dearest wife ! 
 
 (She does not answer. He approaches carefully, almost with 
 
 reverence, watches her, takes the other chair and cautiously 
 
 sets it down next to hers) 
 
 Wife! 
 
 SHE. Yes ? 
 HE. Will you 
 
 I want to 
 
 won t you 
 
 may I sit next to you ? 
 SHE. Yes. 
 HE. I want to 
 
 will you 
 
 won t you _ A 
 
 forgive me I ll 
 
 eat all the beans in the world ! 
 
 [The wife looks up at the husband roguishly. He drops down 
 beside her with the evident intention of putting his arm 
 about her, only to jump up as, inadvertently, he has looked 
 into the bowl. He rubs his eyes, sits down slowly, looks 
 again, only to jump up again. The third time he sits down 
 with extreme caution, like a zoologist who has come upon a 
 new specimen of insect. The wife seems oblivious of his 
 emotion. He rises, looks from one side of her, then the 
 other, warily. At last, rapturously. 
 Lima beans ? 
 
LIMA BEANS 265 
 
 [She looks up tenderly and invitingly, indicating his chair. 
 SHE. Lima beans ! 
 
 [He sits down beside her. With greater awe and emphasis. 
 HE. Lima beans ? 
 SHE. Lima beans ! 
 
 [A moment of elfin silence. 
 HE. Sweet wife ! 
 SHE. Sweet husband ! 
 HE. Where - 
 
 whence 
 
 how did it 
 
 how did it happen? 
 SHE. I don t know. 
 HE. You do 
 
 you do know 
 SHE. I don t ! 
 HE. Tiny miracle, 
 
 you do 
 
 you re a woman, 
 
 you re a wife, 
 
 you re an imp 
 
 you do know ! 
 SHE. Well - 
 HE. Well? 
 SHE. Er 
 
 HE. Eh? 
 
 SHE. Somebody 
 HE. Yes, yes ? 
 SHE. Somebody 
 
 sent them 
 HE. Sent them ! 
 SHE. Brought them ! 
 HE. Brought them ? 
 SHE. Yes ! 
 HE. Who ? 
 SHE. Somebody ! 
 HE. Somebody who ? 
 
266 LIMA BEANS 
 
 SHE. I can t tell 
 
 HE. You can. 
 
 SHE. I won t tell 
 
 HE. You will 
 
 SHE. I won t 
 
 HE. You will 
 
 SHE. Well ! 
 
 HE. Well? 
 
 SHE. You ought to know ! 
 
 HE. I ought to ? 
 
 SHE. You ought to 
 
 HE. But I don t - 
 
 SHE. Yes, you do ! 
 
 HE. I do not 
 
 SHE. You do ! 
 
 [ The husband eyes the wife thoughtfully. She aids him with a 
 gently mischievous smile. He smiles back in understanding. 
 
 HE. I know ! 
 
 SHE. You do not 
 
 HE. Yes, I do ! 
 
 SHE. Are you sure? 
 
 HE. Sure enough 
 
 SHE. Who was it? 
 
 HE. I won t tell 
 
 SHE. You will ! 
 
 [He points at the audience with warning, goes to the keyhole 
 and listens, draws the window-shade and returns. She 
 nods quickly and puts her head closer to his, her wide-open 
 eyes on the audience. He puts his head to hers, his wide-open 
 eyes on the audience, then turns quickly and whispers some 
 thing in her ear. She nods with secret, uproarious delight. 
 Yes! 
 
 HE. Yes? 
 
 SHE. Yes ! 
 
 [They embrace and click their heels with unrestrained en 
 thusiasm. The wife holds out the bowl to the husband with 
 mock solemnity. He grasps it and together they raise it 
 
LIMA BEANS 267 
 
 above their heads, lower it to their knees, and then shell the 
 beans with one accord. They kiss each other daintily six 
 times. The curtain begins to quiver. As before, but accele 
 rando. 
 
 HE. Stop, queer little dear ! 
 Why is a kiss ? 
 
 SHE. I don t know. 
 
 HE. You don t? 
 
 SHE. No ! 
 
 HE. Then why do you do it ? 
 
 SHE. Love ! 
 
 HE. Love ! 
 
 SHE. Yes ! 
 
 HE. And why is 
 
 [They are interrupted. The curtain comes capering down! 
 The last we behold of the happy pair is their frantic signal 
 ing for the curtain to wait till they have finished. But 
 curtains cannot see or understand ? 
 
THE WONDER HAT 
 
 BEN HECHT 
 
 Perhaps the best conception of Mr. Ben Hecht can be 
 secured from a short autobiography. During the war Mr. 
 Hecht was the official Berlin correspondent of the Chicago 
 Daily News. As he was dashing out on his way to the boat, 
 Mr. Henry Blackman Sell, book editor of the Chicago Daily 
 News, reminded him that the News had no facts concerning 
 his life. Mr. Hecht sat down immediately and produced 
 the following : 
 
 "I was born in New York City in 1893 and travelled ex 
 tensively until the age of eight, when I located in Racine, 
 Wisconsin. At seventeen, I was graduated from the Racine 
 High School and arrived in Chicago a month thereafter. 
 My original intention was to join the Thomas Orchestra as 
 violinist. I secured a job on the staff of the Chicago Journal 
 instead. I worked there for four years. I then joined the 
 Daily News staff and have been more or less employed thereon 
 since. 
 
 "I have, during eight and a half years of reporting, covered 
 221 fires, 9 hangings, 81 murder mysteries, interviewed 651 
 opera stars, 113 foreign diplomats, 99 domestic politicians, 
 1657 girls who have gone wrong ; reported 56 murder trials, 
 901 divorce trials, and 59 trials on grand larceny charges. 
 
 "I have had 45 short stories published in Munsey s, Smart 
 Set, Black Cat, All Story, Parisienne, The Little Review, and 
 have had poetry printed in Poetry A Magazine of Verse. 
 
 " I admire the domestic geranium. Lavender is my favorite 
 color. I have no money in the bank. I am married and 
 the father of one child, a girl. 
 
270 THE WONDER HAT 
 
 " My favorite composers are Beethoven and Debussy. My 
 favorite authors, Huysmans and Dostoyevsky. My favorite 
 artist, Stanislaus Zulkalski. 
 
 "I have read the Daily News regularly for six years." 
 Mr. Ben Hecht is a collaborator with Kenneth Sawyer 
 Goodman in "The Wonder Hat", "An Idyl of the Shops", 
 and "The Hero of Santa Maria", and with Maxwell Boden- 
 heim in "Mrs. Margaret Calhoun." He is sole author of 
 a play entitled "Dregs." 
 
 KENNETH SAWYER GOODMAN 
 
 LIEUTENANT KENNETH SAWYER GOODMAN was born in 
 1883, and died very suddenly of pneumonia on November 
 29, 1918. At the time of his death he was chief aid to Captain 
 Moffett at the Great Lakes Naval Station. 
 
 In cooperating with B. Iden Payne during the Chicago 
 Theatre Society s season at the Fine Arts Theatre in 1913, 
 he helped to give the city one of its most interesting repertory 
 engagements. He was an officer of the Chicago Theatre 
 Society during its three years of life, and contributed to the 
 repertory of its Drama Players in 1911 a translation of Her- 
 vieu s "La Course en Flambeau", which was successfully 
 acted at the Lyric Theatre (now the Great Northern) under 
 the title of "The Passing of the Torch." By the study of 
 play writing (in which he showed marked talent), of stage 
 decoration, and of theatre management, he was preparing 
 himself for important work in dramatic art. 
 
 He is the author of: "Quick Curtains", which contains 
 "Dust of the Road", "The Game of Chess", "Barbara", 
 "Ephraim and the Winged Bear", "Back of the Yards", 
 "Dancing Dolls", and "A Man Can Only Do His Best"; 
 "An Idyl of the Shops ", "The Hero of Santa Maria", and 
 "The Wonder Hat" (in collaboration with Ben Hecht); 
 "Holbein in Blackfriars ", "Ryland", " Rainald and the 
 Red Wolf", and "Masques of East and West" (in collabora 
 tion with Thomas Wood Stevens). 
 
THE WONDER HAT 271 
 
 "Dust of the Road" was first acted by the Wisconsin 
 Dramatic Society in 1911. "The Game of Chess" was first 
 acted in the Fine Arts Theatre, Chicago, under the auspices 
 of the Chicago Theatre Society, 1911, with Walter Hampden 
 and Whitford Kane in the leading r6les. "Barbara" was 
 first acted in the Fine Arts Theatre, Chicago, under the 
 auspices of the Chicago Theatre Society, 1911, with Mona 
 Limerick, Dallas Anderson, and B. Iden Payne in the cast. 
 "Back of the Yards" was acted by the Players* Workshop of 
 Chicago in 1917. "A Man Can Only Do His Best" was 
 first acted at the Gaiety Theatre, Manchester, England, under 
 the direction of B. Iden Payne, 1914. 
 
THE WONDER HAT 
 
 A HARLEQUINADE 
 
 BY BEN HECHT AND KENNETH SAWYER 
 GOODMAN 
 
"The Wonder Hat" was originally produced at the Arts 
 and Crafts Theatre, Detroit, Michigan, in 1916. 
 
 Original Cast 
 
 HARLEQUIN Sam Hume 
 
 PIERROT Charles E. Hilton 
 
 PUNCHINELLO A. L. Weeks 
 
 COLUMBINE Lento Fulwell 
 
 MARGOT Betty Brooks 
 
 All rights reserved. 
 
 Printed by permission of, and special arrangement with, the Stage Guild, Chicago. 
 Application for the right of performing "The Wonder Hat" must be made to the 
 Stage Guild, Railway Exchange Building, Chicago. 
 
THE WONDER HAT 
 
 SCENE. The scene is a park by moonlight. The stage setting 
 is shallow. At the back center is a formal fountain, backed by 
 a short wall about seven feet high and having urns at its two ends. 
 At each side of the fountain are low groups of shrubbery. There 
 is a clear space between the fountain and back drop so that the 
 characters may pass round the shrubbery and the fountain. 
 The back drop represents a night sky with an abnormally large 
 yellow moon. A path crosses the stage parallel to the footlights. 
 As the curtain rises, Harlequin and Pierrot saunter in from 
 the left, arm in arm. They both have on long cloaks and are 
 swinging light canes with an air of elegant ennui. They pause, 
 in the center of the stage. 
 
 HARLEQUIN (indicating with a wave of his cane}. Dear fellow, 
 this is a circular path. It runs quite around the outer 
 edge of the park, a matter of a half mile or thereabouts. It 
 delights me. I always spend my evenings here. One 
 can walk for hours with the absolute certainty of never 
 getting anywhere. 
 
 PIERROT (removing his eyeglass}. Dear chap, in these days 
 of suburban progress, I had not supposed such a place 
 possible. 
 
 HARLEQUIN. There is another point in its favor. As you 
 may have noticed, all the promenaders move continuously 
 in the same direction. It is therefore only necessary to 
 maintain an even pace in order to avoid making acquaint 
 ances. 
 
 PIERROT. One might retrace one s steps. 
 HARLEQUIN. It has been tried by certain elderly roues and 
 ladies from the opera, but always with disastrous results. 
 Our best people no longer attempt it. 
 
276 THE WONDER HAT 
 
 PIERROT (with a slight yawn). How delightfully like life. 
 
 HARLEQUIN. In certain ways, yes. Those of a genial dis 
 position may lag and allow others to catch up. The more 
 adventurous may press on and possibly overtake somebody. 
 But unlike life, one is never troubled by one s creditors. 
 
 PIERROT. How thoroughly charming. (Takes pose at foun 
 tain) Tell me, does Columbine ever come here ? 
 
 HARLEQUIN (becoming serious ; takes pose other side of fountain). 
 That is the one drawback. She comes here very often. 
 
 PIERROT (snappishly). Humph! That is really annoying, 
 deucedly, devilishly, foolishly annoying ! 
 
 HARLEQUIN. You re very emphatic. 
 
 PIERROT (still more snappishly). I have never liked that 
 woman, in spite of what the poets say about us. 
 
 HARLEQUIN. By keeping a sharp lookout, I have thus far 
 managed to avoid her myself and yet keep her often in 
 sight without her laying eyes on me. 
 
 PIERROT (pleased) . I see that we are both confirmed bachelors, 
 without a grain of sentiment in us. We agree perfectly. 
 
 HARLEQUIN. On the contrary, we don t agree at all. Because 
 you dislike Columbine, you re too confoundedly polite to 
 others. You make cynical love to all sorts of women and 
 nobody likes you for it. On the other hand, I am im 
 mensely partial to the same young lady and detest all the 
 rest of the sex. For that reason I am simply overwhelmed 
 with dinner invitations. 
 
 PIERROT. If you re in love with Columbine, why don t you 
 catch up with her some evening and have it out with her ? 
 
 HARLEQUIN (preening himself) . Gross materialist ! For the 
 sake of a few honeyed kisses would you have me risk the 
 crumbling of an ideal? She would certainly fall in love 
 with me like all the others. 
 
 PIERROT (with equal self-satisfaction). At least I should be 
 spared the possibility of her falling in love with me. 
 
 HARLEQUIN. How selfish of you ! (Moves from the fountain) 
 But come, if you are quite rested, let us continue our 
 walk. 
 
THE WONDER HAT 277 
 
 PIERROT (moves from fountain) . To be perfectly frank, dear 
 chap, I find your conversation has made me extremely 
 sleepy. 
 
 HARLEQUIN (haughtily). There is a beautiful stone bench 
 just beyond that clump of lilacs. 
 
 PIERROT. Thanks. When we reach it, I shall sit down. 
 
 HARLEQUIN. By all means, dear fellow. I can then resume 
 my stroll without the encumbrance of your society. 
 [They saunter off, arm in arm. Punchinello enters, dressed 
 in a long, ragged, green coat, carrying a large sack and a little 
 bell. He wears long whiskers and a pair of bone-rimmed 
 spectacles. He advances, tapping before him with a staff and 
 ringing his little bell. 
 
 PUNCHINELLO (in a whining singsong). New loves for old! 
 New loves for old ! New loves for old ! I will buy broken 
 ambitions, wasted lives, cork legs, rejected poems, unfin 
 ished plays, bottles, bootjacks, and worn-out religions. 
 (Drops pack) Oyez ! Oyez ! Oyez ! New loves for old ! New 
 loves for old ! (He wags his head, listening) Nobody here. 
 Damn it all, I ve walked three times round this accursed 
 park with never so much as a squirrel to nibble at my heels. 
 I ve seen moon-faced boys asleep on stone benches, stone 
 tritons blowing water into the air, and a rabble of sick 
 looking poets and silly looking girls, all walking in the same 
 direction. But not a bona fide customer. I ll sit down. 
 Yes, yes, I ll sit dow", curse them, and ease this infernal 
 crick in my back. 
 
 [He unfolds a little camp stool, which he carries slung by a 
 strap, and sits down. Columbine and Margot enter from 
 the left and advance timidly to the center of the stage without 
 noticing Punchinello. 
 
 COLUMBINE. I m sure, Margot, that I saw him here only a 
 minute ago talking to that silly clown in the yellow suit. 
 
 MARGOT. Well, anyway, whether it was him or an halluci 
 nation he s gone now. 
 
 COLUMBINE. Oh, dear ! I thought he might have stopped 
 to let me catch up with him. 
 
278 THE WONDER HAT 
 
 M ARGOT. Do you want my honest opinion, Mistress Colum 
 bine? 
 
 COLUMBINE (stamping her foot). How can an opinion be 
 anything but honest ? An opinion is naturally and auto 
 matically honest. 
 
 MARGOT. Mine ain t, m am. I always formulates my opin 
 ions to conform. 
 
 COLUMBINE. I don t want them. I m miserable. I m 
 wretched. 
 
 MARGOT (severely). Then I won t give them to you. But if 
 you d act more like a lady and stop trapesing around in 
 the damp of the night trying to scrape acquaintance with 
 with this Harlequin who, God knows, may have six or 
 seven wives already 
 
 COLUMBINE. I m not trapesing after him! 
 
 PUNCHINELLO (in his singsong voice} . New loves for old ! New 
 loves for old ! 
 
 COLUMBINE (frightened) . Oh, how you startled me ! 
 
 MARGOT (her hand on her heart) . Lord love us ! I near swal 
 lowed my tongue with the jump he gave me. 
 
 PUNCHINELLO (rubbing his hands) . Bargains ! Cheap, 
 wonderful bargains ! What will the young lady buy ? 
 Something for her parlor ? Something for her bedroom ? 
 Something for herself? Wall paper, eggbeaters, canary 
 birds, salt shakers, oriental rugs, corset covers, diamonds, 
 water bags, chums, potato peelers, hats, shoes, gas fixtures, 
 new, old bargains, lady, bargains. 
 
 COLUMBINE. No, no, no ! I don t want to buy anything. 
 
 PUNCHINELLO (kneeling and spreading out his wares) . I have 
 cures to sell, and charms. 
 
 MARGOT. Can t you see she doesn t want any of your patent 
 medicines ? 
 
 COLUMBINE (fascinated in spite of herself) . What what 
 charms have you ? 
 
 PUNCHINELLO. Ho, ho ! I have a charm to ward off evil 
 spirits. 
 
 MARGOT (in disgust). Get along with you ! 
 
THE WONDER HAT 279 
 
 PUNCHINELLO. Against nightmares, then; against mice, 
 
 toothaches, bunions, burglars, and broken legs. 
 COLUMBINE. I don t want them, any of them. 
 PUNCHINELLO (wagging his head) . Ho, ho ! Ha, ha ! Then 
 
 you re in love. You want a love charm. 
 COLUMBINE (stamping her foot) . You re impudent ! I tell 
 
 you I m not in love. 
 MARGOT (beginning to be interested). What makes you pipe 
 
 her off as being in love ? 
 PUNCHINELLO. A lady who isn t interested in mice, bunions, 
 
 or burglars must be in love. There s no two ways 
 
 about it. 
 
 MARGOT. What about the broken legs and toothaches ? 
 PUNCHINELLO (spreading his hands). I just put that in for 
 
 good measure. 
 COLUMBINE. Enough ! I won t listen to you. I m not in 
 
 love. 
 
 PUNCHINELLO. I can remedy that with a charm. 
 COLUMBINE (almost in tears). I don t want your charms. I 
 
 don t want to -be in love. I hate him ! I hate him ! I 
 
 hate him ! 
 PUNCHINELLO. Yes, yes, pretty lady. I know that sort of 
 
 talk very well. But I have also a charm to attract love. 
 COLUMBINE (brightening immediately) . You have a charm to 
 
 attract love ? 
 PUNCHINELLO. It will bring all men to you ; little men, big 
 
 men, pretty men, noble men, fat men - 
 COLUMBINE (clasping her hands). I want only one man 
 
 only Harlequin. 
 
 MARGOT (interrupting) . If you want my opinion, m am - 
 COLUMBINE. But I don t. 
 
 MARGOT. I d leave this fellow s stuff alone, if I was you. 
 COLUMBINE. But I m not you and I want the charm. 
 PUNCHINELLO (searching through his wares). It will bring 
 
 Harlequin to you with the rest. 
 COLUMBINE (on tiptoe with eagerness). Oh, quick! Give it 
 
 to me. 
 
280 THE WONDER HAT 
 
 PUNCHINELLO (taking an old slipper from his pocket) . Ho, ho ! 
 Here it is. An old slipper ! Each stitch of it more ef 
 fective than Sappho s complete works. Each thread more 
 potent than the burning caresses of Dido. They say 
 Cinderella wore a crystal slipper. It s a lie. This this 
 is what she wore. Ah, ha ! Look at it ! 
 
 COLUMBINE (taken aback). Do I have to wear that. 
 
 M ARGOT (scornfully) . Land s sake, it s all run down at the heel. 
 
 PUNCHINELLO. That s because it has been worn so often. 
 Semiramis of Babylon Lais of Corinth, and Thais of 
 Alexandria all wore this boot. 
 
 MARGOT (with a sniff). Them names don t sound like re 
 spectable ladies to my way of thinking. 
 
 COLUMBINE (dubiously). It looks very old. Are you sure 
 it has been fumigated ? 
 
 PUNCHINELLO. It s no older than the light it will kindle in a 
 thousand eyes when you wear it. But in its antiquity lies 
 its chief charm. Cleopatra of Egypt abetted the lures of 
 her person with this same ragged boot. Mary of Scotland 
 and a hundred other beauties of history have inspired the 
 enraptured supplications of their adorers with no more 
 tangible asset then this homely boot. Put it on, pretty 
 lady, and all the men will flock to your feet, especially 
 to the foot that wears the slipper. 
 [He hands Columbine the slipper. 
 
 COLUMBINE. Ooh, ooh ! How wonderful ! 
 
 MARGOT (with a superior air) . Take my word, miss, it ll be 
 a nuisance to you. 
 
 COLUMBINE. I don t care. I m going to teach Harlequin a 
 lesson he won t forget in a hurry. 
 
 [She takes off her own shoe, hopping on one foot and holding 
 Margot s arm. She then puts on the magic slipper. 
 
 MARGOT. Mind, I warned you. 
 
 COLUMBINE (stamping her foot down) . There ! It doesn t 
 look so badly once I get it on. It fits perfectly. 
 
 PUNCHINELLO (groveling on his knees). Oh, most wonderful 
 lady ! Oh, most beautiful, most gracious, most divine lady ! 
 
THE WONDER HAT 281 
 
 MARGOT (amazed at Punchinello 1 s sudden fervor) . Lord love 
 
 us ! What s got into the old bag of bones ? 
 PUNCHINELLO (to Columbine). You have melted the lump of 
 
 ice in my old breast. I am young again. I can hear the 
 
 birds singing and sweet waters falling. 
 MARGOT (to Punchinello) . Get up this minute, before I burst 
 
 a lung bawling for help. 
 COLUMBINE (dancing up and down with delight). Oh, oh, oh ! 
 
 Now I know it works. Don t you understand, Margot? 
 
 It s the slipper, the magic slipper. 
 
 PUNCHINELLO. I love you ! I love you ! I love you ! 
 MARGOT. Stop it, I tell you. 
 COLUMBINE (gently). That s very nice in you, of course, but 
 
 get up, please, and tell me how much I owe you. 
 MARGOT. We can t stand here all night. 
 PUNCHINELLO (still on his knees) Oh, oh, oh ! 
 COLUMBINE (stamping her foot). Don t you hear me ? I say 
 
 how much do I owe you for the magic slipper ? 
 PUNCHINELLO (still groveling) . Nothing ! Nothing ! You 
 
 owe me nothing at all. I will give you everything in my 
 
 sack, all my bargains, all my spells, all my charms. 
 MARGOT. She wouldn t touch them with the tip of a barge pole. 
 COLUMBINE (to Margot). I really think I ought to pay him. 
 MARGOT. If he won t take anything he won t. That s all 
 
 there is to it. 
 
 PUNCHINELLO. Speak to me. My heart is bursting. 
 MARGOT. Let it burst then. Come, m am. It s my advice 
 
 to get away from here before he throws a fit and the police 
 
 come for him. 
 COLUMBINE. Yes, yes. Let s run. 
 
 [Columbine takes Margot by the hand and they run of right, 
 
 laughing. 
 PUNCHINELLO (attempting to rise). Wait, wait! You must 
 
 listen to me. I love you. I I Oh, this stitch in my 
 
 side! 
 
 [As the girls voices die away he struggles to his feet and rubs 
 
 his head in a dazed sort of way. 
 
282 THE WONDER HAT 
 
 Gone ! What have I done ? By the seven witches of Be 
 elzebub, by the long fanged mother of the great green spider, 
 I have given my magic slipper away for nothing. (He 
 shakes his staff) I ve been tricked, cheated. Curses on 
 her golden head. May she have nightmares and tooth 
 ache ! May Old fool ! A blight on my whiskers ! 
 I ve given my darling slipper away for nothing. 
 (He sits down again on his camp stool and rocks to and /ro, 
 muttering. Harlequin, having completed his circle of the 
 park, enters from the left. He is smoking a cigarette and 
 strolls along, wearing a gloomy and troubled expression. 
 Punchinello sees him and resumes his whining chant) 
 New loves for old. New loves for old. Bargains in cast- 
 off sweethearts, old coats, umbrellas, glove buttoners, and 
 household pets. Bargains sir. Cheap, wonderful bar 
 gains ! 
 
 (Harlequin passes and regards Punchinello with absolute 
 indifference) 
 
 I have pipes, swords, hosiery, snuff-boxes, underwear, 
 wines, trinkets for beautiful ladies, furniture, spyglasses, 
 motor cars, and bottle openers. 
 
 HARLEQUIN (impatiently). I want none of your bargains. 
 
 PUNCHINELLO. I have magic charms, sir. Spells and 
 charms. 
 
 HARLEQUIN. Ah, more like it! You have charms, eh? 
 What kind of charms ? 
 
 PUNCHINELLO. I have charms against bunions, burglars, 
 broken legs, nightmares, stomach-aches, and hangnails. 
 
 HARLEQUIN. Ordinary trash. I don t want them. 
 
 PUNCHINELLO (looking furtively about) . I have a love charm. 
 
 HARLEQUIN (in alarm) God forbid ! 
 
 PUNCHINELLO (rubbing his hands). Ho, ho! He, he! 
 
 HARLEQUIN. Have you, by any chance, a charm against 
 love ? Aye, more, have you some efficacious armour against 
 womankind in general ? 
 
 PUNCHINELLO. Ho, ho ! A man after my own Aeart. A 
 cautious man. A sensible man. 
 
THE WONDER HAT 283 
 
 HARLEQUIN (loftily). Know you, antiquated pander, that 
 in this day, a young man s lot is not a happy one. Every 
 where I go, excepting only this park, women follow me. 
 They stalk me. They covet me. They make my days 
 miserable. They haunt my sleep. They simper about me, 
 wink at me, rub against me like silken cats. (With vex 
 ation) Ah, I would almost end my life from very irrita 
 tion with their wiles, their snaring pursuits, from the very 
 annoyance of their cloying affection. And the worst part 
 of it is that I know myself susceptible. 
 
 PUNCHINELLO (slyly) . There is no charm in the world 
 against falling in love, but I can sell you a powder which, 
 tossed into the air, will bring destruction to women alone. 
 
 HARLEQUIN (rubbing his chin doubtfully). No, that s too 
 brutal. I couldn t kill them all even if I wanted to. And 
 what use to destroy a hundred, a thousand, even a million 
 women, and have one sneak up behind you and get you 
 after all. It would be an effort wasted. Love is inevitable. 
 
 PUNCHINELLO. Wait. Ho, ho ! I have it, the very thing. 
 If one cannot remove the inevitable, at any rate one can 
 hide from it. What doesn t see you, can t get you. 
 Ha, ha ! I can sell you a hat. 
 
 HARLEQUIN. I am not in the market for a hat. 
 
 PUNCHINELLO (triumphantly) . But, a magic hat ! A Wonder 
 Hat ! It will make you invisible. 
 
 HARLEQUIN (incredulously) . Invisible ! 
 
 PUNCHINELLO (fishing in his bag). When you put it on, you 
 will be invisible to the world. You will exist only in your 
 own mind. You will escape the pernicious sentimentality, 
 the never-ending blandishments, the strategic coquetry 
 of women. Ho, ho ! Ha, ha ! 
 
 HARLEQUIN (eagerly). Come, you millinery sorcerer. You 
 have convinced me. Invisibility is the one thing I crave 
 to make me sublimely happy. Splendid. They shall 
 never simper at me again, never undulate before my tor 
 mented eyes. I will buy it. 
 
 PUNCHINELLO (holding up the hat). Is it not a creation? 
 
284 THE WONDER HAT 
 
 HARLEQUIN (looking at the hat with distaste). God, what a 
 thing to wear ! I would not wear it, you may be sure, 
 were it not invisible. Being invisible, I assure you, is its 
 chief charm. Indeed, any man would prefer not to be 
 seen in such a hat. 
 
 PUNCHINELLO. It may be unlovely in outline, coarse in tex 
 ture, unrefined in color, but there is only one other such 
 hat in the world. It belongs to the Grand Llamah of 
 Thibet. Ha, ha ! This one will cost you gold. 
 
 HARLEQUIN (cautiously) . But, first I must see if it is really 
 a wonder hat. 
 
 PUNCHINELLO. I will put it on. 
 [He does so. 
 
 HARLEQUIN (delighted). A miracle! Where are you? 
 
 PUNCHINELLO (removing the hat with a flourish) . Now ! 
 
 HARLEQUIN. What wonders I will do with that hat. I will 
 walk the streets in comfort and security. But stay ! 
 What if the hat is only charmed for you? What if the 
 charm does not apply to me ? 
 
 PUNCHINELLO. You shall try it yourself. Put it on. 
 [Harlequin takes the hat and puts it on. 
 
 HARLEQUIN. Can you see me ? 
 
 PUNCHINELLO. By St. Peter of Padua, not a speck of you ! 
 [He gropes with his hands, then strikes out with his staff and 
 strikes Harlequin on the shins. 
 
 HARLEQUIN. Ooh ! Ouch ! 
 
 PUNCHINELLO. You see you are quite invisible. 
 
 HARLEQUIN. But not invulnerable. 
 [He rubs his shin. 
 
 PUNCHINELLO. How much will you give me for this Wonder 
 Hat? 
 
 HARLEQUIN. Are you sure you can t see me ? 
 
 PUNCHINELLO. You are one with the thin air and the fairies 
 that inhabit it. 
 [Rubbing his hands. 
 
 HARLEQUIN. There s no uncanny trick by which Columbine 
 can discover me ? 
 
THE WONDER HAT 285- 
 
 PUNCHINELLO. None ! None ! I swear it. It s only by 
 your voice that I know where you are. 
 [He swings out with his staff. Harlequin leaps nimbly aside. 
 
 PUNCHINELLO. For years I have treasured this wonder hat. 
 A blind woman with seven teeth and one eye made it in 
 a haunted hut. It was cooked over a fire of serpents* 
 skins. (As Punchinello speaks, Harlequin tiptoes away to 
 the right around the central group of shrubbei-y) It is colored 
 with the dye of a magic root. It is older than the oldest 
 cloud and you can figure out for yourself how old that 
 would be. Ho, ho ! There s no charm like it to be had 
 from one peak of the world to the other. (He swings 
 out again with his staff) Five bags of gold, sir. Cheap, 
 a bargain. Hey ! (He swings his staff) Hey ! Hey ! 
 Where are you ? Take off my hat so that I can see you. 
 Give me back my hat. (He stands still and listens) 
 Thief! Thief! He s gone. Oh, what a fool. First 
 my magic slipper, worth fifty pots of gold. What 
 a doddering idiot ! I have lost my magic hat, my wonder 
 hat. I ve been cheated, robbed. Oh, what a stitch in 
 my side. Oh, oh ! (He gathers up his pack hurriedly, then 
 stops and taps the side of his nose with his finger) Ho, ho ! 
 A thought ! What a pair of lovers they will make ! She 
 with her slipper. He with his hat. She said Harlequin. 
 He said Columbine. Yes, yes ! I shall have my reward. 
 They are the fools, not I. As if love were not enough 
 magic of itself. Ho, ho, ho ! I must follow her. She 
 went this way. 
 
 [He moves off toward the right, leaving his camp stool. Har 
 lequin appears round the left end of the shrubbery and ad 
 vances cautiously to center of stage. 
 
 HARLEQUIN (looking after Punchinello). I should have paid 
 him if he hadn t run away like that. I detest the idea of 
 cheating anybody. But of course, one can t be running 
 after tradespeople, pressing money upon them. It simply 
 isn t done. (He looks in the other direction) Columbine 
 should have made the round of the park by this time. 
 
986 THE WONDER HAT 
 
 What s keeping her ? Here I am waiting for her, as safe 
 and invisible as the angels themselves. (He sits down on 
 the camp stool and holds his hand before his face) No, I 
 can t see it. I wonder if I have a hand or a leg, or a 
 stomach, or a heart ? If I don t take off my hat and look 
 at myself I shall soon become a total stranger to myself. 
 What a wonder hat ! ( There is the sound of women s 
 voices in the distance. He pricks up his ears) Ah, her 
 voice ! Like the tinkling bells in a shrine of ivory. Like 
 the patter of crystal rain in a pool of scarlet lilies. (He 
 slaps his leg) Ah, ha! I m in love. In love! To the 
 tips of where my fingers ought to be. (He becomes serious) 
 If I should take off my hat, I d be lost. She would pounce 
 on me, and, being in love, I should pounce back. My hat 
 must stay on. I will tie it on. I will nail it on. Curse 
 me if I take off my hat. (He pull& his hat down to the tips 
 of his ears, then clasps his hands) Ah, to sit by her, safe 
 and unseen ! To bask in the splendor of her presence. 
 To love and be loved only as a dream. To be free from all 
 material entanglements and responsibilities. To touch 
 her with invisible fingers and permit the stolen thrills 
 to course up and down my invisible spine ! (He sings) 
 
 Wandering Minstrel Air 
 
 A love-sick atom I, 
 
 A thing unseen and seeing, 
 
 For in my hat am I 
 
 A hypothetical being. 
 
 (He suddenly has a new thought) But what if, being unable 
 to see me, she should fall in love with somebody else? 
 That vapid ass, Pierrot, for instance? Oh, God, what 
 if he should strike fire in her heart? But I will not take 
 off my hat. Kind heaven, give me the strength to keep 
 my hat on. 
 
 [He pulls the hat still further over his ears, just as Columbine 
 and Margot enter from the left. 
 
THE WONDER HAT 287 
 
 COLUMBINE. This is too much ! Did you ever see such a 
 rabble? 
 
 MARGOT. I shouldn t be so particular, miss, seeing as how 
 you brought it on yourself. 
 
 COLUMBINE. They ve risen from every bench to follow me. 
 They ve come from every corner of the park ; burglars, 
 doctors, poets, whiskered Don Juans, rumbling Romeos. 
 Great Heavens, the idiots ! If they hadn t fallen to fight 
 ing among themselves, we d have been trampled to death. 
 I I hope they exterminate each other. I hope I never 
 see them again. I I 
 
 [Harlequin, seeing Columbine in such an angry mood, rises 
 cautiously and in so doing upsets the camp stool. He stands 
 trembling and holding on to his hat. 
 
 MARGOT (starting) . Bless me, what s that ? 
 
 [Both look around. Their eyes pass over Harlequin without 
 seeing him. 
 
 COLUMBINE. Nothing. There s nobody here. 
 
 [Evidently much relieved, Harlequin tiptoes to the right end 
 of the fountain. 
 
 MARGOT. If you want my honest opinion, miss 
 
 COLUMBINE (stamping her foot). How many times must I 
 tell you 
 
 MARGOT. Be careful with that magic boot, miss. 
 
 COLUMBINE. What s the good of it? It s brought me 
 nothing but trouble. 
 
 MARGOT. Well, what did you expect ? 
 
 COLUMBINE (almost weeping). It hasn t brought him. It 
 hasn t brought Harlequin. 
 
 MARGOT. If you want my opinion, miss, honest or other 
 wise 
 
 COLUMBINE (stamping her foot again). I don t! 
 
 MARGOT. Then I won t give it to you. 
 
 COLUMBINE. Oh, Margot, be gentle with me. I love him 
 and I m dreadfully uncomfortable about it. 
 
 MARGOT. Well, there s worse discomfort. There s clergy 
 man s sore throat, for instance, and housemaid s knee. 
 
288 THE WONDER HAT 
 
 COLUMBINE (clinching her hands). Oh, if I could only see 
 
 him now, the cold-hearted fish ! I d fix him ! I d melt 
 
 his icy blood for him ! 
 
 [Harlequin holds tight to his hat. 
 M ARGOT (soothingly). Of course you would. Of course you 
 
 would. 
 COLUMBINE (sits on fountain) . But he can t escape. The 
 
 magic slipper will draw him from the ends of the earth. 
 
 I ll marry him. I ll have him for my own, locked under 
 
 key in a house ; a beautiful little house, all new and spick 
 
 and span, with white trimmings and green shutters. 
 M ARGOT. If I may put in a word for myself, miss, I hope 
 
 you won t have a basement kitchen. 
 COLUMBINE. But I ll make him suffer first. I ll I ll 
 
 (spitefully) 
 
 [Harlequin jams his hat down tighter and disappears behind 
 
 the fountain. 
 
 MARGOT. If you must get het up and stamp, miss, I d ad 
 vise you to confine your stamping to the foot which ain t 
 
 got the magic boot on. 
 
 COLUMBINE. Margot, were you ever in love ? 
 MARGOT. You know very well, miss, I have three babies 
 
 at home. 
 
 COLUMBINE. Tell me, did you love their father ? 
 MARGOT. It s my honest opinion, miss, there were three 
 
 fathers, and I loved them all very much. 
 COLUMBINE (shocked). Then you re a wicked woman. 
 MARGOT. There are opinions concerning that question, miss, 
 
 honest and otherwise. 
 COLUMBINE. You are, I say. 
 MARGOT. Which I choose, begging your pardon, to consider 
 
 as an otherwise opinion. Being a father to three babies 
 
 puts an awful responsibility on a man, as you may find 
 
 out for yourself some day. So I was careful to distribute 
 
 the burden. 
 
 [Pierrot enters dishevelled and breathless. He advances and 
 flings himself on one knee before Columbine. 
 
THE WONDER HAT 289 
 
 PIERROT. At last, exquisite Columbine, ravishing vision, I 
 have overcome my rivals. I have vanquished a legion of 
 your adorers. 
 [Harlequin peeps round the left side of the fountain. 
 
 MARGOT. Lord love us, you look as though you d been run 
 through a threshing machine. 
 
 PIERROT. I have. I kicked Scaramouche in the stomach 
 and pushed the Doctor of Bologna into a lily pond. Divine 
 Circe, I have come to claim my reward. 
 [He clutches at the edge of Columbine s dress. 
 
 COLUMBINE. You re tearing the trimming off my petti 
 coat. 
 
 PIERROT. Columbine, Columbine, I love you ! 
 
 MARGOT (taking his arm and pulling him to his feet). Get 
 up, you big baby. 
 
 [Harlequin tiptoes across the stage and stands behind Margot 
 and Pierrot. 
 
 PIERROT (clasping his hands). I love you, Columbine. Lis 
 ten to me. 
 
 COLUMBINE (haughtily). This is a very sudden change on 
 your part, Mr. Pierrot. Yesterday you snubbed me quite 
 openly. 
 
 PIERROT. Forgive me ! I was blind ! I was a dolt. I have 
 only just now come to my senses. 
 
 MARGOT (turning her shoulder to him and folding her arms). 
 You ll come to something worse presently. 
 
 PIERROT. I love you. I love you. 
 
 [Harlequin reaches out and deftly extracts a long hat pin 
 from the back of Margot s cap. Margot puts her hands to 
 her head and turns fiercely on Pierrot. 
 
 MARGOT. How dast you grab my hat? 
 
 PIERROT (in astonishment). I never touched your hat. 
 
 MARGOT. You did. 
 
 PIERROT (turning on her) . I I did nothing of the sort. 
 
 MARGOT. There s laws to cover this sort of thing an 
 noying women in a public park. 
 
 PIERROT. You re an impudent hussy. 
 
290 THE WONDER HAT 
 
 MARGOT. You re nothing but a common, ordinary home 
 wrecker. 
 
 [Harlequin approaches Columbine and gently touches her 
 hair. Pierrot and Margot glare at each other. 
 
 COLUMBINE (clasping her hands). Margot, Margot, it s 
 wonderful ! It s divine. I feel as if the air were sud 
 denly full of kisses. 
 [Harlequin strikes an attitude of complete satisfaction. 
 
 MARGOT. It s full of dampness and nasty language, that s 
 what it is. 
 [She gives Pierrot a venomous look. 
 
 PIERROT (again falling on his knees). It s full of unspeakable 
 ecstasy of my adoration. 
 
 COLUMBINE (paying no attention to him). It s full of mar- 
 velously shy caresses. They are like the wings of happy 
 butterflies, brushing the white lilac blooms. 
 
 PIERROT. Ah, what did I tell you ? The love I offer you is 
 a gift, a treasure. 
 
 COLUMBINE (her hands still clasped). I can almost hear in 
 visible lips sighing my name his lips Harlequin s lips. 
 
 PIERROT (straightening himself up on his knees) . What s that 
 you say about Harlequin ? 
 
 COLUMBINE (coming to herself). It s none of your business. 
 
 PIERROT (spitefully). Good God! To think of intruding 
 that fellow s name at a time like this. Why, the chap s 
 positively a bounder. He has no taste, no education, no 
 refinement. And his face ugh ! He d frighten him 
 self to death if he looked in a mirror before his barber got 
 to him in the morning. 
 
 [Harlequin steps behind Pierrot and prods him in the back 
 with the hat pin. 
 
 PIERROT. Ooh ! Ouch! (He springs to his feet and turns on 
 Margot) You you did that. You you know you did. 
 [Shaking his finger in her face. 
 
 MARGOT (taken aback) . Did what ? 
 
 PIERROT (in a rage) . You you stabbed me in the back 
 and don t you deny it. 
 
THE WONDER HAT 291 
 
 M ARGOT. The man s stark, staring mad ! 
 
 COLUMBINE (to Pierrot in an icy tone). Will you be good 
 
 enough to explain what s the matter with you? 
 PIERROT (his eyes still on Margot). I ve been attacked, 
 
 lacerated. 
 
 MARGOT. If you don t behave yourself, I ll give you some 
 thing to howl about. 
 PIERROT (again falling at Columbine s feet). But it s nothing, 
 
 nothing to the torments I suffer from your heartlessness. 
 
 Nothing to the 
 
 (Harlequin stabs again) 
 
 Ouch ! Wow ! Hell s fire ! Animals ! I m being bitten 
 
 to death ! 
 
 [He clasps his hand to the spot. 
 MARGOT. And a good riddance, too ! 
 COLUMBINE. Come, Margot. I won t stay here. I won t 
 
 be insulted. 
 PIERROT (again grasping the hem of her gown). No, no, I ll 
 
 suffer everything. I ll suffer in silence. Only don t 
 
 leave me. Speak to me. I love you. I - 
 COLUMBINE. Let go my dress or I ll scream for help. 
 MARGOT. If you really want help, miss, it s my advice take 
 
 off the slipper. 
 
 [Harlequin, who has been about to attack Pierrot, hesitates and 
 
 looks puzzled. 
 COLUMBINE. Yes, yes. Why didn t I think of it. 
 
 [She whips off the magic slipper and holds it in her hand. 
 
 The moment the slipper leaves her foot, Pierrot sits back 
 
 on his haunches and lets go of the edge of Columbine s 
 
 dress. 
 PIERROT (in a feeble voice). I love you. I (He rubs his 
 
 head) By Jove, this is most extraordinary ! 
 MARGOT (clapping her hands). Toss it to me, miss. 
 
 [Columbine tosses the slipper to Margot. 
 MARGOT (examining the slipper). What a rummy slipper! 
 
 (She takes off her shoe) I wonder what s inside of it. Love ? 
 
 (She puts it on her own foot) Ooh ! How it tickles ! 
 
THE WONDER HAT 
 
 [Pierrot rises from his knees and looks helplessly from Col 
 
 umbine to Margot. 
 COLUMBINE. Well, Mr. Pierrot? 
 PIERROT (completely puzzled) . I am quite at a loss to explain 
 
 my feelings. 
 
 [He hesitates, then turns and kneels before Margot. Harle 
 
 quin appears even more puzzled. He is also drawn toward 
 
 Margot by the spell of the slipper, but his natural infatua 
 
 tion for Columbine seems to neutralize the charm. He is 
 
 visibly perplexed. 
 PIERROT. Incomparable Margot ! Queen among house 
 
 maids ! Divine custodian of my deepest affections. 
 MARGOT. You see, miss, the gentleman is now in love with me. 
 COLUMBINE. Disgusting ! 
 PIERROT. I am drawn by some irresistible power of fasci 
 
 nation. I belong to you utterly. 
 MARGOT. You belong in jail, that s where you belong. 
 
 You re nothing but a a shameless affinity. 
 PIERROT (clinging to the hem of M argot s skirt). I love you. 
 
 I swear it. See, I kiss the hem of your gown. I throw 
 
 myself on your mercy. 
 
 MARGOT (weakening) . Oh, la, la ! Listen to the man talk ! 
 COLUMBINE. You re a brazen hussy to take advantage of 
 
 your social superior. 
 
 MARGOT (haughtily). My superior? Him? 
 COLUMBINE (stamping her foot) . You re forgetting your place. 
 PIERROT. I love you. I love you. 
 MARGOT (slyly). Suppose, miss, I was to say I believe every 
 
 word he says to me? 
 COLUMBINE. I d say you were an artful, designing minx. 
 
 I d discharge you without a shred of character. 
 MARGOT. Well, you won t have to because I ain t going 
 
 to say it. 
 PIERROT (making another grab at her skirt). You must listen 
 
 to me. You must. 
 
 [Harlequin stabs him once more with the hat pin. 
 
 Ouch ! Wow ! This is terrible. I love you. 
 
THE WONDER HAT 293 
 
 MARGOT. Hey ! Get up. A woman what works for a living 
 
 can t afford to have her good nerves shattered for her. 
 
 [She tries to shake of Pierrot. 
 
 COLUMBINE. Give me back the slipper, this instant. 
 MARGOT. You re welcome to it, I m sure. 
 
 (She snatches off the slipper and tosses it away from her. 
 
 Columbine picks it up, but does not put it on) 
 
 Now will you leave go of me ? 
 
 [To Pierrot. He releases her in a dazed way. 
 PIERROT. I love you. I - 
 
 [He arisen and again looks from one to the other. Columbine 
 
 holds the slipper in her hand. 
 COLUMBINE. Well, sir? 
 
 MARGOT. Well ? 
 
 PIERROT (adjusting his collar and speaking quite calmly). I 
 consider myself fortunate in having escaped you both. I 
 see now that there is something deadly about that slipper. 
 To think that a man of my intellectual and artistic at 
 tainments should have been affected by such a slippery 
 artifice. In love with a boot ! How very trivial ! 
 
 MARGOT. Well, what are you going to do now ? 
 
 PIERROT. I don t know exactly. Perhaps I shall drown my 
 self in the fountain. 
 
 [He turns his back on Margot and Columbine and assumes a 
 pose of thoughtful indifference. Harlequin again approaches 
 Columbine. 
 
 COLUMBINE. Margot, Margot, what shall I do ? I m faint. 
 I m intoxicated. He hasn t come and yet I feel as if he 
 were near me, almost touching me. I feel all the exquisite 
 uncertainty of love. Yes, yes, I love him. I love Har 
 lequin and I know that he loves me in return. I know it, 
 and yet, and yet 
 
 MARGOT. Yes, miss, and yet ? 
 
 COLUMBINE (wringing her hands) . And yet I don t know what 
 under heavens to do about it. 
 
 [Harlequin clasps his hands in an ecstasy of complete satis 
 faction. Margot and Columbine are now at one side and 
 
294 THE WONDER HAT 
 
 Margot speaks in a tone which Harlequin and Pierrot are not 
 supposed to hear. 
 
 MARGOT. It s my advice, miss, put the slipper on again. 
 What if it don t catch this here Harlequin ? There s just 
 as big perch in the puddle as ever came out of it. That s 
 my motto. Besides, there is such a thing as making the 
 right man jealous. 
 
 COLUMBINE (brightening immediately). I believe you re 
 right. I ll put on the slipper. I ll have a desperate 
 flirtation with Pierrot. I ll take him everywhere with 
 me. I ll dangle him before Harlequin s eyes. It will 
 serve them both right. (She puts on the slipper and speaks 
 archly) Mr. Pierrot. 
 
 PIERROT (turning). Eh? I beg your pardon. 
 
 COLUMBINE. I don t want you to be angry with me. 
 [Pierrot looks puzzled for a moment, then succumbs to the spell 
 of the slipper again and rushes toward her. 
 
 PIERROT. I I don t (He throws himself on his knees) 
 Columbine, Columbine, my angel, my flower, my enchant 
 ress ! 
 
 COLUMBINE (shaking her finger at him) . You were very rude 
 to me a few moments ago. 
 [Harlequin watches with puzzled interest. 
 
 PIERROT. Forgive me ! It was a dream. I love you ! 
 
 COLUMBINE. You accused me of having ensnared your af 
 fections by means of a charm. 
 
 PIERROT. A charm ? I don t know anything about a charm. 
 I am charmed only by your eyes, your lips, the flow of your 
 voice. 
 
 COLUMBINE. Do you know I think it s very sweet of you to 
 say that, after all that s happened this evening. 
 
 PIERROT. I can say more, a thousand times more. 
 
 COLUMBINE. Perhaps I shall give you the chance. 
 
 HARLEQUIN (aloud, completely overcome with jealousy) . Here s 
 a fine kettle of fish ! 
 
 PIERROT. You you do love me then, after all ? 
 
 COLUMBINE. I haven t said so. 
 
THE WONDER HAT 295 
 
 HARLEQUIN. I shall put a stop to this. (He seems to come to 
 a tremendous resolution) I I shall take off my hat. 
 
 MABGOT. Lord have mercy, what is that? 
 
 COLUMBINE. Please give me your arm. 
 
 HARLEQUIN. Thousand devils, I can t get it off ! 
 
 COLUMBINE. You may see me to my door. 
 
 HARLEQUIN (frantically). Wait! Stop! If, if I could 
 only get my hat off ! 
 
 MARGOT (alarmed). I want to get away from here. 
 
 COLUMBINE (listening). It s Harlequin s voice. 
 
 PIERROT. I don t see anybody. 
 
 [They all look about them. Punchinello enters from the left 
 with his pack on his back. They all see him. 
 
 PUNCHINELLO. Ho, ho, ha ha ! There you are, eh ? There 
 you are. I ve been looking for you. Ho, ho ! And 
 now I ve caught up with you. 
 
 [Columbine hastily snatches of her slipper and hides it be 
 hind her. They all face Punchinello. Harlequin tiptoes to 
 one side and watches curiously. 
 
 COLUMBINE. What do you want? 
 
 PUNCHINELLO. What do I want, eh ? You know very well 
 what I want. I want my magic slipper, my magic slipper 
 that you stole from me. 
 
 COLUMBINE. I didn t steal it. You gave it to me. 
 
 PUNCHINELLO. Ho, ho ! That s a pretty story. I gave it 
 to you, eh ? Well, I changed my mind. 
 
 COLUMBINE. I I m perfectly willing to pay you for it. 
 
 MARGOT. Don t you give him a cent, the miserable 
 oyster. 
 
 COLUMBINE. How much do you want for it ? 
 
 PUNCHINELLO. I should think about ten bags of gold. 
 
 COLUMBINE. Ridiculous ! There isn t so much money in 
 the whole world. 
 
 PUNCHINELLO (pointing to Pierrot). Perhaps this nice gentle 
 man would like to buy it for you ? 
 
 PIERROT. I (He looks at Columbine) I have only the most 
 casual acquaintance with this lady. 
 
296 THE WONDER HAT 
 
 HARLEQUIN (in a rage, to Pierrot). You infernal little cad! 
 
 You 
 
 [He makes a movement toward Pierrot. All start away from 
 
 his voice but Punchinello. 
 PUNCHINELLO. Ho, ho ! So you re here. Two birds with 
 
 one stone. (He rubs his hands) My magic slipper and 
 
 my beloved Wonder Hat. Well, well, well ! 
 
 (Harlequin, seeing he has betrayed his presence, stands as if 
 
 undecided what to do. Punchinello strikes about him with 
 
 his staff) 
 
 Hey, where are you ? Take off my hat. 
 MARGOT. For the love of heaven, what is he raving about 
 
 now? 
 PUNCHINELLO. My hat, my Wonder Hat. I sold it to 
 
 Harlequin for five bags of gold six bags of gold. 
 COLUMBINE. You sold it to Harlequin ? 
 PUNCHINELLO. Aye, the ruffian, the highwayman. He 
 
 clapped it on his head and now he s invisible. 
 COLUMBINE (in delighted wonder). You really mean that 
 
 Harlequin is here, near us ? Oh, I knew it. I felt it. 
 PUNCHINELLO. Of course, he s here. Hey, you, take off 
 
 my hat. (He swings his staff and Harlequin dances out of 
 
 the way) 
 
 Take off my hat or give me my eight bags of gold. (He 
 
 swings his staff again) Hey, thief ! 
 HARLEQUIN. I m not a thief. I d have paid you for your 
 
 hat if you hadn t run away in such a huff. Now, after the 
 
 way you ve acted, I shall take my own time about it. 
 COLUMBINE (stamping her foot). Harlequin. 
 HARLEQUIN (in a dubious voice) . Ye yes ? 
 COLUMBINE. Take off that silly hat this minute ! 
 HARLEQUIN. I well, to tell the truth, I 
 COLUMBINE. Don t you hear what I m saying ? Give it back 
 
 this second. 
 HARLEQUIN. I would first like some sort of assurance, some 
 
 guarantee of good faith, some - 
 COLUMBINE. I m not making any promises this evening. 
 
THE WONDER HAT 97 
 
 HARLEQUIN (plaintively). My dear Columbine, I have 
 learned a good deal about my own feelings in the last 
 half hour. I am perfectly willing to return this man s 
 property and to submit to the ordinary and normal risks 
 of society, but I positively insist that, before I reveal 
 myself, you must also return to him all sundry charms, 
 spells, et cetera, which might, if used either by accident 
 or malice aforethought, affect my own future course of 
 action. 
 
 COLUMBINE (remaining absolutely firm). I ve told you once 
 that I won t make any promises. 
 
 HARLEQUIN. Then, I remain invisible. 
 
 PUNCHINELLO. I tell you once more, give me back my 
 hat. 
 
 HARLEQUIN (folding his arms). No. 
 
 PUNCHINELLO. Ah, ha ! Then I shall have my revenge. 
 Know, miserable butterfly, that you are trifling with 
 magic beyond your own powers of control. There is a 
 terrible clause in the incorporation of this hat. Listen. 
 He who steals this Wonder Hat and places it upon his own 
 head, cannot remove it again except in the presence and 
 with the consent of its rightful owner. When I have left 
 you, you will become for all time one with the interstellar 
 atoms. You will never resume your mortal shape. You 
 will haunt the cafes. You will moon among the boxes at 
 the opera. You will sigh and pine in the wake of beautiful 
 women, as futile and impalpable as a gust of summer wind. 
 (He picks up his pack) Now, will you give me back my 
 hat? 
 
 HARLEQUIN (with evident effort at firmness). No, not unless 
 Columbine first returns the slipper. 
 
 PUNCHINELLO. Madam, I make my last appeal to you. 
 
 COLUMBINE (folding her arms). Not unless Harlequin first 
 returns the hat. 
 [Punchinello looks from one to the other. 
 
 PUNCHINELLO. Come, ladies and gentlemea, I have urgent 
 business elsewhere. 
 
298 THE WONDER HAT 
 
 PIERROT. Might I suggest that the simplest way out of the 
 dilemma would be for each of the principal parties to re 
 turn the pilfered articles at the same exact time. 
 
 PUNCHINELLO. An excellent idea. 
 
 PIERROT. I shall count, and at the word "three" is that 
 satisfactory to everybody ? 
 
 HARLEQUIN (doubtfully) . Ye yes. 
 
 COLUMBINE (doubtfully) . Ye yes. 
 
 PIERROT. Very well, then. One (Harlequin begins to 
 loosen the hat) Two 
 
 MARGOT (stepping forward). Stop, everybody. You, Mis 
 tress Columbine, and you, invisible Mr. Harlequin. Be 
 cause no matter what you do, somebody s bound to regret 
 it. You, wherever you are, keep your lid on and your 
 mouth shut. I want to put it up to the kind ladies and 
 gentlemen that have been studying this performance and 
 I asks them openly, what should be done at this point? 
 Should Columbine give back the slipper or should she 
 hang on to what she s got? Should Harlequin take off 
 his hat ? Personally, my honest opinion is that the ques 
 tion can t be answered to suit everybody so it s my ad 
 vice that we ring down right here and allow every one to 
 go home and fix up an ending to conform to the state of 
 one s own digestion. 
 
 PIERROT. But you know, we re being paid to finish this 
 thing. 
 
 HARLEQUIN. Paid ? We re not working for money. We re 
 working for love. 
 
 COLUMBINE. Love ! 
 
 MARGOT. Aw, hell ! 
 
 QUICK CURTAIN 
 
SUPPRESSED DESIRES 
 
 GEORGE CRAM COOK 
 
 MR. GEORGE CRAM COOK was born in Davenport, Iowa, in 
 1873. He studied at the University of Iowa, Harvard, 
 Heidelberg, and the University of Geneva. He was pro 
 fessor at the University of Iowa from 1895 to 1899, and at 
 Leland Stanford University from 1902 to 1903. In 1911 he 
 was Associate Literary Editor of the Chicago Evening Post. 
 
 He is the author of: "In Hampton Roads" (novel), 
 "Roderick Taliaferro", "Evolution and the Superman", 
 "The Chasm" (novel), "Battle Hymn of the Workers", 
 "An American Hero", "The Third American Sex", "The 
 W.C.T.U.", "The Breath of War" (play), and, in collabora 
 tion with Susan Glaspell, the two plays: "Suppressed De 
 sires" and "Tickless Time." 
 
 He has been director of the Provincetown Players of 
 Provincetown, Massachusetts, in the summer, and of Green 
 wich Village, New York City, in the winter since 1915. 
 This organization has been one of the most ambitious of the 
 Little Theatres of America, giving only original productions 
 of new American plays. It has lived through the War, and 
 has completed (1918-1919) its most substantial season, giving 
 six different bills, each for an entire week. 
 
 SUSAN GLASPELL 
 
 Miss SUSAN GLASPELL (MRS. GEORGE CRAM COOK) 
 was born in Davenport, Iowa, in 1882. She studied at 
 Drake University, Iowa, where she received the degree of 
 Ph.B. After taking post-graduate work at the University 
 
300 SUPPRESSED DESIRES 
 
 of Chicago, she became State House and Legislative Re 
 porter of The News and the Capital, Des Moines, Iowa. 
 
 She has contributed several stories to various magazines. 
 Her novels are: "The Glory of the Conquered", "The 
 Visioning", "Lifted Masks", and "Fidelity." 
 
 She has interested herself in the Little Theatre movement, 
 and in the work of the Provincetown Players especially. All 
 of her one-act plays have been produced in New York by 
 this organization. They are: "Trifles", " Suppressed De 
 sires" (in collaboration with George Cram Cook), "The 
 People", "Close the Book", "The Outside", "Woman s 
 Honor", and "Tickless Time" (in collaboration with George 
 Cram Cook) . She has written one three-act play, " Bernice ", 
 which has also been produced by the Provincetown Players. 
 
SUPPRESSED DESIRES 
 
 A FREUDIAN COMEDY 
 
 BY GEORGE CRAM COOK AND SUSAN GLASPELL 
 
"Suppressed Desires" was originally produced by the 
 Provincetown Players, New York City. 
 
 Original Cast 
 
 HENRIETTA BREWSTER Susan Glaspell 
 
 STEPHEN BREWSTER George Cram Cook 
 
 MABEL Mary Pyne 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1917, BY FRANK SHAY. 
 All rights reserved. 
 
 Reprinted from pamphlet form by permission of and special arrangement with 
 Susan Glaspell. 
 
 Application for permission to produce "Suppressed Desires" must be made to 
 George Cram Cook or Susan Glaspell, Provincetown, Massachusetts. 
 
SUPPRESSED DESIRES 
 
 SCENE I 
 
 The stage represents a studio, used as living and dining room 
 in an upper story, Washington Square South. Through an 
 immense north window in the back wall appear tree tops and 
 the upper part of the Washington Arch. Beyond it you look 
 up Fifth Avenue. There are rugs, bookcases, a divan. Near 
 the window is a big table, loaded at one end with serious-looking 
 books and austere scientific periodicals. At the other end are 
 architect s drawings, blue prints, dividing compasses, square, 
 ruler, etc. There is a door in each side wall. Near the one 
 to the spectator s right stands a costumer with hats and coats, 
 masculine and feminine. There is a breakfast table set for 
 three, but only two seated at it namely Henrietta and Stephen 
 Brewster. As the curtains withdraw Steve pushes back his 
 coffee cup and sits dejected. 
 HENRIETTA. It isn t the coffee, Steve dear. There s nothing 
 
 the matter with the coffee. There s something the matter 
 
 with you. 
 
 STEVE (doggedly). There may be something the matter with 
 my stomach. 
 
 HENRIETTA (scornfully) . Your stomach ! The trouble is not 
 with your stomach but in your subconscious mind. 
 
 STEVE. Subconscious piffle ! 
 
 [Takes morning paper and tries to read. 
 
 HENRIETTA. Steve, you never used to be so disagreeable. 
 You certainly have got some sor. of a complex. You re 
 all inhibited. You re no longer open to new ideas. You 
 won t listen to a word about psychoanalysis. 
 
 STEVE. A word ! I ve listened to volumes ! 
 

 304 SUPPRESSED DESIRES 
 
 HENRIETTA. You ve ceased to be creative in architecture 
 
 your work isn t going well. You re not sleeping 
 
 well- 
 STEVE. How can I sleep, Henrietta, when you re always 
 
 waking me up in the night to find out what I m dreaming ? 
 HENRIETTA. But dreams are so important, Steve. If you d 
 
 tell yours to Dr. Russell he d find out exactly what s wrong 
 
 with you. 
 
 STEVE. There s nothing wrong with me. 
 HENRIETTA. You don t even talk as well as you used to. 
 STEVE. Talk ? I can t say a thing without you looking at 
 
 me in that dark fashion you have when you re on the trail 
 
 of a complex. 
 HENRIETTA. This very irritability indicates that you re 
 
 suffering from some suppressed desire. 
 STEVE. I m suffering from a suppressed desire for a little 
 
 peace. 
 HENRIETTA. Dr. Russell is doing simply wonderful things 
 
 with nervous cases. \Yon t you go to him, Steve ? 
 STEVE (slamming down his newspaper). No Henrietta, I 
 
 won t ! 
 
 HENRIETTA. But, Stephen ! 
 STEVE. Tst ! I hear Mabel coming. Let s not be at each 
 
 other s throats the first day of her visit. 
 
 [He takes out cigarettes. Enter Mabel from door left, the 
 side opposite Steve, so that he is facing her. She is wearing a 
 rather fussy negligee and breakfast cap in contrast to Henrietta, 
 who wears "radical" clothes. Mabel is what is called plump. 
 MABEL. Good morning. 
 HENRIETTA. Oh, here you are, little sister. 
 STEVE. Good morning, Mabel. [Mabel nods to him and 
 
 turns, her face lighting up, to Henrietta. 
 HENRIETTA (giving Mabd a hug as she leans against her). 
 
 It s so good to have you here. I was going to let you 
 
 sleep, thinking you d be tired after the long trip. Sit 
 
 down. There ll be fr;sh toast in a minute and (rising 
 
 from her chair) will you have 
 
SUPPRESSED DESIRES 305 
 
 MABEL. Oh, I ought to have told you, Henrietta. Don t 
 get anything for me. I m not eating any breakfast. 
 
 HENRIETTA (at first in mere surprise). vNot eating breakfast ? 
 [She sits down, then leans toward Mabel and scrutinizes her. 
 
 STEVE (half to himself) . The psychoanalytical look ! 
 
 HENRIETTA. Mabel, why are you not eating breakfast? 
 
 MABEL (a little startled). Why, no particular reason. I just 
 don t care much for breakfast, and they say it keeps down 
 
 that is, it s a good thing to go without it. 
 HENRIETTA. Don t you sleep well ? Did you sleep well last 
 
 night ? 
 MABEL. Oh, yes, I sleep all right. Yes, I slept fine last 
 
 night, only (laughing) I did have the funniest dream ! 
 STEVE. S h ! S t ! 
 HENRIETTA (moving closer) . And what did you dream, 
 
 Mabel? 
 STEVE. Look-^-here, Mabel, I feel it s my duty to put you 
 
 on. Don t tell Henrietta your dreams. If you do she ll 
 
 find out that you have an underground desire to kill your 
 
 father and marry your mother 
 HENRIETTA. Don t be absurd, Stephen Brewster. (Sweetly 
 
 to Mabel) What was your dream, dear ? 
 MABEL (laughing). Well, I dreamed I was a hen. 
 HENRIETTA. A hen ? 
 AMABEL. Yes ; arid I was pushing along through a crowd as 
 
 fast as I could, but being a hen I couldn t walk very fast 
 
 it was like having a tight skirt, you know ; and there 
 was some sort of creature in a blue cap you know how 
 mixed up dreams are and it kept shouting after me and 
 saying, "Step, Hen! Step, Hen !" until 1 got all excited 
 and just couldn t move at all. 
 
 HENRIETTA (resting chin in palm and peering). You say you 
 
 became much excited ? 
 
 MABLE (laughing). Oh, yes; I was in a terrible state. 
 HENRIF: TA (leaning back, murmurs). This is significant. 
 STEVE. She dreams she s a hen. She is told to step lively. 
 
 She*^n comes violently agitated. What can it mean ? 
 
306 SUPPRESSED DESIRES 
 
 HENRIETTA (turning impatiently from him). Mabel, do you 
 
 know anything about psychoanalysis? 
 MABEL (feebly) . Oh not much. No I (brightening) 
 
 It s something about the war, isn t it ? 
 STEVE. Not that kind of war. 
 MABEL (abashed). I thought it might be the name of a new 
 
 explosive. 
 STEVE. It is. 
 MABEL (apologetically to Henrietta, who is frowning). You 
 
 see, Henrietta, I we do not live in touch with intellectual 
 
 things, as you do. Bob being a dentist somehow 
 
 our friends 
 SJTE VE (softly) . Oh to be a dentist ! 
 
 [Goes to window and stands looking out. 
 HENRIETTA. Don t you ever see anything more of that 
 
 editorial writer what was his name ? 
 MABEL. Lyman Eggleston? 
 HENRIETTA. Yes, Eggleston. He was in touch with things. 
 
 Don t you see him ? 
 MABEL. Yes, I see him once in a while. Bob doesn t like 
 
 him very well. 
 HENRIETTA. Your husband does not like Lyman Eggleston ? 
 
 (Mysteriously) Mabel, are you perfectly happy with 
 
 your husband ? 
 STEVE (sharply). Oh, come now, Henrietta that s going 
 
 a little strong ! 
 HENRIETTA. Are you perfectly happy with him, Mabel? 
 
 [Steve goes to work-table. 
 MABEL. Why yes I guess so. Why of course I 
 
 am! 
 HENRIETTA. Are you happy? Or do you only think you 
 
 are ? Or do you only think you ought to be ? 
 MABEL. Why, Henrietta, I don t know what you mean ! 
 STEVE (seizes stack of books and magazines and dumps them on 
 
 the breakfast table). This is what she ro ,ins, , Mabel. 
 
 Psychoanalysis. My work-table groans with it. Books 
 
 by Freud, the new Messiah ; books by Jung, the -^ew St. 
 
SUPPRESSED DESIRES 307 
 
 Paul ; the Psycho-analytical Review back numbers 
 two-fifty per. 
 
 MABEL. But what s it all about ? 
 
 STEVE. All about your sub-un-non-conscious mind and de 
 sires you know not of. They may be doing you a great 
 deal of harm. You may go crazy with them. Oh, yes ! 
 People are doing it right and left. Your dreaming you re 
 a hen 
 [Shakes his head darkly. 
 
 HENRIETTA. Any fool can ridicule anything. 
 
 MABEL (hastily, to avert a quarrel). But what do you say it 
 is, Henrietta? 
 
 STEVE (looking at his watch). Oh, if Henrietta s going to 
 start that ! 
 
 [He goes to his work-table, and during Henrietta s next 
 speech settles himself and sharpens a lead pencil. 
 
 HENRIETTA. It s like this, Mabel. You want something. 
 You think you can t have it. You think it s wrong. So 
 you try to think you don t want it. Your mind protects 
 you avoids pain by refusing to think the forbidden 
 thing. But it s there just the same. It stays there shut 
 up in your unconscious mind, and it festers. 
 
 STEVE. Sort of an ingrowing mental toenail. 
 
 HENRIETTA. Precisely. The forbidden impulse is there full 
 of energy which has simply got to do something. It 
 breaks into your consciousness in disguise, masks itself in 
 dreams, makes all sorts of trouble. In extreme cases it 
 drives you insane. 
 
 MABEL (with a gesture of horror) . Oh ! 
 
 HENRIETTA (reassuringly) . But psychoanalysis has found out 
 how to save us from that. It brings into consciousness 
 the suppressed desire that was making all the trouble. 
 Psychoanalysis is simply the latest scientific method of 
 preventing and curing insanity. 
 
 STEVE (from his table). It is also the latest scientific method 
 of separating families. 
 
 HENRIETTA (mildly). Families that ought to be separated 
 
308 SUPPRESSED DESffiES 
 
 STEVE. The D wights, for instance. You must have met 
 them, Mabel, when you were here before. Helen was 
 living, apparently, in peace and happiness with good old 
 Joe. Well she went to this psychoanalyzer she was 
 "psyched* , and biff ! bang ! home she comes with an 
 unsuppressed desire to leave her husband. 
 [He starts work, drawing lines on a drawing board with a T- 
 square. 
 
 MABEL. How terrible ! Yes, I remember Helen Dwight. 
 But but did she have such a desire ? 
 
 STEVE. First she d known of it. * 
 
 MABEL. And she left him ? 
 
 HENRIETTA (coolly) . Yes, she did. 
 
 MABEL. Wasn t he good to her ? 
 
 HENRIETTA. Why yes, good enough. 
 
 MABEL. Wasn t he kind to her ! 
 
 HENRIETTA. Oh, yes kind to her. 
 
 MABEL. And she left her good kind husband ! 
 
 HENRIETTA. Oh, Mabel! Left her good, kind husband! 
 How naive forgive me, dear, but how bourgeoise you 
 are ! She came to know herself. And she had the cour 
 age ! 
 
 MABEL. I may be very naive and bourgeoise but I 
 don t see the good of a new science that breaks up homes. 
 [Steve clap hands, applauding. 
 
 STEVE. In enlightening Mabel, we mustn t neglect to men 
 tion the case of Art Holden s private secretary, Mary 
 Snow, who has just been informed of her suppressed desire 
 for her employer. 
 
 MABEL. Why, I think it is terrible, Henrietta ! It would be 
 better if we didn t know such things about ourselves. 
 
 HENRIETTA. No, Mabel, that is the old way. 
 
 MABEL. But but her employer ? Is he married ? 
 
 STEVE (grunts). Wife and four children. 
 
 MABEL. Well, then, what good does it do the girl to be told 
 she has a desire for him? There s nothing that can be 
 done about it. 
 
SUPPRESSED DESIRES 309 
 
 HENRIETTA. Old institutions will have to be reshaped so 
 that something can be done in such cases. It happens, 
 Mabel, that this suppressed desire was on the point of 
 landing Mary Snow in the insane asylum. Are you so 
 tight-minded that you VI rather have her in the insane 
 asylum than break the conventions? 
 BEL. But but have people always had these awful 
 suppressed desires ? 
 
 HENRIETTA. Always. 
 
 STEVE. But they ve just been discovered. 
 
 HENRIETTA. The harm they do has just been discovered. 
 And free, sane people must face the fact that they have to 
 be dealt with. 
 
 MABEL (stoutly). I don t believe they have them in Chicago. 
 
 /HENRIETTA (business of giving Mabel up). People "have 
 
 them" wherever the living Libido the center of the 
 
 "soulV energy is in conflict with petrified moral codes. 
 
 That means everywhere in civilization. Psychoanalysis 
 
 STEVE. Good God ! I ve got the roof in the cellar ! 
 
 HENRIETTA. The roof in the cellar ! 
 
 STEVE (holding plan at arm s length). That s what psycho 
 analysis does ! 
 
 HENRIETTA. That s what psychoanalysis could un-do. Is 
 it any wonder I m concerned about Steve ? He dreamed 
 the other night that the walls of bib room melted away 
 and he found himself alone in a forest. Don t you see how 
 significant it is for an architect to have walls slip away from 
 him ? It symbolizes his loss of grip in his work. There s 
 some suppressed desire 
 
 STEVE (hurling his ruined plan viciously to the floor) . Sup 
 pressed hell ! 
 
 HENRIETTA. You speak more truly than you know. It is 
 
 through suppressions that hells are formed in us. 
 AMABEL (looking at Steve, who is tearing his hair). Don t you 
 think it would be a good thing, Henrietta, if we went some 
 where else? (They rise and begin to pick up the dishes. 
 Mabel drops a plate which breaks. Henrietta draws up short 
 
310 SUPPRESSED DESIRES 
 
 and looks at her the psychoanalytic look) I m sorry, 
 
 Henrietta. One of the Spode plates, too. (Surprised 
 
 and resentful as Henrietta continues to peer at her) Don t 
 
 take it so to heart, Henrietta. 
 HENRIETTA. I can t help taking it to heart. 
 MABEL. I ll get you another. (Pause. More sharply as 
 
 Henrietta does not answer) I said I ll get you another plate, 
 
 Henrietta. 
 
 HENRIETTA. It s not the plate. 
 MABEL. For heaven s sake, what is it then ? 
 HENRIETTA. It s the significant little false movement that 
 
 made you drop it. 
 MABEL. Well, I suppose every one makes a false movement 
 
 once in a while. 
 HENRIETTA. Yes, Mabel, but these false movements all mean 
 
 something. 
 MABEL (about to cry). I don t think that s very nice! It 
 
 was just because I happened to think of that Mabel Snow 
 
 you were talking about 
 HENRIETTA. Mabel Snow ! 
 
 MABEL. Snow Snow well, what was her name, then ? 
 HENRIETTA. Her name is Mary. You substituted your own 
 
 name for hers. 
 MABEL. Well, Mary Snow, then; Mary Snow. I never 
 
 heard her name but once. I don t see anything to make 
 
 such a fuss about. 
 HENRIETTA (gently) . Mabel dear mistakes like that in 
 
 names 
 MABEL (desperately). They don t mean something, too, do 
 
 they? 
 
 HENRIETTA (gently). I am sorry, dear, but they do. 
 MABEL. But I am always doing that I 
 HENRIETTA (after a start of horror). My poor little sister, 
 
 tell me all abojut it. 
 MABEL. About what ? 
 HENRIETTA. About your not being happy. About your 
 
 longing for another sort of life. 
 
SUPPRESSED DESIRES 311 
 
 MABEL. But I dont. 
 
 HENRIETTA. Ah, I understand these things, dear. You feel 
 Bob is limiting you to a life which you do not feel free 
 
 MABEL. Henrietta ! When did I ever say such a thing ? 
 
 HENRIETTA. You said you are not in touch with things in 
 tellectual. You showed your feeling that it is Bob s pro 
 fession that has engendered a resentment which has 
 colored your whole life with him. 
 
 MABEL. Why Henrietta ! S^ 
 
 HENRIETTA. Don t be afraid of me, little sister. There s 
 nothing can shock me or turn me from you. I am not 
 like that. I wanted you to come for this visit because I 
 had a feeling that you needed more from life than you 
 were getting. No one of these things I have seen would 
 excite my suspicion. It s the combination. You don t 
 eat breakfast ; you make false moves ; you substitute your 
 own name for the name of another whose love is misdirected, 
 You re nervous ; you look queer ; in your eyes there s a 
 frightened look that is most unlike you. And this dream. 
 A hen come with me this afternoon to Dr. Russell ! 
 Your whole life may be at stake, Mabel. 
 
 MABEL (gasping) . Henrietta, I you you always were 
 the smartest in the family, and all that, but this is 
 terrible ! I don t think we ought to think such things, 
 and (brightening) Why, I ll tell you why I dreamed I 
 was a hen. It was because last night, telling about that 
 time in Chicago, you said I was as mad as a wet hen. 
 
 HENRIETTA (superior). Did you dream you were a wet hen? 
 
 MABEL (forced to admit it) . No. 
 
 HENRIETTA. No. You dreamed you were a dry hen. And 
 why, being a hen, were you urged to step ? 
 
 MABEL. Maybe it s because when I am getting on a street 
 car it always irritates me to have them call "Step lively." 
 
 HENRIETTA. No, Mabel, that is only a child s view of it 
 if you will forgive me. You see merely the elements used 
 in the dream. You do not see into the dream ; you do 
 not see its meaning. This dream of the hen 
 
312 SUPPRESSED DESIRES 
 
 STEVE. Hen hen wet hen dry hen mad hen ! 
 (Jumps up in a rage) Let me out of this ! 
 
 HENRIETTA (hastily picking up dishes, speaks soothingly). 
 Just a minute, dear, and we ll have things so you can work 
 .in quiet. Mabel and I are going to sit in my room. [She 
 goes out with both hands full of dishes. 
 
 STEVE (seizing hat and coat from the costumer). I m going 
 to be psychoanalyzed. I m going now ! I m going 
 straight to that infallible doctor of hers that priest of 
 this new religion. If he s got honesty enough to tell Hen 
 rietta there s nothing the matter with my unconscious 
 mind, perhaps I can be let alone about it, and then I will 
 be all right. (From the door in a low voice) Don t tell 
 Henrietta I m going. It might take weeks, and I couldn t 
 stand all the talk. 
 [Exit desperately. Enter Henrietta. 
 
 HENRIETTA. Where s Steve? Gone? (With hopeless ges 
 ture) You see how impatient he is how unlike himself I 
 I tell you, Mabel, I am nearly distracted about Steve. 
 
 MABEL. I think he s a little distracted, too. 
 
 HENRIETTA. Well, if he s gone you might as well stay 
 here. I have a committee meeting at the book-shop, and 
 will have to leave you to yourself for an hour or two. (As 
 she puts her hat on, her eye, lighting up almost carnivorously, 
 falls on an enormous volume on the floor beside the work table. 
 The book has been half hidden from the audience by the waste- 
 basket. She picks it up and carries it around the table 
 toward Mabel) Here, dear, is one of the simplest state 
 ments of psychoanalysis. You just read this and then 
 we can talk more intelligently. (Mabel takes volume and 
 staggers back under its weight to chair rear center. Henrietta 
 goes to outer door, stops and asks abruptly) How old is 
 Lyman Eggleston? 
 
 MABLE (promptly). He isn t forty yet. Why, what made 
 you ask that, Henrietta? 
 
 [As she turns her head to look at Henrietta her hands move 
 toward the upper corners of the book balanced on her knees. 
 
SUPPRESSED DESIRES 313 
 
 HENRIETTA. Oh, nothing. Au revoir. 
 
 (Exit. 
 
 Mabel stares at the ceiling. The book slides to the floor. 
 She starts; looks at the book, then at the broken plate on the 
 table) The plate! The book! (She lifts her eyes, leans 
 forward elbow on knee, chin on knuckles and plaintively queries) 
 Am I unhappy ? 
 
 CURTAIN 
 
 SCENE II 
 
 The stage is set as in Scene 7, except that the breakfast table 
 has been removed or set back against the wall. During the first 
 few minutes the dusk of a winter afternoon deepens. Out of 
 the darkness spring rows of double street-lights almost meeting 
 in the distance. Henrietta is disclosed at the psychoanalytical 
 end of Steve s work-table. Surrounded by open books and 
 periodicals she is writing. Steve enters briskly. 
 STEVE. What are you doing, my dear ? 
 HENRIETTA. My paper for the Liberal Club. 
 STEVE. Your paper on ? 
 
 IIP:XRIETTA. On a subject which does not have your sympa- 
 " thy. 
 
 STEVE. Oh, I m not sure I m wholly out of sympathy with 
 
 psychoanalysis, Henrietta. You worked it so hard. I 
 
 couldn t even take a bath without its meaning something. 
 
 HENRIETTA (loftily). I talked it because I knew you 
 
 needed it. 
 STEVE. You haven t said much about it these last two 
 
 weeks. Uh your faith in it hasn t weakened any ? 
 HENRIETTA. Weakened? It s grown stronger with each 
 new thing I ve come to know. And Mabel. She is with 
 Dr. Russell now. Dr.. Russell is wonderful. From what 
 Mabel tells me I believe his analysis is going to prove that 
 I was right. To-day I discovered a remarkable confirma 
 tion of my theory in the hen-dream. 
 STEVE. What is your theory ? 
 
314 SUPPRESSED DESIRES 
 
 HENRIETTA. Well, you know about Lyman Eggleston. I ve 
 wondered about him. I ve never seen him, but I know 
 he s less bourgeois than Mabel s other friends more 
 intellectual and (significantly) she doesn t see much of 
 him because Bob doesn t like him. 
 
 STEVE. But what s the confirmation ? 
 
 HENRIETTA. To-day I noticed the first syllable of his name. 
 
 STEVE. Ly ? 
 
 HENRIETTA. No egg. (Patiently] Mabel dreamed she was 
 
 j ."^ a hen. (Steve laughs) You wouldn t laugh if you knew how 
 
 important names are in interpreting dreams. Freud is full 
 
 of just such cases in which a whole hidden complex is 
 
 revealed by a single significant syllable like this egg. 
 
 STEVE. Doesn t the traditional relation of hen and egg sug 
 gest rather a maternal feeling? 
 
 HENRIETTA. There is something maternal in Mabel s love 
 of course, but that s only one element. 
 
 STEVE. Well, suppose Mabel hasn t a suppressed desire to 
 be this gentleman s mother, but his beloved. What s to 
 be done about it? What about Bob? Don t you think 
 it s going to be a little rough on him ? 
 
 HENRIETTA. That can t be helped. Bob, like every one 
 else, must face the facts of life. If Dr. Russell should 
 arrive independently at this same interpretation I shall 
 not hesitate to advise Mabel to leave her present hus 
 band. 
 
 STEVE. Um um! (The lights go up on Fifth Avenue. 
 Steve goes to the ivindow and looks out) How long is it we ve 
 lived here, Henrietta ? 
 
 HENRIETTA. Why, this is the third year, Steve. 
 
 STEVE. I we one would miss this view if one went 
 away, wouldn t one ? 
 
 HENRIETTA. How strangely you speak! Oh, Stephen, I 
 wish you d go to Dr. Russell. Don t think my fears have 
 abated because I ve been able to restrain myself. I had 
 to on account of Mabel. But now, dear won t you 
 go? 
 
SUPPRESSED DESIRES 315 
 
 STEVE. I (He breaks off, turns on the light, then comes and 
 sits beside Henrietta) How long have we been married, 
 Henrietta ? 
 
 HENRIETTA. Stephen, I don t understand you ! You must 
 
 ~^go to Dr. Russell. 
 
 STEVE. I have gone. 
 
 HENRIETTA. You what ? 
 
 "STEVE (jauntily). Yes, Henrietta, I ve been psyched. 
 HENRIETTA. You went to Dr. Russell ? 
 STEVE. The same. 
 HENRIETTA. And what did he say ? 
 STEVE. He said I I was a little surprised by what he 
 
 said, Henrietta. 
 
 HENRIETTA (breathlessly). Of course one can so seldom 
 " anticipate. But tell me your dream, Stephen ? It 
 
 means ? 
 STEVE. It means I was considerably surprised by what it 
 
 means. 
 
 HENRIETTA. Don t be so exasperating ! 
 STEVE. It means you really want to know, Henrietta ? 
 HENRIETTA. Stephen, you ll drive me mad ! 
 STEVE. He said of course he may be wrong in what he said. 
 HENRIETTA. He isn t wrong. Tell me ! 
 STEVE. He said my dream of the walls receding and leaving 
 
 me alone in a forest indicates a suppressed desire 
 
 HENRIETTA. Yes VCS ! 
 
 STEVE. To be freed from 
 
 HENRIETTA. Yes freed from ? 
 
 STEVE. Marriage. 
 
 HENRIETTA (Crumples. Stares). Marriage! 
 
 STEVE. He he may be mistaken, you know. 
 
 HENRIETTA. May be mistaken ! 
 
 STEVE. I well, of course, I hadn t taken any stock in it 
 myself. It was only your great confidence 
 
 HENRIETTA. Stephen, are you telling me that Dr. Russell 
 Dr. A. E. Russell told you this? (Steve nods) 
 Told you you have a suppressed desire to separate from me ? 
 
316 SUPPRESSED DESIRES 
 
 STEVE. That s what he said. 
 
 HENRIETTA. Did he know who you were? 
 
 STEVE. Yes. 
 
 HENRIETTA. That you were married to me ? 
 
 STEVE. Yes, he knew that. 
 
 HENRIETTA. And he told you to leave me ? 
 
 STEVE. It seems he must be wrong, Henrietta. 
 
 HENRIETTA (rising). And I ve sent him more patients ! 
 (Catches herself and resumes coldly) What reason did he 
 give for this analysis ? 
 
 STEVE. He says the confining walls are a symbol of my 
 feeling about marriage and that their fading away is a 
 wish-fulfill ment . 
 
 HENRIETTA (gulping) . Well, is it ? Do you want our mar 
 riage to end ? 
 
 STEVE. Well, it was a great surprise to me that I did, Hen 
 rietta. You see I hadn t known what Was in my un 
 conscious mind. 
 
 HENRIETTA (flaming). What did you tell Dr. Russell about 
 me to make him think you weren t happy ? 
 
 STEVE. I never told him a thing, Henrietta. He got it all 
 from his confounded clever inferences. I I tried to 
 refute them, but he said that was only part of my self- 
 protective lying. 
 
 HENRIETTA. And that s why you were so happy when 
 you came in just now ! 
 
 STEVE. Why, Henrietta, how can you say such a thing? 
 I was sad. Didn t I speak sadly of of the view ? Didn t 
 I ask how long we had been married ? 
 
 HENRIETTA (rising). Stephen Brewster, have you no sense 
 of the seriousness of this ? Dr. Russell doesn t know what 
 our marriage has been. You do. You should have laughed 
 him down ! Confined in life with me ? Did you tell 
 him that I believe in freedom ? 
 
 STEVE. I very emphatically told him that his results were 
 a great surprise to me. 
 
 HENRIETTA. But you accepted them. 
 
SUPPRESSED DESIRES 317 
 
 STEVE. Oh, not at all. I merely couldn t refute his argu 
 ments. I m not a psychologist. I came home to talk it 
 over with you. You being a disciple of psychoanalysis 
 
 HENRIETTA. If you are going, I wish you would go to-night ! 
 
 "STEVE. Oh, my dear ! I surely I couldn t do that ! 
 Think of my feelings. And my laundry hasn t come home. 
 
 HENRIETTA. I ask you to go to-night. Some women would 
 falter at this, Steve, but I am not such a woman. I 
 leave you free. I do not repudiate psychoanalysis, I say 
 again that it has done great things. It has also made 
 mistakes, of course. But since you accept this analysis 
 (She sits down and pretends to begin work) I have to 
 finish this paper. I wish you would leave me. 
 
 STEVE (scratches his head, goes to the inner door). I m sorry, 
 Henrietta, about my unconscious mind. 
 [Exit. Henrietta s face betrays her outraged state of mind 
 disconcerted, resentful, trying, to pull herself together. She 
 attains an air of bravely bearing an outrageous thing. Mabel 
 enters in great excitement. 
 
 MABEL (breathless). Henrietta, I m so glad you re here. 
 And alone? (Looks toward the inner door) Are you 
 alone, Henrietta ? 
 
 HENRIETTA (with reproving dignity). Very much so. 
 
 MABEL (rushing to her) . Henrietta, he s found it ! 
 
 HENRIETTA (aloof). .Who has found what? 
 
 MABEL. Who has found what? Dr. Russell has found my 
 suppressed desire. 
 
 HENRIETTA. That is interesting. 
 
 MABEL. He finished with me tr-day he got hold of my 
 complex in the iost amazing way ! But, oh, Hen 
 rietta it is so tf oie ! 
 
 HENRIETTA. Do ( -am yourself, Mabel. Surely there s no 
 occasion for all this agitation. 
 
 MABEL. B. t there is! And when you think of the lives 
 
 that are *v 
 in order ; g 
 me frorqn 
 
 ected the readjustments that must be made 
 bring the suppressed hell out of me and save 
 ie insane asylum ! 
 
318 SUPPRESSED DESIRES 
 
 HENRIETTA. The insane asylum ! 
 
 MABEL. You said that s where these complexes brought 
 people ? 
 
 HENRIETTA. What did the doctor tell you, Mabel ? 
 
 MABEL. Oh, I don t know how I can tell you it is so awful 
 so unbelievable. 
 
 HENRIETTA. I rather have my hand in at hearing the un 
 believable. 
 
 MABEL. Henrietta, who would ever have thought it ? How 
 can it be true ? But the doctor is perfectly certain that 
 I have a suppressed desire for [Looks at Henrietta unable 
 to go on. 
 
 HENRIETTA. Oh, go on, Mabel. I m not unprepared for 
 what you have to say. 
 
 MABEL. Not unprepared ? You mean you have suspected it ? 
 
 HENRIETTA. From the first. It s been my theory all along. 
 
 MABEL. But, Henrietta, I didn t know myself that I had 
 this secret desire or Stephen. 
 
 HENRIETTA (jumps up) . Stephen ! 
 
 MABEL. My brother-in-law! My own sister s husband! 
 
 HENRIETTA. You have a suppressed desire for Stephen ! 
 
 MABEL. Oh, Henrietta, aren t these unconscious selves ter 
 rible ? They seem so unlike us ! 
 y\^ HENRIETTA. What insane thing are you driving at? 
 
 MABEL (blubbering). Henrietta, don t you use that word to 
 me. I don t want to go to the insane asylum. 
 
 HENRIETTA. What did Dr. Russell say ? 
 
 MABEL. Well, you see oh, it s the strangest thing ! But 
 you know the voice in my dream that called "Step, Hen !" 
 Dr. Russell found out to-Jay that when I was a little girl 
 I had a story-book in words of c syllable and I read the 
 name Stephen wrong. I used tJ <ad it S-t-e-p, step, 
 h-e-n, hen. (Dramatically) Step Hen . Stephen. (Enter 
 Stephen, his head bent over a time-table) Stephen is Step 
 Hen! 
 
 STEVE. I ? Step Hen ! 
 
 MABEL (triumphantly). S-t-e-p, step, H-e-n, 7 t 
 
 Stephen ! 
 
SUPPRESSED DESIRES 319 
 
 HENRIETTA (exploding). Well, what if Stephen is Step Hen ? 
 
 (Scornfully) Step Hen ! Step Hen ! For that ridiculous 
 
 coincidence 
 MABEL. Coincidence! But it s childish to look at the 
 
 mere elements of a dream. You have to look into it - 
 
 you have to see what it means ! 
 HENRIETTA. On account of that trivial, meaningless play 
 
 on syllables on that flimsy basis you are ready - 
 
 (wails) O-h ! 
 
 STEVE. What on earth s the matter? What has hap 
 pened? Suppose I am Step Hen? What about it? 
 
 What does it mean ? 
 MABEL (crying). It means that I have a suppressed 
 
 desire for you ! 
 STEVE. For me! The deuce you have? (Feebly) What 
 
 er makes you think so ? 
 
 MABEL. Dr. Russell has worked it out scientifically. 
 HENRIETTA. Yes. Through the amazing discovery that 
 
 Step Hen equals Stephen ! 
 MABEL (tearfully). Oh, that isn t all that isn t near all. 
 
 Henrietta won t give me a chance to tell it. She d rather 
 
 I d go to the insane asylum than be unconventional. 
 
 . -if \ 
 
 ^/HENRIETTA. We ll all go there if you can t control yourself. 
 We are still waiting for some rational report. 
 
 MABEL (drying her eyes). Oh, there s such a lot about names. 
 (With some pride) I don t see how I ever did it. It all 
 works in together. I dreamed I was a hen because that s 
 the first syllable of #en-rietta s name, and when I dreamed 
 I was a hen, I was putting myself in Henrietta s place. 
 
 HENRIETTA. With Stephen ? 
 
 MABEL. With Stephen. 
 
 HENRIETTA (outraged). Oh! (Turns in rage upon Stephen, 
 who is fanning himself with the time-table) What are you 
 doing with that time-table? 
 
 STEVE. Why I thought you were so keen to have me 
 go to-night I thought I d just take a run up to Canada, 
 and join Billy a little shooting but 
 
320 SUPPRESSED DESIRES 
 
 MABEL. But there s more about the names. 
 
 HENRIETTA. Mabel, have you thought of Bob dear old 
 Bob your good, kind husband ? 
 
 MABEL. Oh, Henrietta, "my good, kind husband!" 
 
 HENRIETTA. Think of him, Mabel, out there alone in Chicago, 
 
 working his head off, fixing people s teeth for you ! 
 
 MABEL. Yes, but think of the living Libido in conflict 
 with petrified moral codes! And think of the perfectly 
 wonderful way the names all prove it. Dr. Russell said 
 he s never seen anything more convicing. Just look at 
 Stephen s last name Brewster. I dream I m a hen, 
 and the name Brewster you have to say its first letter 
 by itself and then the hen, that s me, she says to him : 
 "Stephen, Be Rooster!" 
 [Henrietta and Stephen both collapse on chair and divan. 
 
 MABEL. I think it s perfectly wonderful ! Why, if it wasn t 
 for psychoanalysis you d never find out how wonderful 
 your own mind is ! 
 
 STEVE (begins to chuckle). Be Rooster, Stephen, Be Rooster ! 
 
 HENRIETTA. You think it s funny, do you? 
 
 STEVE. Well, what s to be done about it? Does Mabel 
 have to go away with me ? 
 
 HENRIETTA. Do you want Mabel to go away with you ? 
 
 STEVE. Well, but Mabel herself her complex her sup 
 pressed desire ! 
 
 HENRIETTA. Mabel, are you going to insist on going away 
 with Stephen ? 
 
 MABEL. I d rather go with Stephen than go to the insane 
 asylum. 
 
 HENRIETTA. For Heaven s sake, Mabel, drop that insane 
 asylum ! If you did have a suppressed desire for Stephen 
 hidden away in you God knows it isn t hidden now. 
 Dr. Russell has brought it into your consciousness 
 with a vengeance. That s all that s necessary to break 
 up a complex. Psychoanalysis doesn t say you have to 
 gratify every suppressed desire. 
 
 STEVE (softly). Unless it s for Lyman Eggleston. 
 
SUPPRESSED DESIRES 321 
 
 HENRIETTA (turning on him). Well, if it comes to that, 
 Stephen Brewster, I d like to know why that interpretation 
 of mine isn t as good as this one ? Step, Hen ! 
 
 STEVE. But Be Rooster ! (He pauses, chuckling to himself) 
 Step-Hen B-rooster. And /Henrietta. Pshaw, my dear, 
 Doc Russell s got you beat a mile ! (He turns away and 
 chuckles) Be rooster ! 
 
 MABEL. What has Lyman Eggleston got to do with it ? 
 
 STEVE. According to Henrietta, you, the hen, have a sup 
 pressed desire for E^leston, the egg. 
 
 MABEL. Henrietta, I think that s indecent of you ! He is 
 bald as an egg and little and fat the idea of you think 
 ing such a thing of me ! 
 
 HENRIETTA. Well, Bob isn t little and bald and fat ! W 
 don t you stick to your own husband ? (Turns on Stephen) 
 What if Dr. Russell s interpretation has got mine "beat a 
 mile" ? (Resentful look at him) It would only mean that 
 Mabel doesn t want Eggleston and does want you. Does 
 that mean she has to have you ? 
 
 MABEL. But you said Mabel Snow - 
 
 HENRIETTA. Mary Snow ! You re not as much like her as 
 you think substituting your name for hers ! The cases 
 are entirely different. Oh, I wouldn t have believed this 
 of you, Mabel. I brought you here for a pleas* t visit - 
 thought you needed brightening up wanted to be nice 
 to you and now you my husband you insist - 
 [Begins to cry. Makes a movement which brushes to the floor 
 some sheets from the psychoanalytical table. 
 
 STEVE (with solicitude}. Careful, dear. Your paper on 
 psychoanalysis ! 
 [Gathers up sheets and offers them to her. 
 
 HENRIETTA (cryi d }. I don t want my paper on psychoanaly 
 sis ! I m siclv of psychoanalysis ! 
 
 STEVE (eagerly). Do you mean that, Henrietta? 
 
 HENRIETTA. Why shouldn t I mean it? Look at all I ve 
 done for psychoanalysis and what has psychoanalysis 
 done for ne? 
 
322 SUPPRESSED DESIRES 
 
 STEVE. Do you mean, Henrietta, that you re going to stop 
 
 talking psychoanalysis ? 
 HENRIETTA. Why shouldn t I stop talking it? Haven t I 
 
 seen what it does to people ? Mabel has gone crazy about 
 
 psychoanalysis ! 
 
 [At the word "crazy" Mabel sinks with a moan into the arm 
 chair and buries her face in her hands. 
 STEVE (solemnly}. Do you swear never to wake me up in 
 
 the night to find out what I m dreaming ? 
 HENRIETTA. Dream what you please I don t care what 
 
 you re dreaming. 
 STEVE. Will you clear off my work-table so the Journal of 
 
 Morbid Psychology doesn t stare me in the face when I m 
 
 trying to plan a house? 
 HENRIETTA (pushing a stack of periodicals off the table) . I ll 
 
 burn the Journal of Morbid Psychology ! 
 STEVE. My dear Henrietta, if you re going to separate from 
 
 psychoanalysis, there s no reason why I should separate 
 
 from you. 
 
 [They embrace ardently. Mabel lifts her head and looks at 
 
 them woefully. 
 AHBEL (jumping up and going toward them). But what about 
 
 rn \? What am I to do with my suppressed desire ? 
 STEVE (i. f *h <me arm still around Henrietta, gives Mabel a 
 
 brotherly hug). Maucl, /ou just keep right on suppress 
 ing it. 
 
 CURTAIN 
 
WHERE BUT IN AMERICA 
 
 OSCAR M. WOLFF 
 
 MR. OSCAR M. WOLFF was born July 13, 1876. He is a 
 graduate of Cornell University and of Chicago Law School. 
 During the war he was connected with the United States 
 Food Administration at Washington. Although his main 
 interest has been in law, which he has practised and taught, 
 he has done a large amount of writing and editing. He has 
 published a legal textbook and a number of articles on legal 
 subjects, both in legal publications and in magazines of 
 general interest. In addition, he has written one or two 
 stories, and three plays: "Where But in America *, "The 
 Claim for Exemption", and "The Money Lenders." 
 
WHERE BUT IN AMERICA 
 
 BY OSCAE M. WOLFF 
 
"Where But in America" was originally produced by the 
 Players Workshop of Chicago, on April 23, 1917. 
 
 Original Cast 
 
 MRS. ESPENHAYNE . . . . . . Caroline Kohl 
 
 MR. ESPENHAYNE George Francis Wolff 
 
 HILDA . Helen Cook 
 
 Copyright, 1917, by Oscar M. Wolff. 
 
 All rights reserved. 
 
 Printed originally in Smart Set. 
 
 Application for the right of performing "Where But in America" must be made 
 to Mr. Oscar Wolff, 105 West Monroe Street, Chicago. 
 
WHERE BUT IN AMERICA 
 
 SCENE. The Espenhayne dining room. 
 
 The curtain rises on the Espenhayne dining room. It is 
 
 furnished with modest taste and refinement. There is a door, 
 
 center, leading to the living room, and a swinging door, left, 
 
 leading to the kitchen. 
 
 The table is set, and Robert and Mollie Espenhayne are 
 
 discovered at their evening meal. They are educated, well-bred, 
 
 young Americans. Robert is a pleasing, energetic business man 
 
 of thirty; Mollie an attractive woman of twenty-five. The 
 
 bouillon cups are before them as the curtain rises. 
 
 BOB. Mollie, I heard from the man who owns that house 
 in Kenilworth. He wants to sell the house. He won t 
 rent. 
 
 MOLLIE. I really don t care, Bob. That house was too far 
 from the station and it had only one sleeping porch and 
 you know I want white enamelled woodwork in the bed 
 rooms. But, Bob, I ve been terribly stupid ! 
 
 BOB. How so, Mollie ? 
 
 MOLLIE. You remember the Russells moved to Highland 
 Park last spring? 
 
 BOB. Yes ; Ed Russell rented a house that had just been 
 built. 
 
 MOLLIE. A perfectly darling little house ! And Fanny Rus 
 sell once told me that the man who built it will put up a 
 house for any one who will take a five year lease. And 
 she says that the man is very competent and they are 
 simply delighted with their place. 
 
 BOB. Why don t we get in touch with the man ? 
 
 MOLLIE. Wasn t it stupid of me not to think about it ? It 
 just flashed into my mind this morning and I sat down at 
 
328 WHERE BUT IN AMERICA 
 
 once and sent a special delivery letter to Fanny Russell. 
 I asked her to tell me his name at once, and where we can 
 find him. 
 
 BOB. Good ! You ought to have an answer by to-morrow 
 or Thursday and we ll go up north and have a talk with 
 him on Saturday. 
 
 MOLLIE (with enthusiasm) . Wouldn t it be wonderful if he d 
 build just what we want ! Fanny Russell says every de 
 tail of their house is perfect. Even the garage ; they use 
 it- 
 
 BOB (interrupting). Mollie, that s the one thing I m afraid 
 of about the North Shore plan. I ve said repeatedly that 
 I don t want to buy a car for another year or two. But, 
 here you are, talking about a garage already. 
 
 MOLLIE. But you didn t let me finish what I was saying. 
 The Russells have fitted up their garage as a playroom for 
 the children. If we had a garage we could do the same 
 thing. 
 
 BOB. Well, let s keep temptation behind us and not even 
 talk to the man about a garage. If we move up north it 
 must be on an economy basis for a few years ; just a half 
 way step between the apartment and the house we used to 
 plan. You mustn t get your heart set on a car. 
 
 MOLLIE. I haven t even thought of one, dear. (Bob and 
 Mollie have now both finished the bouillon course and lay 
 down their spoons. Reaching out her hand to touch the 
 table button and at the same time leaning across the table 
 and speaking very impressively). Bob, I m about to ring 
 for Hilda ! 
 
 BOB. What of it ? 
 
 MOLLIE (decidedly and with a touch of impatience). You 
 know very well, what of it. I don t want Hilda to hear us 
 say one word about moving away from the South Side ! 
 
 BOB (protesting) . But Mollie 
 
 MOLLIE (interrupting hurriedly and holding her finger to her 
 lips in warning) . Psst ! 
 (The next instant Hilda enters, left. She is a tall, blond 
 
WHERE BUT IN AMERICA 329 
 
 Swedish girl, about twenty-five years old. She is very pretty 
 and carries herself well and looks particularly charming in a 
 maid s dress, with white collars and cuffs and a dainty wait 
 ress s apron. Every detail of her dress is immaculate. 
 (Speaking the instant that Hilda appears and talking 
 very rapidly all the time that Hilda remains in the room. 
 While she speaks Mollie watches Hilda rather than Robert, 
 whom she pretends to be addressing) In the last game 
 Gert Jones was my partner. It was frame apiece and I 
 dealt and I bid one no trump. I had a very weak no 
 trump. I ll admit that, but I didn t want them to win the 
 rubber. Mrs. Stone bid two spades and Gert Jones doubled 
 her. Mrs. Green passed and I simply couldn t go to three 
 of anything. Mrs. Stone played two spades, doubled, and 
 she made them. Of course, that put them out and gave 
 them the rubber. I think that was a very foolish double 
 of Gert Jones and then she said it was my fault, because I 
 bid one no trump. 
 
 [As Mollie begins her flow of words Bob first looks at her in 
 open-mouthed astonishment. Then as he gradually compre 
 hends that Mollie is merely talking against time he too turns 
 his eyes to Hilda and watches her closely in her movements 
 around the table. Meanwhile Hilda moves quietly and quickly 
 and pays no attention to anything except the work she has in 
 hand. She carries a small serving tray and, as Mollie speaks, 
 Hilda first takes the bouillon cups from the table, then brings 
 the carving-knife and fork from the sideboard and places them 
 before Robert and then, with the empty bouillon cups, exits 
 left. Bob and Mollie are both watching Hilda as she goes 
 out. The instant the door swings shut behind her, Mollie re 
 laxes with a sigh and Robert leans across the table to speak. 
 
 BOB. Mollie, why not be sensible about this thing ! Have 
 a talk with Hilda and find out if she will move north 
 with us. 
 
 MOLLIE. That s just like a man ! Then we might not find 
 a house to please us and Hilda would be dissatisfied and 
 suspicious. She might even leave. (Thoughtfully) Of 
 
330 WHERE BUT IN AMERICA 
 
 course, I must speak to her before we sign a lease, because 
 I really don t know what I d do if Hilda refuses to leave 
 the South side. (More cheerfully) But there, we won t 
 think about the disagreeable things until everything else 
 is settled. 
 
 BOB. That s good American doctrine. 
 
 MOLLIE (warningly and again touching her finger to her lips). 
 Psst! 
 
 (Hilda enters, left, carrying the meat plates, with a heavy nap 
 kin under them. Immediately resuming her monologue) I 
 think my last year s hat will do very nicely. You know it 
 rained all last summer and I really only wore the hat a half 
 a dozen times. Perhaps not that often. I can make a few 
 changes on it ; put on some new ribbons you know, and 
 it will do very nicely for another year. You remember 
 that hat, don t you, dear ? (Bob starts to answer, but Mollie 
 rushes right on) Of course you do, you remember you 
 said it was so becoming. That s another reason why I 
 want to wear it this summer. 
 
 [Hilda, meanwhile, puts the plates on the table in front of Bob 
 and goes out, left. Mollie at once stops speaking. 
 
 BOB (holding his hands over the plates as over afire and rubbing 
 them together in genial warmth) . Ah, the good hot plates ! 
 She never forgets them. She is a gem, Mollie. 
 
 MOLLIE (in great self-satisfaction). If you are finally con 
 vinced of that, after three years, I wish you would be a 
 little bit more careful what you say the next time Hilda 
 conies in the room. 
 
 BOB (in open-mouthed astonishment) . What ! 
 
 MOLLIE. Well, I don t want Hilda to think we are making 
 plans behind her back. 
 
 BOB (reflectively). "A man s home is his castle." (Pauses) 
 It s very evident that the Englishman who first said that 
 didn t keep any servants. 
 [Telephone bell rings off stage. 
 
 MOLLIE. Answer that, Bob. 
 
 BOB. Won t Hilda answer it ? 
 
WHERE BUT IN AMERICA 331 
 
 MOLLIE (standing up quickly and speaking impatiently) . Very 
 well, I shall answer it myself. I can t ask Hilda to run to 
 the telephone while she is serving the meal. 
 
 BOB (sullenly, as he gets up) . All right ! All right ! 
 
 [Bob exits, center. As he does so Hilda appears at the door, 
 left, hurrying to answer the telephone. 
 
 MOLLIE. Mr. Espenhayne will answer it, Hilda. 
 
 [Hilda makes the slightest possible bow of acquiescence, with 
 draws left, and in a moment reappears with vegetable dishes and 
 small side dishes which she puts before Mrs. Espenhayne. 
 She is arranging these when Bob re-enters, center. 
 
 BOB. Somebody for you, Hilda. 
 
 HILDA (surprised) . For me ? ! But I cannot answer eet 
 now. Please ask the party to call later. 
 [Hilda speaks excellent English but with some Swedish accent. 
 The noticeable feature of her speech is the precision and 
 great care with which she enunciates every syllable. 
 
 MOLLIE. Just take the number yourself, Hilda, and tell the 
 party you will call back after dinner. 
 
 HILDA. Thank you, Messes Aispenhayne. 
 
 [Hilda exits, center. Bob stands watching Hilda, as she 
 leaves the room, and then turns and looks at Mollie with a 
 bewildered expression. 
 
 BOB (standing at his chair). But, I thought Hilda couldn t 
 be running to the telephone while she serves the dinner ? 
 
 MOLLIE. But this call is for Hilda, herself. That s quite 
 different, you see. 
 
 BOB (slowly and thoughtfully) . O, yes ! Of course ; I see ! 
 (Sits down in his chair) That is I don t quite see ! 
 
 MOLLIE (immediately leaning across the table and speaking in a 
 cautious whisper) . Do you know who it is ? 
 (Bob closes his lips very tightly and nods yes in a very impor 
 tant manner. In the same whisper and very impatiently) 
 Who? 
 
 BOB (looking around the room as if to see if anyone is in hiding 
 and then putting his hand to his mouth and exaggerating the 
 whisper). The Terrible Swede. 
 
332 WHERE BUT IN AMERICA 
 
 MOLLIE (in her ordinary tone and very much exasperated). 
 Robert, I ve told you a hundred times that you shouldn t 
 refer to to the man in that way. 
 
 BOB. And I ve told you a hundred times to ask Hilda his 
 name. If I knew his name I d announce him with as much 
 ceremony as if he were the Swedish Ambassador. 
 
 MOLLIE (disgusted) . Oh, don t try to be funny ! Suppose 
 some day Hilda hears you speak of him in that manner ? 
 
 BOB. You know that s mild compared to what you think 
 of him. Suppose some day Hilda learns what you think 
 of him ? 
 
 MOLLIE. I think very well of him and you know it. Of 
 course, I dread the time when she marries him, but I 
 wouldn t for the world have her think that we speak dis 
 respectfully of her or her friends. 
 
 BOB. "A man s home is his castle." 
 
 [Mollie s only answer is a gesture of impatience. Mollie and 
 Bob sit back in their chairs to await Hilda s return. Both 
 sit with fingers interlaced, hands resting on the edge of the 
 table in the attitude of school children at attention. A long 
 pause. Mollie unclasps her hands and shifts uneasily. Robert 
 does the same. Mollie, seeing this, hastily resumes her former 
 attitude of quiet waiting. Robert, however, grows increas 
 ingly restless. His restlessness makes Mollie nervous and 
 she watches Robert, and when he is not observing her, she darts 
 quick, anxious glances at the door, center. Bob drains and 
 refills his glass. 
 
 MOLLIE (she has been watching Robert and every time he shifts 
 or moves she unconsciously does the same and finally she 
 breaks out nervously). I don t understand this at all! 
 Isn t today Tuesday ? 
 
 BOB. What of it ? 
 
 MOLLIE. He usually calls up on Wednesdays and comes to 
 see her on Saturdays. 
 
 BOB. And takes her to the theater on Thursdays and to 
 dances on Sundays. He s merely extending his line of 
 attack. 
 
WHERE BUT IN AMERICA 333 
 
 (Another long pause, then Bob begins to experiment to learn 
 whether the plates are still hot. He gingerly touches the edges 
 of the upper plate in two or three places. It seems safe to 
 handle. He takes hold of upper and lower plates boldly, 
 muttering, as he does so, "Cold as " Drops the plates 
 with a clatter and a smothered oath. Shakes his fingers and 
 blows on them. Meanwhile Mollie is sitting very rigid, re 
 garding Bob with a fixed stare and beating a vigorous tattoo 
 on the table cloth with her fingers. Bob catches her eye and 
 cringes under her gaze. He drains and refills his glass. He 
 studies the walls and the ceiling of the room, meanwhile still 
 nursing his fingers. Bob steals a side-long glance at Mollie. 
 She is still staring at him. He turns to his water goblet. 
 Picks it up and holds it up to the light. He rolls the stem 
 between his fingers, squinting at the light through the water. 
 Reciting slowly as he continues to gaze at the light) Star 
 light ! Starbright ! Will Hilda talk to him all night ! 
 
 MOLLIE (in utter disgust). Oh, stop that singing. 
 
 [Bob puts down his glass, then drinks the water and refills 
 the glass, fie then turns his attention to the silverware and 
 cutlery before him. He examines it critically, then lays a tea 
 spoon carefully on the cloth before him, and attempts the trick 
 of picking it up with the first finger in the bowl and the 
 thumb at the point of the handle. After one or two attempts 
 the spoon shoots on the floor, far behind him. Mollie jumps 
 at the noise. Bob turns slowly and looks at the spoon with 
 an injured air, then turns back to Mollie with a silly, 
 vacuous smile. He now lays all the remaining cutlery in a 
 straight row before him. 
 
 BOB (slowly counting the cutlery and silver, back and forth). 
 Eeny, meeny, miney, mo. Catch a (Stops suddenly 
 as an idea comes to him. Gazes thought fully at Mollie, for 
 a moment, then begins to count over again) Eeny, meeny, 
 miney, mo ; Hilda s talking to her beau. If we holler, she 
 may go. Eeny, mee - 
 
 MOLLIE (interrupting and exasperated to the verge of tears). 
 Bob, if you don t stop all that nonsense, I shall scream ! 
 
334 WHERE BUT IN AMERICA 
 
 (In a very tense tone) I believe I m going to have one of 
 
 my sick headaches ! (Puts her hand to her forehead) I 
 
 know it ; I can feel it coming on ! 
 BOB (in a soothing tone). Hunger, my dear, hunger ! When 
 
 you have a good warm meal you ll feel better. 
 MOLLIE (in despair). What do you suppose I ought to 
 
 do? 
 
 BOB. Go out in the kitchen and fry a couple of eggs. 
 MOLLIE. O ! be serious ! I m at my wits end ! Hilda never 
 
 did anything like this before. 
 BOB (suddenly quite serious). What does that fellow do for 
 
 a living, anyhow? 
 MOLLIE. How should I know? 
 BOB. Didn t you ever ask Hilda ? 
 MOLLIE. Certainly not. Hilda doesn t ask me about your 
 
 business, why should I pry into her affairs ? 
 BOB (taking out his cigarette case and lighting a cigarette). 
 
 Mollie, I see you re strong for the Constitution of the 
 
 United States. 
 
 MOLLIE (suspiciously). What do you mean by that? 
 BOB. The Constitution says: "Whereas it is a self-evident 
 
 truth that all men are born equal" (With a wave of the 
 
 hand) Hilda and you, and the Terrible Swede and I and 
 MOLLIE (interrupting). Bob, you re such a heathen! That s 
 
 not in the Constitution. That s in the Bible ! 
 BOB. Well, wherever it is, until this evening I never realized 
 
 what a personage Hilda is. 
 MOLLIE. You can make fun of me all you please, but I know 
 
 what s right ! Your remarks don t influence me in the 
 
 least not in the least ! 
 BOB (murmurs thoughtfully and feelingly). How true! 
 
 (Abruptly) Why don t they get married ? Do you know 
 
 that? 
 MOLLIE. All I know is that they are waiting until his business 
 
 is entirely successful so that Hilda won t have to work. 
 BOB. Well, the Swedes are pretty careful of their money. 
 
 The chances are Hilda has a neat little nest egg laid by. 
 
WHERE BUT IN AMERICA 335 
 
 MOLLIE (hesitating and doubtfully). That s one thing that 
 
 worries me a little. I think Hilda puts money into 
 
 into into the young man s business. 
 
 BOB (indignantly). Do you mean to tell me that this girl 
 
 gives her money to that fellow and you don t try to find 
 
 out a thing about him ? Who he is or what he does ? I 
 
 suppose she supports the loafer. 
 
 MOLLIE (with dignity). He s not a loafer. I ve seen him 
 
 and I ve talked with him and I know he s a gentleman. 
 BOB. Mollie, I m getting tired of all that kind of drivel. 
 I believe now-a-days women give a good deal more thought 
 to pleasing their maids than they do to pleasing their 
 husbands. 
 
 MOLLIE (demurely). Well, you know, Bob, your maid can 
 leave you much easier than your husband can (pauses 
 thoughtfully) and I m sure she s much harder to replace. 
 BOB (very angry, looking at his watch, throwing his napkin on the 
 table and standing up). Mollie, our dinner has been inter 
 rupted for fifteen minutes while Hilda entertains her (with 
 sarcasm) gentleman friend. If you won t stop it, I will. 
 [Steps toward the door, center. 
 
 MOLLIE (sternly, pointing to Bob s chair). Robert, sit down ! 
 [Bob pauses, momentarily, and at the instant Hilda enters, 
 center, meeting Bob, face to face. Both are startled. Bob 
 in a surly manner walks back to his place at the table. 
 Hilda follows, excited and eager. Bob sits down and Hilda 
 stands for a moment at the table, smiling from one to the other 
 and evidently anxious to say something. Bob and Mollie are 
 severe and unfriendly. They gaze at Hilda coldly. Slowly 
 Hilda s enthusiasm cools and she becomes again the impas 
 sive servant. 
 
 HILDA. Aixcuse me, Meeses Aispenhayne, I am very sorry. 
 I bring the dinner right in. 
 [Hilda exits left. 
 
 BOB. It s all nonsense. (Touches the plates again, but this 
 time even more cautiously than before. This time he finds they 
 are entirely safe to handle) These plates are stone cold now. 
 
336 WHERE BUT IN AMERICA 
 
 [Hilda enters, left, with meat platter. Places it before Bob. 
 He serves the meat and Mollie starts to serve the vegetables. 
 Hilda hands Mollie her meat plate. 
 MOLLIE. Vegetables ? 
 
 (Bob is chewing on his meat and does not answer. Mollie 
 looks at him inquiringly. But his eyes are on his plate. Re 
 peating) Vegetables ? 
 
 (Stitt no answer from Bob. Very softly under her breath) 
 H mm. 
 
 [Mollie helps herself to vegetables and then dishes out a portion 
 which she hands to Hilda, who in turn places the dish beside 
 Bob. When both are served Hilda stands for a moment 
 back of the table. She clasps and unclasps her hands in a 
 nervous manner, seems about to speak, but as Bob and Mollie 
 pay no attention to her she slowly and reluctantly turns, and 
 exits left. Mollie takes one or two bites of the meat and then 
 gives a quick glance at Bob. He is busy chewing at his meat 
 and Mollie quietly lays down her knife and fork and turns to 
 the vegetables. 
 
 BOB (chewing desperately on his meat). Tenderloin, I believe ? 
 MOLLIE (sweetly). Yes, dear. 
 BOB (imitating Mollie a moment back) . H mm ! (He takes 
 
 one or two more hard bites) Mollie, I have an idea. 
 MOLLIE. I m relieved. 
 
 BOB (savagely) . Yes, you will be when you hear it. When we 
 get that builder s name from Fanny Russell, we ll tell him 
 that instead of a garage, which we don t need, he can 
 build a special telephone booth off the kitchen. Then 
 while Hilda serves the dinner 
 
 [Bob stops short, as Hilda bursts in abruptly, left, and comes 
 to the table. 
 
 HILDA. Aixcuse me, Meeses Aispenhayne, I am so excited. 
 MOLLIE (anxiously). Is anything wrong, Hilda? 
 HILDA (explosively). Meeses Aispenhayne, Meester Leend- 
 quist he say you want to move to Highland Park. 
 [Bob and Mollie simultaneously drop their knives and forks 
 and look at Hilda in astonishment and wonder. 
 
WHERE BUT IN AMERICA 387 
 
 MOLLIE. What ? 
 
 30B. Who ? 
 
 HILDA (repeats very rapidly). Meester Leendquist, he say 
 
 you look for house on North Shore ! 
 
 MOLLIE (utterly overcome at Hilda s knowledge and at a loss for 
 words of denial). We move to the North Shore? How 
 ridiculous ! Hilda, where did you get such an idea ? ( Turns 
 to Robert) Robert, did you ever hear anything so laugh 
 able ? (She forces a strained laugh) Ha ! Ha ! Ha ! 
 (Robert has been looking at Hilda in dumb wonder. At 
 Mollie s question he turns to her in startled surprise. He 
 starts to answer, gulps, swallows hard, and then coughs 
 violently. Very sharply, after waiting a moment for Bob to 
 answer) Robert Espenhayne, will you stop that cough 
 ing and answer me ! 
 
 BOB (between coughs and drinking a glass of water). Egh ! 
 Egh! Excuse me! Something, eh! egh ! stuck in my 
 throat. 
 
 MOLLIE (turning to Hilda) . Some day we might want to move 
 north, Hilda, but not now ! Oh no, not now ! 
 
 BOB. Who told you that, Hilda ? 
 
 HILDA. Meester Leendquist. 
 
 MOLLIE (puzzled). Who is Mr. Lindquist? 
 
 HILDA (surprised). Meester Leendquist (pa uses, a trifle 
 embarrassed) Meester Leendquist ees young man who 
 just speak to me on telephone. He come to see me every 
 Saturday. 
 
 BOB. Oh, Mr. Lindquist, the the Ter 
 
 MOLLIE (interrupting frantically, and waving her hands at 
 
 Bob). 
 
 Yes, yes, of course. You know Mr. Lindquist ! (Bob 
 catches himself just in time and Mollie settles back with a 
 sigh of relief, then turns to Hilda with a puzzled air) But 
 where did Mr. Lindquist get such an idea ? 
 
 HILDA. Mrs. Russell tell heem so. 
 
 MOLLIE (now entirely bewildered). What Mrs. Russell? 
 
 HILDA, Meeses Russell your friend. 
 
338 WHERE BUT IN AMERICA 
 
 MOLLIE (more and more at sea). Mrs. Edwin Russell who 
 
 comes to see me every now and then ? 
 HILDA. Yes. 
 
 MOLLIE. But how does Mrs. Russell know Mr. Lindquist 
 and why should she tell Mr. Lindquist that we expected 
 to move to the North Shore ? 
 
 HILDA. Meester Leendquist, he build Meeses Russell s 
 house. That ees hees business. He build houses on 
 North Shore and he sell them and rent them. 
 [Bob and Mollie look at each other and at Hilda in wonder 
 and astonishment as the situation slowly filters into their 
 brains. A long pause. 
 
 BOB (in awe and astonishment). You mean that Mr. Lind 
 quist, the young man who comes to see you every every 
 
 every now and then is the same man who put up the 
 
 Russell house ? 
 
 HILDA. Yes, Meester Aispenhayne. 
 
 BOB (slowly). And when Mrs. Espenhayne (points to Mollie) 
 wrote to Mrs. Russell (jerks his thumb to indicate the North) 
 Mrs. Russell told Mr. Lindquist (jerks his thumb in opposite 
 direction) and Mr. Lindquist telephoned to you ? 
 [Points to Hilda. 
 HILDA. Yes, Meester Aispenhayne. 
 
 [Nodding. 
 
 BOB (very thoughtfully and slowly). H mm! (Then slowly 
 resuming his meal and speaking in mock seriousness, in subtle 
 jest at Mollie, and imitating her tone of a moment or two back) 
 But of course, you understand, Hilda, we don t want to 
 move to the North Shore now ! Oh, no, not now ! 
 HILDA (somewhat crestfallen). Yes, Meester Aispenhayne. 
 BOB (reflectively). But, of course, if Mr. Lindquist builds 
 
 houses, we might look. Yes, we might look. 
 HILDA (in growing confidence and enthusiasm). Yes, Meester 
 Aispenhayne, and he build such beautiful houses and so 
 cheap. He do so much heemself. Hees father was car 
 penter and he work hees way through Uneeversity of 
 Mennesota and study architecture and then he go to 
 
WHERE BUT IN AMERICA 339 
 
 Uneeversity of Eelenois and study landscape gardening 
 and now he been in business for heemself sex years. And 
 oh, Meeses Aispenhayne, you must see hees own home ! 
 You will love eet, eet ees so beautiful. A little house, far 
 back from the road. You can hardly see eet for the trees 
 and the shrubs, and een the summer the roses grow all 
 around eet. Eet is just like the picture book ! 
 
 MOLLIE (in the most perfunctory tone, utterly without interest 
 or enthusiasm). How charming! (Pauses thoughtfully, 
 then turns to Hilda, anxiously) Then I suppose, Hilda, if 
 we should decide to move up to the North Shore you 
 would go with us ? 
 
 HILDA (hesitatingly). Yes, Meeses Aispenhayne. (Pauses) 
 But I theenk I must tell you thees spring Meester Leend- 
 quist and I aixpect to get married. Meester Leendquist s 
 business ees very good. (With a quick smile and a glance 
 from one to the other) You know, I am partner with heem. I 
 put all my money een Meester Leendquist s business too. 
 [Mollie and Bob gaze at each other in complete resignation and 
 surrender. 
 
 BOB (quite seriously after a long pause). Hilda, I don t know 
 whether we will move north or not, but the next time Mr. 
 Lindquist comes here, I want you to introduce me to him. 
 I d like to know him. You ought to be very proud of a 
 man like that. 
 
 HILDA (radiant with pleasure). Thank you, Meester Aispen 
 hayne. 
 
 MOLLIE. Yes, indeed, Hilda, Mr. Espenhayne has often 
 said what a fine young man Mr. Lindquist seems to be. 
 We want to meet him, and Mr. Espenhayne and I will 
 talk about the house and then we will speak to Mr. Lind 
 quist. (Then weakly) Of course, we didn t expect to 
 move north for a long time, but of course, if you expect to 
 get married, and Mr. Lindquist builds houses 
 [Her voice dies out. Long pause. 
 
 HILDA. Thank you, Meeses Aispenhayne, I tell Mr. Leend- 
 quist. 
 
340 WHERE BUT IN AMERICA 
 
 [Hilda stands at the table a moment longer, then slowly turns 
 and moves toward door,, left. Bob and Mollie watch her and 
 as she moves away from the table Bob turns to Mollie. At 
 this moment Hilda stops, turns suddenly and returns to the 
 table. 
 
 HILDA. Oh, Meeses Aispenhayne, I forget one theeng ! 
 
 MOLLIE. What now, Hilda ? 
 
 HILDA. Meester Leendquist say eef you and Meester Aispen 
 hayne want to look at property on North Shore, I shall let 
 heem know and he meet you at station weeth hees automo 
 bile. 
 
 CURTAIN 
 
A QUESTION OF MORALITY 
 
 PERCIVAL WILDE 
 
 MR. PERCIVAL WILDE was born March 1, 1887, and was 
 graduated from Columbia University in 1906. After being 
 in business for some years, he commenced writing, and in 
 May, 1917, he enlisted in the navy. During the war he 
 was an officer of the navy on active service. 
 
 He has published "The Line of No Resistance", 1913, 
 "Dawn and Other One-Act Plays of To-day", 1915 ; "Con 
 fessional and Other American Plays", 1916; and "The 
 Unseen Host and Other War Plays", 1917. He is co-author 
 with Samuel Shipman of " Lambs are Lions ", 1918. 
 
 Thirty-one of his plays have been produced and some have 
 had many productions. They have been given in vaudeville 
 and by various Little Theatres. Mr. Wilde wrote vaudeville 
 one-acters exclusively from 1912 to 1914, but then effected a 
 complete change in his writing and since 1915 has written 
 with a more literary end in view. Mr. Wilde states that 
 this has not prevented some of his recent plays from being 
 reduced to a least common multiple, however, and being 
 produced in vaudeville. 
 

 
A QUESTION OF MORALITY 
 
 A COMEDY 
 
 BY PERC)V4Ltf/ILDE 
 
"A Question of Morality" was originally produced by the 
 Brooklyn Repertory Theatre Company (affiliated with the 
 People s Institute of Brooklyn) on Wednesday evening, 
 March 7, 1917, at the People s Institute. 
 
 Original Cast 
 
 SHELTON Thomas Mitchell 
 
 CARRUTHERS Harmon Cheshire 
 
 DOROTHY SHELTON Beatrice Reinhardt 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1916, BY PEKOIVAL WILDE. 
 All rights reserved. 
 
 Printed originally in the Century Magazine. Reprinted in "Confessional and 
 Other American Plays," and printed in this volume by permission of, and by special 
 arrangement with, Mr. Percival Wilde and Henry Holt and Company. 
 
 Application for the right of performing " A Question of Morality " must be made 
 *o Mr. Percival Wilde, Society of American Authors, Candler Building, New York. 
 
A QUESTION OF MORALITY 
 
 SCENE. As the curtain rises, Shelton and Carruthers are dis 
 covered. Shelton, a not unattractive social butterfly of some 
 thirty-five years of age, has inherited wealth, and having never 
 had to concern himself with productive labor, has acquired a fine 
 dilettantism : an ability to do many things badly, without doing 
 any one of them so badly that it becomes evident he has neglected 
 it. Carruthers, his friend, has even less claim to distinction. 
 They would pass in a crowd if the crowd were large enough, 
 but no one, with the possible exception of a Society Editor, would 
 give either of them a second glance. Were one to seek something 
 visibly commendable about them, one might remark that they are 
 groomed and tailored to an exquisite nicety too exquisite, 
 perhaps. They are in full dress, for they have just finished the 
 evening meal, and as the assiduous butler lights their cigars, 
 places the liqueur tray on the table, and discreetly effaces himself, 
 they slowly push their chairs into more comfortable positions, 
 and look at each other. There is something in that look: some 
 thing unusual, and the shadow of a smile curls about the hus 
 band s lips as he raises his arm to consult a wrist-watch. 
 CARRUTHERS. What time ? 
 SHELTON. Twelve minutes of eight no, ten minutes of. 
 
 My watch is a little slow. 
 CARRUTHERS (rather brilliantly after a pause). Thought it 
 
 was later than that. 
 SHELTON (having weighed the pros and cons carefully}. So 
 
 did I. 
 
 CARRUTHERS (after another pause). Thought it was at least 
 quarter past. 
 
346 A QUESTION OF MORALITY 
 
 SHELTON. So did I. (Consulting the watch again) It s 
 eleven minutes of that is to say, nine minutes of, now. 
 (He pauses and smiles reflectively) Jerry ! 
 
 CARRUTHERS. Yes ? 
 
 SHELTON. I wonder what Cheever s saying to her now. 
 
 CARRUTHERS. I WOnder ? 
 
 SHELTON (examining a time-table). Their train pulls out at 
 
 eight. 
 CARRUTHERS (with a trace of animation) . I thought you said 
 
 they were leaving this afternoon. 
 SHELTON. Eh ? 
 
 CARRUTHERS. The six o clock train, you said first. 
 SHELTON. Oh, yes. But she had to do some shopping. You 
 
 can t get any decent clothes in Chicago, you know. (He 
 
 chuckles slowly) I suppose she wanted the satisfaction of 
 
 charging a final bill to me, eh, Jerry ? J^*^ y 
 
 CARRUTHERS (nodding sympathetically). It s cost you a 
 
 pretty penny, all in all. 
 SHELTON (philosophically). Well, your wife doesn t elope 
 
 with some other chap every day, does she? 
 CARRUTHERS (undecidedly). Er, no. 
 SHELTON. This is a special occasion. If Dorothy feels she 
 
 has a right to carte blanche on her last day as my wife, I 
 
 don t know but what I ought to agree with her. It s 
 
 sentimental, you know. 
 CARRUTHERS. But expensive. 
 SHELTON. Sentiment is always expensive. At any rate, 
 
 I m footing the bills. A little more or less doesn t matter. 
 
 (He rises, and produces a mass of papers from a convenient 
 
 desk) Just look at these. 
 CARRUTHERS. What are they? 
 SHELTON. The detectives reports. (He thumbs them over 
 
 with a smile) It s been like a continued-in-our-next story. 
 
 I ve been reading them for the last month. 
 CARRUTHERS (surprised). I didn t know you had detectives 
 
 following her. 
 SHELTON (confused). Er, yes. 
 
A QUESTION OF MORALITY 347 
 
 CARRUTHERS. Do you think that s cricket ? 
 
 SHELTON (hesitantly). Well, I couldn t ask her if she was 
 going to run away. 
 
 CARRUTHERS. Why not ? 
 
 SHELTON. She s too good a woman to lie to me and I 
 didn t want to embarrass her. (Carruthers smiles cynically. 
 Shelton crushes him politely) You wouldn t understand 
 such things anyhow, Jerry. (He bundles the reports together 
 again) The last installment reached me to-day. It took 
 her a month to make up her mind. Cheever wanted her to 
 elope long ago, but she wouldn t hear of it. She had 
 scruples. And to-morrow ! 
 
 CARRUTHERS (thinking he is rising to the situation). To 
 morrow s another day. 
 
 SHELTON (with a faint frown). No. To-morrow I ll be a free 
 man no wife, no responsibilities, no conscience. Rather 
 clever of me, eh, Jerry ? If I had told her I didn t mind, 
 she never would have run off. Never ! 
 
 CARRUTHERS. She s a moral woman, your wife. 
 
 SHELTON (nodding emphatically). Well, rather! (Confiden 
 tially) Do you know, I m not sure that she isn t running 
 off with Cheever because she wants to reform him ? He s 
 a bad lot, you know ; gambles, and drinks, and-a-devil with 
 the ladies. 
 
 CARRUTHERS (slowly) . I m not knocking anybody, but you 
 used to travel around with him. 
 
 SHELTON (not at all disturbed). Yes: when I was single. 
 Oh, I m not making any bones about it : I was as bad as 
 he worse. (With satisfaction) Much worse. Cheever 
 and I, well, we had reps ! You know what they were like. 
 
 CARRUTHERS. I do. 
 
 SHELTON (solemnly). But that s all over with now. I m a 
 better man since I married Dorothy. She s reformed me. 
 There was lots to reform, too. I was a bad un. But that 
 didn t bother her: she enjoyed it. She used to talk to 
 me, just like a mother, Jerry, and she got me to cut out 
 cards, and the ponies (he pauses reflectively) I used to 
 
348 A QUESTION OF MORALITY 
 
 lose a bale of money on the races, Jerry. (Carruthers does 
 not answer. He finishes emphatically) She s had an 
 awfully good influence on me. 
 
 CARRUTHERS (after a period of cogitation) . She s helped you ? 
 
 SHELTON (enthusiastically). Helped me? I can t begin to 
 tell you how many ways i H T J| he.) I 
 
 CARRUTHERS (interrupting) . Then why are you letting her go ? 
 
 SHELTON (taken aback). Eh? 
 
 CARRUTHERS. Why are you letting her run off with Cheever ? 
 
 SHELTON (nervously) . You don t keep on taking the medicine 
 after you re cured, do you, Jerry ? I m cured, you know. 
 And I don t want to be cured any more than I am. I m a 
 good man. I m so good, Jerry, I m so good sometimes, 
 that I m almost afraid of myself ! (He pauses, to continue 
 candidly) It s so different and so strange. Before I 
 married Dorothy I wasn t good : that was when I went 
 around with Cheever. But it was so comfortable : I was 
 so sure of myself. I never had any regrets. I wasn t 
 afraid to drink, because even if I well, even if I did 
 take a drop too much I wouldn t make a fool of myself : 
 I d act just as if I were sober. (He emphasizes his point 
 with a clenched fist) Jerry, I was consistent then ! I was 
 dependable. I never had anything to be ashamed of. 
 Whatever I did, well, I stood back of it. I didn t have to 
 worry. And now ? I m living on the brink of a volcano ! 
 I m full of all kinds of impulses to do good things : things 
 I don t want to do. I never know what s going to happen 
 next, and Jerry, I don t like it ! It s not fair to me. I m 
 like a man who has swallowed a stick of dynamite : he s 
 expecting it to blow up any minute, but if it ever does 
 blow up, there won t be enough of him left to be surprised at 
 it. (Carruthers, considerably beyond his depth, makes no 
 reply) A man should be true to himself. I don t know 
 whom I m true to, but it s not Billy Shelton ! There s no 
 Billy Shelton left : he s nine-tenths Dorothy, and one-tenth 
 remnants ! 
 
 CARRUTHERS (shifting uneasily) . Isn t it time to go to a show ? 
 
A QUESTION OF MORALITY 349 
 
 SHELTON (consulting his watch). Eight o clock. That is, 
 
 two minutes after. Jerry, she s gone ! 
 CARRUTHERS. All right. Let s get our coats on. 
 
 [He rises. 
 
 SHELTON. No. Wait a minute. 
 CARRUTHERS (glancing at him curiously) . What s the matter 
 
 with you ? 
 
 SHELTON. It s too sudden. I can t realize it yet. 
 CARRUTHERS. You ve been expecting it a month. 
 
 SHELTON. Yes. 
 
 CARRUTHERS. Waiting for it counting the hours. 
 SHELTON. Yes. (He throws his cigar away nervously) Jerry, 
 it s two years since I ve been to a show without Dorothy. 
 
 CARRUTHERS. Well ? 
 
 SHELTON. What are you going to do afterwards ? 
 
 CARRUTHERS. Anything you like. 
 
 SHELTON. For instance? 
 
 CARRUTHERS. Stop in somewhercs for a bite. Look in at 
 
 the Club : there s always a game of stud. 
 SHELTON (nodding thoughtfully) . I used to lose a lot of money 
 
 at that, Jerry. (He looks at him appealingly) Jerry. 
 
 CARRUTHERS. Well ? 
 
 SHELTON. Would you mind if I stayed home to-night ? 
 
 CARRUTHERS (surprised). What? 
 
 SHELTON. I mean it. I don t feel like going out so soon 
 
 after 
 CARRUTHERS. It s not a funeral, you know. 
 
 SHELTON. No. But 
 
 CARRUTHERS. But what ? 
 
 SHELTON. Dorothy wouldn t like it. 
 
 CARRUTHERS. Good Lord ! 
 
 SHELTON (nodding seriously). I mean it. Anyhow, you 
 
 want to see some musical comedy, don t you ? 
 CARRUTHERS. Why not ? 
 SHELTON. It would bore me to death. (Rather shamefacedly) 
 
 I used to care for that sort of thing, but Dorothy taught me 
 
 to enjoy the opera. 
 
350 A QUESTION OF MORALITY 
 
 CARRUTHERS (facing him resolutely) . Answer me one question, 
 
 SHELTON. Well ? 
 
 CARRUTHERS. Is Dorothy your wife, or was she your wife ? 
 
 SHELTON (hesitantly). I guess it s "is." You see, she s not 
 more than ten miles away from New York now. 
 
 CARRUTHERS. And you re afraid you may have to account 
 to her? 
 
 SHELTON. No. It s not that. She s left me, and I m my 
 own master. But the very day that she elopes, don t 
 you think it would be a little (he searches for a word) a 
 little indecent if I were to start celebrating ? I m a gentle 
 man, Jerry, and it wouldn t be quite respectful to Dorothy. 
 She mighn t like it. (He lights on a happy simile) It s 
 like reading the will while the corpse is still warm, isn t 
 it? Come now, be honest, Jerry. 
 
 CARRUTHERS (with warmth). Well, I m thirty-three, and 
 I m a bachelor. 
 
 SHELTON. What s the point? 
 
 CARRUTHERS. I say if that s married life, I don t want to 
 get married ! 
 
 [The door opens, and Dorothy, a toll, slim, rather attractive 
 woman in her late twenties, stands on the threshold. She 
 is quite excited, and she trembles a little. The men, thunder 
 struck at her sudden appearance, are unable to voice a greeting. 
 Shelton, collapsed in his chair, gasps like a fish out of water, 
 and Carruthers, petrified at the height of an oratorical gesture, 
 is not much better. 
 
 SHELTON (at length). Good evening, Dorothy. (Dorothy 
 leaves the doorway, and staggers to a chair. Shelton, alarmed, 
 hastens to her) Get some water, Jerry. 
 
 DOROTHY. No, no. I want nothing. 
 
 [Carruthers, carafe in hand, stands motionless. Shelton in 
 dicates the door. Carruthers nods, and goes. 
 
 DOROTHY. Is he gone ? 
 
 SHELTON. Yes. (Genuinely anxious) Is anything wrong 
 with you, Dorothy ? 
 
 DOROTHY. No ... (She pauses) Billy. 
 
A QUESTION OF MORALITY 351 
 
 SHELTON. Yes ? 
 
 DOROTHY. I ve come back. I ve come home again. 
 
 SHELTON (lamely). Yes. So I notice. 
 
 DOROTHY. You got my note ? 
 
 SHELTON. Your note ? What note ? 
 
 DOROTHY. I sent it with a messenger half an hour ago. 
 
 SHELTON. I haven t seen it. 
 
 DOROTHY. No? (She passes her hand over her forehead 
 wearily) Billy, it was a farewell. 
 
 SHELTON (with an affectation of surprise} . What ? 
 
 DOROTHY. I was on the point of leaving you: of running 
 off with another man. 
 
 SHELTON. With Cheever ? 
 
 DOROTHY. You suspected ? (Shelton nods. She goes to 
 wards him with outstretched hands) Billy, at the last 
 minute something stopped me. Something made me 
 come home to you. 
 
 [For an instant Shelton is silent. Then comes the amazing 
 question. 
 
 SHELTON. Why ? 
 
 DOROTHY (staggered). What? 
 
 SHELTON (insistently). You were on the point of running 
 away. You had planned everything carefully : people 
 don t do such things on the spur of the moment. What 
 stopped you ? 
 
 DOROTHY (gasping at the shock). Don t you love me? 
 
 SHELTON (not answering the question) . Cheever is a rich man. 
 Of course, he hasn t got as much as I ve got, but he has 
 plenty to take care of you. The scandal you must have 
 been prepared for. If you loved Cheever, what made you 
 come back to me ? 
 
 DOROTHY. You don t love me, Billy ? 
 
 SHELTON. Would that have stopped you? 
 
 DOROTHY. Would that have ? (She stops, thunderstruck 
 at what she sees within herself) I don t know ! (Breaking 
 down and weeping) I don t know, Billy! (There is a 
 pause. Then she gathers herself together) Billy, look at me ! 
 
352 A QUESTION OF MORALITY 
 
 SHELTON. Well ? 
 
 DOROTHY. Am I a good woman? 
 
 SHELTON (hesitantly). Well - 
 
 DOROTHY. Tell me the truth, Billy. 
 
 SHELTON. You were a good woman when you married 
 me. 
 
 DOROTHY (excitedly). Yes! That s right! I was a good 
 woman then. But am I a good woman now? (He hes 
 itates) Answer me ! Tell me ! 
 
 SHELTON (after a pause). I don t know, Dorothy. 
 
 DOROTHY (desperately). Billy, neither do I! (There is a 
 pause) No girl was ever brought up as I was. We were 
 good : so good ! All the people I met were so good ! I 
 don t believe any of them ever had a normal impulse. 
 They were saints, Billy, saints ! Then you were intro 
 duced to me you remember ? 
 
 SHELTON. Yes. 
 
 DOROTHY. I thought you were the worst man I had ever 
 met. (Shelton is a little upset, but Dorothy proceeds fluently) 
 I had heard the most awful stories about you, oh, the 
 most unbelievable things ! You and Cheever ! 
 
 SHELTON (nodding). We were pals. 
 
 DOROTHY. Yes. I began to think. I knew that if I married 
 a man as good as I was, I d go mad : stark, staring mad ! 
 (She pauses) Billy, have you ever felt an impulse to do 
 something outrageous? 
 
 SHELTON. Of course. 
 
 DOROTHY. What happened ? 
 
 SHELTON. I did it. 
 
 DOROTHY. So did I ! For the first time in my life ! I mar 
 ried you ! 
 
 SHELTON (of ended). Thank you, Dorothy. 
 
 DOROTHY. Oh, I ve had no regrets ! It wasn t good for 
 me, but I ve enjoyed it ! I ve enjoyed it too much ! 
 
 SHELTON. What do you mean ? 
 
 DOROTHY. Billy, do you know you ve had a great influence 
 on me? (He cannot answer) Do you imagine a woman 
 
A QUESTION OF MORALITY 353 
 
 can live with you for two years, as I have lived with you, 
 
 and remain a perfectly good woman ? 
 SHELTON (floundering). Isn t that a little strong? 
 DOROTHY. The truth is always strong. I m not blaming 
 
 you, Billy. You ve exerted an influence : it was the only 
 
 influence you could exert. 
 SHELTON (gasping) . A bad one ? 
 DOROTHY. The best that was in you. 
 SHELTON. Which is to say, the worst? 
 
 DOROTHY. I Suppose SO. 
 
 SHELTON. And Cheever ? 
 
 DOROTHY. Another impulse. (She pauses) Billy, I never 
 knew until to-day how much bad there was in me. I 
 didn t even know it when I began to go around with 
 Cheever. 
 
 SHELTON (bewildered) . Do you call him a good impulse ? 
 
 DOROTHY. I don t know. I didn t know whether it was the 
 bad in him calling to the bad in me, or that which was 
 capable of being reformed in him calling to the good in 
 me ! Which was it ? There s bad in me, and there must 
 be some good left in me. But what am I ? A good woman 
 or a bad woman ? I don t know. 
 
 SHELTON (after a moment s reflection). You made me stop 
 gambling. 
 
 DOROTHY. Yes. 
 
 SHELTON. And drinking. 
 
 DOROTHY. Yes. 
 
 SHELTON. Why ? 
 
 DOROTHY. I wasn t trying to reform you. 
 
 SHELTON. No ? 
 
 DOROTHY. That came to me to-day. I used to talk to you 
 about your bad habits because, weH, because I liked to 
 talk about such things. I liked to hear you tell about 
 them. 
 
 SHELTON (after a pause). Anyhow, I m reformed. 
 
 DOROTHY. Yes. 
 
 SHELTON. What are you going to do about it ? 
 
354 A QUESTION OF MORALITY 
 
 DOROTHY. What can I do about it? I can t influence you 
 any more : there isn t any me left. I look into myself, 
 and I see oceans of Billy Shelton, nothing but Billy Shelton, 
 as far as the eye can reach, and here and there, tossed by 
 the waves, a little wreckage, such pathetic wreckage, that 
 used to be something better ! Billy, to-day I am what 
 you have made me. 
 
 SHELTON (thunderstruck) . Which is to say that it was 7 who 
 eloped with Cheever ! 
 
 DOROTHY. That s what it amounts to. 
 
 SHELTON. Well then, what I want to know is, why didn t 
 it go through? 
 
 DOROTHY. What do you mean ? 
 
 SHELTON. If the me in you made you run off with Cheever, 
 what brought you back ? 
 
 DOROTHY (after a pause). Nothing brought me back. 
 
 SHELTON. No ? 
 
 DOROTHY. Cheever sent me back. (There is a long pause) 
 We had arranged to meet at the station. I met him. 
 We were to send our trunks ahead to Chicago. Mine 
 left yesterday. I was ready to go through with it to the 
 bitter end, but b~ 
 
 SHELTON. He? 
 
 DOROTHY. He changed his mind at the last minute. 
 
 SHELTON (after deliberation) . Why ? 
 
 DOROTHY. That s what I ve been asking myself. 
 
 SHELTON. Did he give any reason ? 
 
 DOROTHY. He didn t have to. Am I a good woman or a 
 bad woman ? Cheever knows. I m not what he thought 
 I was. That s why he didn t elope with me. He found 
 out at the last minute. 
 
 SHELTON. That you were a good woman ? 
 
 DOROTHY. Perhaps. 
 
 SHELTON. Or that you were a bad one ? 
 
 DOROTHY. I d give anything to know. Cheever knows. 
 
 SHELTON. And he won t tell. 
 
 DOROTHY. No. 
 
A QUESTION OF MORALITY 355 
 
 SHELTON (after a thoughtful pause) . I like his nerve ! (Dor 
 othy looks at him in mute inquiry) My wife not good enough 
 for him to elope with ! (She does not answer) Aren t you 
 pretty enough? (She shrugs her shoulders) Or clever 
 enough ? (He surveys her critically) Is that something 
 new you re wearing ? 
 
 DOROTHY. Yes. I bought it to-day. Do you like it ? 
 
 SHELTON (nodding his approval). Yes. Looks well on you. 
 (There is a knock at the door) Come in. 
 
 THE BUTLER (entering with a letter on a salver). Messenger 
 just brought a note, sir. 
 
 DOROTHY. Oh ! 
 
 SHELTON (glances at her. After an instant s hesitation, she 
 nods her permission. He takes it, slowly opens the envelope, 
 and reads the contents. The Butler waits. Shelton notices 
 him) Well, why are you waiting ? 
 
 THE BUTLER. Is there an answer, sir ? 
 
 SHELTON. An answer? No. 
 
 [The Butler goes. In the ensuing silence Shelton tears, up 
 the note. 
 
 DOROTHY. My farewell ? (He nods) Well ? 
 
 SHELTON (slowly, as if stating a mathematical problem) . What 
 ever you are, good or bad, doesn t matter. You ve re 
 formed me so thoroughly that you won t go far wrong 
 in my company and you re going to have lots of it. 
 
 DOROTHY (submissively). Yes, Billy. 
 
 SHELTON. You may make slips : I expect you to make slips, 
 but while I m here to watch you they won t be bad ones. 
 
 DOROTHY. No, Billy. 
 
 SHELTON. And before I forget it : if you have any more out 
 rageous impulses, they will be in my direction. You 
 understand ? (She nods. He folds her comfortably in his 
 arms, and smiles happily) From now on, I m prepared 
 to enjoy life. 
 
 THE CURTAIN FALLS 
 
MARTHA S MOURNING 
 
 PHOEBE HOFFMAN 
 
 Miss PHOEBE HOFFMAN is a resident of Philadelphia, 
 where she was born in 1894 and was educated at Miss Irwin s 
 School. She has published various poems in Contemporary 
 Verse, The Literary Digest, The Art World, Springfield Re 
 publican, Public Ledger, and Evening Ledger. " Martha s 
 Mourning" was produced by the Plays and Players of 
 Philadelphia, under the auspices of the Browning Society. 
 
MARTHA S MOURNING 
 
 BY PHOEBE HOFFMAN 
 
"Martha s Mourning" was originally produced by the 
 Plays and Players under the auspices of the Browning Society, 
 at the Broad Street Theatre, Philadelphia, May, 1917. 
 
 Original Cast 
 
 AUNTY Miss Balburney 
 
 MARTHA Miss Welsh 
 
 NEIGHBOR Mrs. Robert Geddes, Jr. 
 
 Copyright, 1918, by the Drama 
 
 All rights reserved. 
 
 Printed originally in Drama. 
 
 Application for the right of performing "Martha s Mourning" must be made to 
 Miss Phoebe Hoffman, 3805 Locust St., Philadelphia, Pa. 
 
MARTHA S MOURNING 
 
 SCENE. A kitchen. 
 
 An ill old woman lies on a sofa near the stove; close by is a 
 table with some medicines and an oil lamp. In the corner stands 
 a fine old secretary now used for china, and a handsome ma 
 hogany mirror hangs in full view of the sofa. The old woman s 
 niece, Martha, sits by the stove. She is a timid girl with pretty 
 hair mercilessly dragged back from her pale face, which is il 
 lumined by sad, gentle eyes. She is shabbily dressed and shivers 
 between half-choked sobs. Glancing at the meager fire in the 
 stove, she rises cautiously to fetch a log of wood. 
 AUNTY (fearfully) . Stop, stop ! (Controlling herself) Don t be 
 
 wastin the wood. 
 
 [Martha drops the wood and slinks back to her seat. 
 MARTHA (apologetically). It s so cold, Aunty. 
 AUNTY (grimly) . It makes me think of what s comin to me 
 
 hereafter. (Nervously) Not that I m afraid. 
 
 (Martha sits down despondently, murmuring softly to herself. 
 AUNTY (sharply) Don t be mumblin any more prayers to yer- 
 
 self . I got through this world without askin help from folk 
 
 and I don t want others beggin my pardon in the next. 
 
 I m not afraid to face the Lord myself. 
 MARTHA (weeping). But Aunty, that s agin all religion. Let 
 
 me run and get the minister. He ll explain everything to ye. 
 AUNTY (determinedly). No, no, Martha. The last black- 
 coated snivell came here when the man died. He couldn t 
 
 change my notions now. 
 
 MARTHA. Aunty, let me help you up to bed. 
 AUNTY. You ll be the first of our folks to die in yer bed, 
 
 they ll never say it of me. 
 
362 MARTHA S MOURNING 
 
 [Martha is silent and sits with her hands in her lap, looking 
 vacantly into the stove. Once or twice she starts murmuring 
 a prayer, but checks herself fearfully. Aunty lies rigid, 
 suffering acute mental torture. Several times she raises her 
 hands as if in prayer, but the unaccustomed words will not 
 come to her lips. A clock strikes eight and Martha rises and 
 pours some medicine into a teaspoon. 
 
 MARTHA (holding the glass to Aunty s lips). Here s your 
 physic. 
 
 AUNTY (snatching the spoon and throwing it across the room). 
 That stuff might make me die in my sleep. 
 [Martha silently picks up the spoon. 
 
 AUNTY. You might like that easy kind of an end, I suppose, 
 but I ve got red blood in my veins. I m goin to fight it 
 out to the last. 
 
 [Martha stands for a moment, the spoon in her hands. She 
 is thinking and plucking up courage to say something un 
 usually bold. 
 
 MARTHA. Aunty, it s pride, not bravery, that s makin ye 
 fight the Lord s will. Christ was the bravest man in the 
 world, but He begged for God s mercy and yielded to His 
 will. Ye ve defied Him and every one else all yer life. 
 But, Aunty, you mustn t die feelin like that. (Coming 
 closer and patting her hand gently) Aunty, yer half crazy 
 with pain ; take some physic and sleep a little, and when 
 ye feel easier, throw yerself on the mercy of the Lord. It 
 won t be too late to repent. 
 
 [Aunty stares at her in astonishment. The truth of Martha s 
 statement sinks deeply into her sin-laden conscience, but she 
 is still too proud and obstinate to admit it to Martha, whom 
 she has always despised for her meekness. 
 
 AUNTY (in somewhat softer tones). I ve got to settle with the 
 Lord in my own way, Martha. (More weakly) I will 
 take some physic, the pain s gnawin at my shoulder agin. 
 Though it s awful to think of good money bein poured 
 into a dyin person at the end of a teaspoon. 
 [Martha gives Aunty the medicine and watches her settle into 
 
MAKTHA S MOURNING 363 
 
 a peaceful doze. Then she kneels in silent prayer shivering 
 till the cold forces her to be active. She feels the windows and 
 draws the rag-carpet against the outside door, then glancing 
 apprehensively at Aunty, she steals out of the room. She 
 returns in a few moments wearing a shabby old coat and 
 carrying a black fur tippet. She sits down and starts mend 
 ing the lining. As she turns it, the fur brushes against her 
 cheek and she buries her face in it. 
 
 MARTHA. How soft ! (Draws tippet over one shoulder) I 
 never had on fur before. How nice it feels. 
 [Fastens tippet and stands up. Aunty wakens and watches 
 her in amazement. She is about to speak, but changing her 
 mind, closes her eyes as Martha suddenly remembers to look 
 around. 
 
 MARTHA. It must be real handsome. (Cautiously picks up 
 lamp and goes over to the mirror, peering at herself admiringly) 
 How stylish I look ! 
 
 [There is a rapping outside and Aunty chuckles as Martha, 
 nearly dropping the lamp in her agitation, puts it on the 
 secretary and ^pens the door. A neighbor enters. 
 
 NEIGHBOR (stumbling over the carpet). I near fell. 
 
 [She gives Martha a quick astonished look out of her sharp 
 little eyes and glances inquisitively about the room. She 
 carries a bundle. 
 
 NEIGHBOR. How little ye ve changed this place. How s 
 yer Aunty, Martha ? 
 
 MARTHA (sadly). She s low. 
 
 NEIGHBOR. The doctor told me she was goin , and I ve come 
 to help ye. 
 
 MARTHA (still standing by the door). Thank you. 
 
 [Aunty is about to burst forth in a rage, but something in 
 Martha s demeanor restrains her. Neighbor moves over to 
 the secretary and puts down her bundle. 
 
 NEIGHBOR. I just brought some things along as I knew ye d 
 want somebody in the house with ye. 
 [Martha glances at Aunty, who feigns sleep. 
 
 MARTHA (firmly). I m afraid I can t ask ye to stay. Aunty 
 
364 MARTHA S MOURNING 
 
 never did like folk about and I know she wouldn t want 
 
 anybody here now. 
 NEIGHBOR. But I ll have to dress her out. I ve helped with 
 
 most all the folk that s died in the last twenty years. 
 
 [Aunty shudders. 
 MARTHA. Thank you kindly, but I couldn t let any stranger 
 
 touch Aunty. 
 
 NEIGHBOR. Surely, ye don t call me a stranger. 
 MARTHA. I ve been so lonely that every one seems like a 
 
 stranger to me except Aunty. 
 NEIGHBOR (spitefully). Ye re most dutiful to her memory, 
 
 seein how mean she treated ye. 
 
 [Aunty shakes her fist in rage, but subsides hastily as Martha 
 
 looks towards her. 
 MARTHA (hotly). She never was mean. She always shared 
 
 everything she had with me. 
 
 [Aunty winces. 
 NEIGHBOR (seeing her chance to catch her up). Even her 
 
 tippet, I suppose. I saw ye prinkin in front of the mirror 
 
 while ye re Aunty was on her death-bed. 
 MARTHA (struck with a sudden inspiration). Yes, she was 
 
 tellin me to wear it at her funeral, and ye wouldn t have 
 
 seen me if ye hadn t been peekin* through the key 
 hole. 
 
 [Aunty gasps with astonishment. 
 NEIGHBOR (confused, but not yet downed) . Indeed, that s very 
 
 generous. I was goin to offer ye some mournin . 
 MARTHA (hesitating). I haven t a black dress. 
 NEIGHBOR (cheerfully) . I knew I could be of some use to ye. 
 
 I ll lend ye my alpaca skirt and widder s hat and veil. 
 
 They d be grand with the tippet. 
 MARTHA. Thank you kindly. 
 NEIGHBOR (going to secretary and picking up her bundle), 
 
 That s a grand piece, Martha, ye ought to sell it. I know 
 
 a party that might buy it. 
 MARTHA. Aunty held on to it through thick and thin and 
 
 I don t want to part with it either. 
 
MARTHA S MOURNING 365 
 
 NEIGHBOR. It looks as if ye were goin to be poor enough 
 when yer Aunty s little annuity stops short. I should 
 think ye d be glad of the money. 
 
 MARTHA (resignedly). I know what s comin to me. 
 
 NEIGHBOR (turning at the door). I ll bring the things to- 
 morrer. But Martha, I ll have to charge ye damages if 
 anything happens to my mournin . 
 
 MARTHA (opening the door, and thoroughly exasperated) . No 
 body asked for yer mournin ; and I d rather come to 
 Aunty s funeral in this old calico gown than touch it 
 after that. 
 [Shuts the door in the neighbor s face. 
 
 AUNTY. Martha. 
 
 MARTHA. Yes. (Suddenly realizing she still has on tippet 
 and terrified at being caught, she sinks down beside the sofa, 
 a quavering bundle of sobs) Oh, Aunty, I never did it 
 before. 
 
 AUNTY (patting her hair and comforting her. Speaking ten 
 derly). Martha, Martha, how I ve treated ye f I never 
 knew what ye was like till I saw ye standin up to that 
 old pry-eyes that came peekin in on yer trouble. Why ye 
 used to slip round my finger like a piece of limp dough. 
 The man always did favor ye, Martha, and say "Why 
 don t ye send Martha to prayer-meetin and sociables like 
 other girls." I d say, "Ah, she s a poor colorless thing 
 with no feelin s." Oh, Martha, can you forgive me ? 
 
 MARTHA (weeping joyfully) . Aunty, I knew ye would soften 
 at last, but its the Lord ye should ask for forgiveness. 
 Let s ask Him together. 
 
 AUNTY (stiffening up). No, no, I can t pray. (Fiercely) 
 Impudent old weazel, offerin ye her shabby mournin . 
 Run up and fetch down my black silk and bonnet and 
 widder s veil. You ll find em in the bottom burrer drawer. 
 [While Martha is gone, Aunty raises herself slightly and 
 gazes vacantly ahead, lost in deep thought. Suddenly, her 
 face brightens as she conceives some brilliant idea and she sinks 
 back relieved, with a softened and peaceful smile. Martha re- 
 
366 MARTHA S MOURNING 
 
 turns in a few minutes, her arms full of clothes. She stands 
 awkwardly in front of Aunty, awaiting directions. 
 
 MABTHA. What shall I do with them ? 
 
 AUNTY (with business-like briskness) . Give me the bonnet and 
 veil, and put the silk over there. (Martha moves clumsily) 
 Hurry, I haven t much time left. Now bring me the lamp 
 and the work basket. 
 
 MARTHA (worried). Aunty, what are ye goin to do? 
 
 AUNTY (spryly). Trim ye a decent bit of mournin ! 
 
 MARTHA (shocked). Aunty, ye should be turnin yer thoughts 
 to the Lord. 
 
 AUNTY. I ll relieve yer feelin s, Martha, by tellin ye that 
 I had a sort of revelation from the Lord, while you was 
 upstairs, showin me how I could make ye a kind of ret 
 ribution. 
 
 MARTHA (eagerly) . A vision, Aunty ? What was it ? 
 
 AUNTY. No, it was just an idea. I ll tell ye about it by and by. 
 But part of its trimmin the mournin . Now help me up. 
 
 MARTHA (raising her). But this doesn t seem quite Christian. 
 
 AUNTY. Christian, fiddle-sticks, I m doin as I was told. 
 
 MARTHA (submissively). Well, Aunty, I suppose ye know 
 best. Ye always was one fer doin yer own way. 
 [Aunty groans as Martha arranges her. 
 
 MARTHA (soothingly). Now, what? 
 
 AUNTY (still gasping a little for breath) . Before I trim the 
 bonnet, I ought to tell ye there s a little loose board with 
 a pine knot in it back of the stove. Ye can pry it up with 
 a spoon handle, and ye ll find an old stockin underneath. 
 (Martha obeys her in blank astonishment) Bring me the 
 stockin . (Feeling it) There s a wad of bills in this. 
 
 MARTHA (horrified). But haven t we always paid our debts ? 
 
 AUNTY. You fool ! It s the money I ve been savin* for the 
 last twenty years. 
 
 MARTHA (with great innocence). Aunty, you mean ye ve been 
 skimpin and savin out of yer little annuity all these 
 years just for me ? (Falls on her knees, kissing Aunty s 
 hand) How generous of ye. 
 
MARTHA S MOURNING 367 
 
 [Aunty is too much taken aback by her misunderstanding to 
 explain it. She is confused and suffers Martha s caresses 
 till she can regain her self-control. 
 
 AUNTY. When ye ve paid for the funeral, Martha, and 
 ye best give me a costly funeral, it shows filial piety, - 
 take the savin s to Deacon Wolcott and ask him to invest 
 it for ye. Ye d best wear yer funeral rig ; he s an awful 
 one for black. And promise me, Martha, ye ll never let 
 anybody else look after it, even if ye should marry. I 
 don t want some fool spendin my good money. 
 
 MARTHA. Yes, Aunty, I promise. 
 
 [Aunty pulls a piece of jet out of the stocking and begins pinning 
 it against the bonnet. 
 
 AUNTY. Jet ain t regular mournin , but it ll spry ye up a bit. 
 Don t stand there like a lump of risin dough, but get into 
 my black silk. I want to see it on ye. 
 
 MARTHA (astonished). But, Aunty, you was savin it to be 
 laid out in. 
 
 AUNTY. But you can make me a real economical shroud. 
 Mind, I want no other women snivellin around. I cursed 
 at em all when the man died and nobody s bothered me 
 since. It s profitable to be wicked. 
 
 MARTHA (looking distressed, and carefully putting on the dress) . 
 But, ye been savin it so long. 
 
 AUNTY. I won t have ye wearin pry-eyes shabby stuff, 
 and my good silk crumblin away in the grave. Come 
 here, I want to try on the bonnet. (Martha sets it awk 
 wardly on the back of her head) You make it look like a 
 hen goin to roost. Kneel down. 
 
 (Martha kneels and Aunty pinches and pulls at the bonnet 
 till it is quite becoming to Martha s gentle face. Loosening 
 Martha s hair) Now, ye re less like a drowned mouse. 
 Stand off and let me see the dress. 
 
 [Martha has already gained a new expression of self-confidence 
 and stands smiling gently. 
 
 MARTHA. Don t it crackle grand ? 
 
 AUNTY (surveying it critically) . It ll do well enough under the 
 
368 MARTHA S MOURNING 
 
 tippet. Miss Flossy can alter it for ye afterwards. 
 phatically) Don t do it yerself. Ye have about as much 
 style as a canary. (Gathering up the veil) Now, come 
 back, I want to hang this. 
 [Martha gives her the bonnet and sits down beside her. 
 
 MARTHA. Let me hold the pins, Aunty. 
 
 AUNTY. Now, Martha, when I m dead and gone, don t hide 
 away by yerself, but mingle with folk and go to prayer- 
 meetin and have the sewin -circle here. 
 
 MARTHA (with a smile). That s strange advice from you, 
 Aunty. 
 
 AUNTY. Yes, and open the front parlor and give them some of 
 my good old blackberry cordial to clacker over. If any of 
 the men-folk join ye after meetin , ask em in, and be real 
 sociable and give em some of yer good pie, but don t give 
 away the receipts, Martha. 
 
 MARTHA. But why, Aunty ? 
 
 AUNTY. It ll make the women talk about ye, and the men 
 folk 11 soon catch on to what a good cook ye are. (Drap 
 ing the veil with great care) It s beginning to look real 
 stylish. There, I ve left just a little jet peepin through. 
 Now, put it on and look at it. 
 
 [Martha takes the lamp and stands in front of the mirror. 
 She hardly recognizes herself and beams with delight at her 
 altered image. 
 
 MARTHA. Miss Flossy herself couldn t hang it more mourn 
 ful. 
 
 AUNTY (surveying her work with great satisfaction) . The Lord 
 ought to give me an awful lot of credit for trimmin ye a 
 smart bonnet, Martha. 
 
 MARTHA (distressed). It s strange ideas ye ve been gettin* 
 from the Lord. 
 
 AUNTY. It ain t strange He should be rewardin* ye with a 
 husband, is it? 
 
 MARTHA (gasping, and putting down the lamp as her hand 
 trembles) . A husband, now I begin to understand. Do 
 you think any one would ever want to marry me ? 
 
MARTHA S MOURNING 369 
 
 AUNTY. Indeed, why else should I be expiatin for my sins 
 by tellin ye now to catch some respectable, easy-goin man. 
 
 MARTHA. And was that the revelation ? 
 
 AUNTY. Certainly. The Lord sends strange messengers. It 
 was pry -eyes set me on the road to salvation. (Putting 
 her hand into the stocking) Here s my garnet pin. 
 
 MARTHA. Uncle s weddin present ! 
 
 AUNTY. Wear it to meetin about a week after the funeral. 
 It ll set the sewin -circle agog and they ll argue the propriety 
 of it back and forth, with the men on yer side bein 
 born contrary. They ll be lookin fer yer jewels by the 
 next meetin . Then, tell em at some sewin -circle how 
 yer poor dear Aunty asked ye always to wear her pin. Let 
 me put it on. (Martha stoops down while she pins it) Now, 
 put on the tippet and walk as if ye was comin down the 
 aisle. (Martha adjusts the tippet and moves slowly and 
 solemnly across the room, almost stately in her flowing dra 
 peries, with a new look of tender dignity) That s it, that s 
 it. Give me a glass of water, Martha. 
 (Martha gives her a drink. She sips a little water and falls 
 back wearily. Mariha stoops over her anxiously. Feebly) 
 Pray for me, Martha. 
 
 (Martha kneels in prayer. There is a rapping at the door, 
 but no one heeds it. Presently, the neighbor pokes her head 
 in and advances cautiously into the room, bearing a large 
 box. She creeps up behind Martha, staring at her in aston 
 ishment. She studies the bonnet, feels the veil and fur, nod 
 ding her head approvingly. She notices the stocking and 
 open jewel case on the sofa, and puts out her hand to take 
 them. Aunty, who has been watching through half -closed 
 eyes, suddently sits up) Get out, you old barn-cat ! Martha 
 don t want your mournin . She s got silks of her own 
 and money of her own. 
 
 [She falls back. Martha gives the neighbor a look of contempt 
 and continues kneeling beside the sofa. The neighbor slinks 
 out. 
 
 CURTAIN 
 
RYLAND 
 
 THOMAS WOOD STEVENS 
 
 MR. THOMAS WOOD STEVENS was born in Daysville, Il 
 linois, on January 26, 1880. He graduated from Armour 
 Scientific Academy in 1897 and then undertook a three 
 years course in mechanical engineering at Armour Institute 
 of Technology, Chicago. He founded the Blue Sky Press, 
 Chicago, and was at one time literary critic to the Inland 
 Printer. In 1903 he took charge of the Department of 
 Illustration at the Art Institute of Chicago, and in 1912 he 
 became lecturer in art history at the University of Wisconsin. 
 In 1913 he was appointed head of the department of drama at 
 the Carnegie Institute of Technology, which position he holds 
 to-day. 
 
 He is the author of "The Lesser Tragedy", prize story 
 in the Metropolitan Magazine literary competition, 1904 ; 
 "The Etching of Cities", 1913; "Lettering", 191(5 ; and co 
 author of "The Morning Road", 1902. His dramatic works 
 are: "The Chaplet of Pan" (with Wallace Rice), produced 
 by Donald Robertson in 1908; "A Pageant of the Italian 
 Renaissance", 1909; "An Historical Pageant of Illinois", 
 1909; "Pageant of the Old Northwest", 1911; "Independ 
 ence Day Pageant" (with K. S. Goodman), 1911 ; "Masques 
 of East and West" (with K. S. Goodman), 1915; "The 
 Pageant of Saint Louis", 1914 ; "The Pageant of Newark", 
 1916; "The Drawing of the Sword" (Red Cross Pageant), 
 1917; "Joan of Arc", 1918. In addition, Mr. Stevens 
 has contributed many articles to magazines and reviews. 
 
 KENNETH SAWYER GOODMAN 
 
 The biography of Kenneth Sawyer Goodman is to be found 
 with the play " The Wonder Hat ", page 270. 
 
RYLAND 
 
 A COMEDY 
 
 BY THOMAS WOOD STEVENS AND KENNETH 
 SAWYER GOODMAN 
 
"Ryland" was originally produced by The Stage Guild 
 for the Chicago Society of Etchers, February 22, 1912, at 
 the Art Institute, Chicago. 
 
 Original Cast 
 
 WILLIAM WYNNE RYLAND, En 
 graver Frederick K. Cowley 
 
 THE GAOLER Ralph Holmes 
 
 HENRY FIELDING, Ryland s 
 
 Pupil Roy S. Hambleton 
 
 HADDRILL, a print-seller . . . Thomas Wood Stevens 
 SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS . . . Kenneth Sawyer Goodman 
 
 MARY RYLAND Gertrude Spaller 
 
 ANGELICA KAUFFMAN . . . Elaine Hyman 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1912, BY THOMAS WOOD STEVENS AND KENNETH SAWYER GOODMAN. 
 All rights reserved. 
 
 Reprinted from pamphlet form by permission of, and by special arrangement with, 
 Mr. Thomas Wood Stevens, Mr. Kenneth Sawyer Goodman, and the Stage Guild. 
 
 Application for the right of performing " Ryland" must be made to the Stage Guild, 
 Railway Exchange Building, Chicago. 
 
RYLAND 
 
 SCENE. Ryland s cell in Newgate. Right, window, with an 
 
 engraving screen ; a table and stool ; engraving tools, etc. ; on the 
 
 wall a composition by Angelica Kaufman. Left, a bench and 
 
 a barred door, leading to the corridor. Right Center, a small 
 
 table with breakfast tray. 
 
 Ryland and the Gaoler discovered. 
 
 THE GAOLER. Your breakfast, Mr. Ryland. Your last 
 breakfast, God help us all ! Many s the good man I ve 
 seen go out of here to Tyburn, housebreakers and mur 
 derers and thieves, but never a great artist, Mr. Ryland 
 never till you. 
 
 RYLAND. So I m to be hanged to-morrow morning, eh ? 
 
 GAOLER. Yes, sir. To-morrow at six. 
 
 RYLAND. Well . . . No more of this (indicating the en 
 graving) and good-bye to that, eh? 
 [With a gesture at the composition. 
 
 GAOLER (gloomily). To-morrow at six, sir. 
 
 RYLAND. Buck up, man. It s I, not you. You will break 
 fast to-morrow. 
 
 GAOLER. It has been very pleasant, having you here, sir. 
 And profitable, too. 
 
 RYLAND. I dare say. 
 
 GAOLER. Yes, Mr. Ryland, I ve had a tidy bit from the gen 
 tlemen who have come in to see you. Some bacon, sir 
 I can recommend it none of the prison fare, that. And 
 you ve been most comfortable to deal with. No howling, 
 no shaking the bars, no cursing at night. 
 
 RYLAND. Noj none of that, I hope. 
 
376 RYLAND 
 
 GAOLER. It s because you ve been busy with the plate, there. 
 
 The picture-making has been a blessing to you. Then, 
 
 you ve never given up hope 
 RYLAND. I find myself hungry. That s strange. 
 GAOLER. Not at all, sir. Many of them are so. (Pause) 
 
 Mr. Ryland, might I make so bold as to say, it would be 
 
 a great service to me, if you would get another reprieve ; 
 
 work a week longer on the plate. It can t be anything to 
 
 you, sir, so near the end, or I wouldn t be asking it. 
 RYLAND. It would be a service to you, would it ? 
 GAOLER. You could work at your engraving 
 RYLAND. I ve overworked it now. 
 GAOLER. Oh, I m sorry to hear that, sir. 
 
 [A knock outside. Enter Fielding outside the grating. 
 FIELDING. May I speak with Mr. Ryland? 
 GAOLER. I don t know; it s against the rules. (Fielding 
 
 gives him money) Who shall I say, sir ? 
 FIELDING. Mr. Fielding. You ve seen me often enough. 
 GAOLER. To be sure, Mr. Fielding, but I likes to observe 
 
 the formalities. It ll be five shillings, sir. 
 FIELDING. Yesterday it was only two. 
 GAOLER. He ll be leaving me soon I ve got to make the 
 
 best of him while he lasts, God help him. 
 
 [He takes the money, unlocks the grating, and calls to Ryland. 
 GAOLER. Mr. Fielding s compliments to Mr. Ryland. 
 
 [Exit Gaoler. 
 
 RYLAND. My dear Henry, this is kind of you. 
 FIELDING. Oh, Mr. Ryland, I came directly I could get 
 
 word of Lord Wycombe s decision on your appeal - 
 RYLAND. Oh, the pardon ? 
 FIELDING. Yes, sir - 
 RYLAND. You ll forgive me if I finish my breakfast. I 
 
 can t offer you a chair 
 FIELDING. Oh, Mr. Ryland ! 
 RYLAND. Well well ? 
 FIELDING. I went to Lord Wycombe s secretary as soon as 
 
 he was out of his bed. . . . Oh, Mr. Ryland ! 
 
RYLAND 377 
 
 RYLAND. Out with it ! Am I pardoned, or only reprieved 
 for another week ? 
 
 FIELDING. Neither. 
 
 RYLAND. Come, come 
 
 FIELDING. Neither, sir. Lord Wy combe denies both your 
 appeals. 
 
 RYLAND. I ve lost my appetite. . . . 
 
 FIELDING (leaning over him; Ryland looking over his breakfast). 
 He said you had been three times reprieved, that you might 
 finish this plate; that his lordship had been more than 
 merciful, considering the nature of your crime 
 
 RYLAND. I beg you not to mention it, Henry. I had com 
 mitted no crime. 
 
 FIELDING. Never before, he said, had the statute in so grave 
 a matter as forgery been stayed, and in your case only 
 that your wife might not be left unprovided for. 
 
 RYLAND. I understand his lordship s mercy. . . . 
 
 FIELDING. And now, he says, if the plate is still unfinished, 
 it must be carried on by another hand. 
 
 RYLAND. That will not be necessary 
 
 FIELDING. He said that your wife Oh, Mr. Ryland ! . . . 
 where else shall I go ? What other appeal is there ? 
 
 RYLAND (gets up and puts his hand on Fielding s shoulder). 
 My poor boy ! You have been more than faithful. I 
 can t be altogether worthless, to have you stick to me like 
 this. Tell me you will take care of her ? You will be 
 as devoted to her as you have been to me ? 
 
 FIELDING. My life, Mr. Ryland, shall be spent in her service. 
 
 RYLAND. I dare say. (Moving up stage) Well, after all, 
 there s a satisfaction in knowing the next day s work. It 
 might have ended three week s ago. . . . The ride in the 
 cart will be pleasant. The air, man ! I ve not had a full 
 breath since since the minions of the law broke in upon 
 my seclusion. . . . But for these reprieves, I should 
 have had it over and done with, and you and my wife 
 would be already half comforted . . . shall I say? It s 
 a miserable business, this shrinking back from the verge. 
 
378 RYLAND 
 
 FIELDING. Oh, sir, you must see that we are on the verge 
 
 RYLAND. I am on the verge, Fielding. 
 
 FIELDING. For God s sake, sir, drop this pretense. It s one 
 thing to jest at death when you re safe at home. It s 
 another when you re ... Until to-day I never dreamed 
 that you . . . that you could not escape. We must make 
 some last effort. 
 
 RYLAND. So you actually expect to see me kicking my heels 
 at the end of a rope ? 
 
 FIELDING. Oh, sir, you must see it, too. You must think. 
 You must give me orders. If you sit and jest, I am help 
 less. It will all be over 
 
 RYLAND. My dear boy, what is there you can do ? You tell 
 me to drop the pretense. . . . What have I left? I 
 admit I never thought it would come to this. I still be 
 lieved in my destiny. It s an ignominious end, it seems, 
 . . . and I must meet it with what grace I may. In faith, 
 it matters little : a wasted life gone out : a slender ghost of 
 a talent strangled. . . . (Moves over to the table where the 
 plate is) I m not sorry I ve had this respite, Fielding. 
 I ve made a good plate here, and in this have paid a last 
 courtesy to Mistress Angelica. I hope she will like it ... 
 if she ever comes back to see it. She s a dem d fine woman, 
 Angelica Kauffman, and this is as good a thing as ever 
 she painted. I hope she likes it. ... 
 
 FIELDING. Could Mistress Kauffman do nothing to save 
 you, sir? 
 
 RYLAND. She s a white moon, lad ! She rides high on the 
 winds of fame these days. It takes a long time for a cry 
 of pain to mount that far, Fielding. . . . 
 
 FIELDING. But have you tried? Have you written? 
 
 RYLAND. I can be proud on occasion . . . even with a rope 
 around my neck. Once she wasn t so far, so cold. . . . 
 But that s another matter, a matter that s closed. To 
 morrow . . . tush, I m content. I m tired. I m ready to 
 step off. 
 
 FIELDING. But, sir, she might 
 
RYLAND 379 
 
 RYLAND. No. I had it from Sir Joshua at the trial. She s 
 in Italy. 
 
 FIELDING. She s here in London ! I saw her only this morn 
 ing. 
 
 RYLAND. Say that again ! 
 
 FIELDING. She s here in London. 
 
 RYLAND. You fool ! Why didn t you tell me ? You stand 
 there and blither about Lord Wycombe s secretary , when 
 Angelica Kauffman s in London. ... In London ! Why 
 didn t I know it ? I did know it. I felt it through these 
 stifling walls. I was a dolt ... I thought it was only 
 Spring in the air, April in my blood. It was hope, it was 
 life. A moment ago you had me seeing myself on Tyburn 
 Hill ! And all the time I knew it could never come to that. 
 
 FIELDING. What am I to do? 
 
 RYLAND. Bring her here. Hunt her from one end of the 
 town to the other. Bring her here, lad; I must talk to 
 her. She can twist the Queen around her little finger. 
 Through the Queen she can get me a royal pardon. 
 
 FIELDING. The time is short. 
 
 RYLAND. Time enough if she still cares ! 
 [ The Gaoler knocks at the door. 
 
 GAOLER. A lady to see you, sir. 
 
 FIELDING. Ah ! 
 
 RYLAND. Who is she ? 
 
 GAOLER. Your wife, sir. 
 RYLAND. Show her in. 
 
 [Fielding goes to the door and pays the Gaoler ; Mary Ryland 
 
 comes in, and runs across to Ryland. 
 
 MARY RYLAND. William ... 
 
 RYLAND. Good morning, my dear. 
 
 MARY RYLAND. Aren t you glad to see me ? 
 
 RYLAND. Why shouldn t I be glad to see you? 
 
 MARY RYLAND. You look disappointed. You haven t kissed 
 
 me. 
 RYLAND. I beg your pardon ! (He kisses her hand, and turns 
 
 to Fielding) Well, why don t you go ? 
 
380 RYLAND 
 
 FIELDING. Where shall I look for her ? 
 
 RYLAND. Her house is in Golden Street. If you fail there, 
 
 go to Sir Joshua. Spend what you need, but lose no time. 
 MARY RYLAND. Has something happened ? Where is he to 
 
 go? 
 RYLAND. He is to bring Angelica Kauffman here. He has 
 
 my orders. 
 MARY RYLAND. No, I say. I ll not have her here. I ll not 
 
 h--\ve you see her. I ll not allow ... 
 RYLAND. Pardon me, my dear. He shall bring her. 
 MARY RYLAND (weeping). And I ve come day after day, 
 
 and you ve treated me like a stranger . . . and now you re 
 
 sending for her. 
 FIELDING (taking a step toward her). It s all as it should be, 
 
 Mistress Ryland. 
 MARY RYLAND. You tell me that, Henry. Do you 
 
 know? . . . 
 
 FIELDING. I know there is need for her. 
 MARY RYLAND. Then do as you think right. 
 FIELDING. It s not that, Mistress Ryland. It s necessary, 
 
 now that Lord Wycombe 
 RYLAND. Sst ! Go. (Fielding goes out) My dear, I m not 
 
 flattered by your jealousy, I assure you. There is no need 
 
 for you to question me and Mistress Kauffman is a 
 
 great artist. I must have her see this plate to-day. 
 
 That should be enough. 
 MARY RYLAND. But, William, you knew her before you ever 
 
 saw me, and it hurts me to think ... 
 RYLAND. There, there, my dear. 
 
 [The Gaoler knocks at the door. 
 GAOLER. Mr. Haddrill, on important business with Mr. 
 
 Ryland. 
 RYLAND. Ask Mr. Haddrill to sit down outside. You can 
 
 squeeze an extra shilling out of him for a chair. 
 MARY RYLAND. But, William, you can t keep Mr. Haddrili 
 
 waiting. 
 RYLAND. To-day it is my privilege to keep anybody waiting. 
 
RYLAND 381 
 
 MARY RYLAND. But Mr. Haddrill s your publisher. 
 
 RYLAND. He s a tradesman to whom I m doing a favor. A 
 favor by which you are to profit, not I. 
 
 MARY RYLAND. Don t make it harder for me. 
 
 RYLAND. Mary, I want a few moments alone with you. 
 
 MARY RYLAND. I thought you d rather be rid of me ... 
 that you d rather 
 
 RYLAND. My poor child. You seem to forget that my last 
 plate, the thing I ve let them stretch out my life, week by 
 week, to finish for your benefit; the only profitable 
 thing I can leave you, in this world, is a copper mirror 
 fashioned to reflect the genius of Angelica Kauffman. 
 
 MARY RYLAND. It s for her pleasure, her fame, you ve been 
 working, not forme. You ve sent Fielding to fetch 
 her. . . . 
 
 RYLAND. The plate s finished. It must have her approval 
 before . . . I go. 
 
 MARY RYLAND. Don t ! Don t speak of the end. ... I 
 can t bear it. I m your wife. 
 
 RYLAND. Poor child. Poor little creature. I think you pity 
 yourself more than you pity me. 
 
 MARY RYLAND. How can you ? How can you ? 
 
 RYLAND. Why all this snivelling about so simple a thing as 
 death ? A little jaunt from here to somewhere else . . . 
 a step off into the empty air. My dear, it s I that take the 
 step, not you. 
 
 MARY RYLAND. Oh ! Oh, how can you go on about it this 
 way? 
 
 RYLAND. Because I want to see you smile again. Because 
 you re young. Because I ve wasted a year of your life, 
 and I m sorry for it. ... Because I want you to under 
 stand that if it happens I ve come to the end of my lane, 
 you are only turning into yours. . . and the hedgerows 
 are white with hawthorn bloom. You ll see the green 
 trees in the Mall, the red sun over the chimney pots, the 
 silver river when you walk on the embankment at night. 
 
 MARY RYLAND. But the loneliness, the separation ! 
 
382 RYLAND 
 
 RYLAND (losing patience a little). Tush! Such separations 
 are only terrible when two people love each other. 
 
 MARY RYLAND. But I love YOU. 
 
 RYLAND. No, I dazzled you. . . . And now I want to make 
 it easy for you. 
 
 HADDRILL (heard outside). I won t wait any longer, Ryland. 
 This business is urgent. (He comes in, stops on seeing Mis 
 tress Ryland, and bows to her rather curtly) Your servant, 
 madam. 
 
 RYLAND. To what am I indebted, Mr. Haddrill ? 
 
 HADDRILL. In Mistress Ryland s presence ... 
 
 MARY RYLAND. I pray you not to consider my feelings, Mr. 
 Haddrill. 
 
 HADDRILL. Egad, madam, it s for you to say. (Turns to 
 Ryland) Here you ve put me in a fix ! They say you ve 
 no more reprieve, no chance of pardon. That you hang 
 at sunrise to-morrow. You should have considered my 
 interest. You should have given me more time. 
 
 MARY RYLAND. No reprieve ... no pardon ! 
 
 HADDRILL (paying no attention to her). Is the plate done, 
 signed, ready to print ? Don t you see I ve only the day 
 for the edition, and the advertisement and all, or I ll miss 
 the big sale at the stalls along the Tyburn road ? 
 
 BYLAND. Ah, that would be a pity. It s ready, you see. 
 [Holds up plate. 
 
 HADDRILL. Ready ! . . . But the ink won t be dry before 
 they have the halter on you. And I d planned to make 
 it a great day in the trade, a great day, sir, for the art 
 of England. It s a wonderful opportunity for a pushing 
 man the last plate and the artist hanged to-day ... I 
 had made some very striking preparations, Ryland. 
 
 RYLAND. Hadn t you forgotten something, Mr. Haddrill ? 
 
 HADDRILL. Not a thing. . . . But you give me so little 
 time. I plan to sell the prints at my shop, in Saint Paul s 
 Churchyard, at Temple Bar, at stalls along the way to 
 Tyburn; and I have six most lugubrious-looking fellows 
 picked them out for their woebegone faces all with 
 
RYLAND 383 
 
 crepe on their hats, sir, to sell them at Tyburn. Then I ve 
 got out broadsides, sir; and I ve had a ballad written to 
 sell at the hanging all about you and your crime, and 
 the prints for sale at my shop. Here it is, sir like to 
 look at it ? (He hands Ryland a ballad) And now there s 
 so little chance to get em out. I take it very hard, Ryland. 
 
 RYLAND. This is miserable stuff. 
 
 HADDRILL. I d have you know, sir, the same author wrote 
 one last month for the celebrated highwayman, Jack 
 Sparrow. It took the town by storm. 
 
 RYLAND. My name will go down in illustrious company. . . . 
 
 HADDRILL. Perhaps a little revision, with our help ? 
 
 RYLAND. No, let it serve as it is. I ve a bargain to strike 
 with you, Haddrill. 
 
 HADDRILL. I thought you d struck a pretty stiff bargain 
 already, Ryland. I m to pay your wife five shillings 
 to the pound more than I d give any living engraver. 
 I ve even advanced you ten pounds. I call it sharp 
 practice ... 
 
 RYLAND. These are my final conditions, Mr. Haddrill. You 
 offer five shillings. That won t do. You must double it. 
 
 HADDRILL. Double it ! 
 
 RYLAND. All proofs must be numbered in the presence of 
 Mr. Fielding. 
 
 HADDRILL. You mean you don t trust me, Ryland ? 
 
 RYLAND. Remember, I shan t be here. I trust Fielding. 
 You ve advanced ten pounds. Before the plate leaves 
 my hands she must have fifty. 
 
 HADDRILL. Egad, you re driving it altogether too hard. 
 
 RYLAND. No, Haddrill, but I understand my position. I m 
 a public figure to-day. London will stand tiptoe all night 
 to see me hanged in the morning. Another condition. I 
 must see the contract you sign with my relict widow, Mary 
 Ryland here. I must see you sign it in the presence of 
 Fielding and Sir Joshua. They ll hold you to it. 
 
 HADDRILL. Look you, Mr. Ryland, I agree to the double 
 royalty. But this goes too far, too dem d far ! I m a man 
 
384 RYLAND 
 
 of my word, sir. I ll not be treated like a shuffling huckster, 
 like a cheating fishmonger, like a dem d criminal. I m a 
 communicant of the Church of England, sir! I won t 
 be bound hand and foot. 
 
 RYLAND. I thought not. 
 
 HADDRILL. Deuce take you, sir ! Blast your eyes, sir ! 
 What do you mean by that, sir ? 
 
 RYLAND. Only this. You promise quickly enough, but I 
 mean to see that you perform. 
 
 HADDRILL (taking up his hat). Very well, sir. Very well. 
 I m sorry you re so headstrong. 
 
 RYLAND. You know how many printsellers there are in 
 London. . . . All waiting for this chance. 
 
 HADDRILL. You won t abate your conditions? 
 
 RYLAND. Not a penny. 
 
 HADDRILL. I m sorry I can t take you. . . . And I had it 
 all planned. 
 
 RYLAND. You had it planned ! A clumsy, niggardly plan 
 you had. I know what the town will think. I know how 
 the town will buy. Six hang-dog hucksters with crepe 
 on their hats ! That s like you, Haddrill ; no taste what 
 ever. Twelve young gentlemen, dressed in the height of 
 fashion veritable macaronis, that s what you should 
 have, and them selling the prints like mad, and all for the 
 sake of charity to a pretty widow. . . . Flowers! My cart 
 to be loaded with violets when it stops at St. Sepulchre s. 
 It s an occasion, sir, when the King s Engraver rides to 
 Tyburn ! At Holborn Bar you will have them fetch me a 
 flagon of old port 
 
 HADDRILL. But think of the expense, man, the expense ! 
 RYLAND. Will you stick at a few pounds at a time like this ? 
 I wouldn t deal in sixpences on a great day for the art of 
 England. 
 HADDRILL. You dealt in thousands, and see where it brought 
 
 you. Think of me. 
 
 RYLAND. Why should I think of you ! I m the one to be 
 hanged, Haddrill, not you. Broadsides, and a ballad ! I 
 
RYLAND 385 
 
 can make a speech from the scaffold that ll ring through the 
 town until this plate s worn thin as paper. Where will 
 your ballad and your broadsides be then ? 
 
 HAD DRILL. You ll make a speech ? 
 
 EYLAND. Aye, that I will. But it depends on you, Had- 
 drill, what sort of speech. 
 
 HADDRILL. You re a genius, Ryland. 
 
 RYLAND. The speech will cost you twenty pounds extra to 
 Mistress Ryland mentioned in the contract. 
 
 HADDRILL (vwiting) . Mentioned in the contract. Violets 
 at Saint Sepulchre s; a flagon of port at Holborn Bar: 
 twenty pounds extra for a speech on the scaffold ; twelve 
 young gentlemen no crepe on their hats. You re a 
 genius, Ryland but you bargain like a Jew. 
 
 RYLAND. I must protect Mistress Ryland s interests. 
 
 MARY RYLAND. Oh, oh ! 
 
 HADDRILL. You ll give me the plate immediately ? 
 
 RYLAND. When you bring me the contract. 
 
 HADDRILL. I give you my oath I ll treat your wife hand 
 somely. I had something else in mind. ... A very 
 pretty idea, and quite genteel, too ; quite up to your tone. 
 If Mistress Ryland would sit in my shop for a week after 
 the hanging and sell the prints herself ... 
 
 MARY RYLAND. Oh ! the shame of it. 
 
 RYLAND. How much will you pay her ? 
 
 MARY RYLAND. William, William, how can you ? . . . 
 
 RYLAND. Hush, my dear. Mr. Haddrill will think you are 
 over-sensitive. This is a matter of business. 
 
 HADDRILL. It would have a great effect. You might men 
 tion it in your speech. . . . 
 
 MARY RYLAND. This is monstrous. . . . This is terrible. 
 I ll have nothing to do with it. I won t listen. I - 
 
 RYLAND. You see, Haddrill, there is still some delicacy of 
 feeling left in England. 
 
 HADDRILL. I thought it most genteel, most suitable. Very 
 - well, touching. But it s for Mistress Ryland to say. 
 
 RYLAND. She appears to object. 
 
386 RYLAND 
 
 HADDRILL. At least she ll be at Tyburn . . . dressed in 
 black, when the young gentlemen sell the prints. She ll 
 be where the crowd can see her ? It would help amazingly. 
 
 RYLAND. Surely, my dear, you can t refuse him that much. 
 It s only what any dutiful wife would be expected to do, 
 under the circumstances. . . . You ll have everyone s 
 sympathy. 
 
 HADDRILL. Very fitting, very proper, I m sure. Have you 
 a black dress, Mistress Ryland? 
 
 MARY RYLAND. William, this is a nightmare. . . . Tell 
 me I m not awake, William. 
 
 RYLAND. There, there, child ! Go with Mr. Haddrill. He ll 
 take you to a draper s. Be sure you get a becoming frock 
 he has no taste. 
 
 MARY RYLAND. No, no ! 
 
 HADDRILL. Come, madam. I ll bring you back when I 
 fetch the contract. 
 
 RYLAND. Yes, child, go. I m expecting other visitors. . . . 
 Go on with your preparations, Mr. Haddrill. 
 [Haddrill and Mistress Ryland start to go out; as they turn 
 away, Ryland laughs aloud, and Haddrill faces about. 
 
 RYLAND. But what if I shouldn t be hanged ? 
 
 HADDRILL. Good Lord ! 
 
 RYLAND. Do you think there s a reasonable doubt ? 
 
 HADDRILL (thinking it over and smiling grimly) . No, Ryland, 
 I don t. . . . But I confess you gave me a turn. 
 
 RYLAND. Au revoir, Mr. Haddrill. 
 
 [Haddrill again turns toward the door, finds it barred, the 
 Gaoler with his hand on the lock. Haddrill steps toward the 
 door, but the Gaoler makes no move to open it. 
 
 HADDRILL. Den of thieves. 
 
 [He pays the Gaoler and goes out. Ryland hums a line of 
 song, and moves about the table, putting his proofs and 
 materials in order. Fielding s voice is heard outside the door. 
 
 FIELDING. Mr. Ryland, Mr. Ryland. I ve seen her. . . . 
 
 RYLAND. She s coming? 
 
 FIELDING. 
 
RYLAND 387 
 
 RYLAND. Alone ? 
 
 FIELDING. No. . . . She s bringing Sir Joshua. 
 
 RYLAND. The devil ! 
 
 GAOLER. I don t call this fair to me, Mr. Ryland. 
 
 RYLAND. My dear man, you ve spoken yourself of the gen 
 erous treatment you ve had from me and my friends. Let 
 this pass, don t be grasping. . . . Besides, there s a lady 
 coming and a gentleman. They ll pay handsomely. 
 In fact, it would be worth your while to bring in another 
 chair. 
 
 GAOLER. I ve no wish to be hard with you, Mr. Ryland, but 
 there are rules. 
 
 RYLAND. I know. You make them yourself. 
 
 FIELDING (outside). Am I to come in, Mr. Ryland? 
 
 RYLAND (putting on his coat). No. You ve done your share. 
 Wait and see that this . . . butler welcomes them properly. 
 [The Gaoler brings in the chair, and goes out. Ryland moves 
 the chair so that Angelica and Sir Joshua must sit far apart, 
 and hums the song again. The door opens. 
 
 GAOLER. Sir Joshua Reynolds. Mistress Angelica Kauff- 
 man. 
 
 [The Gaoler goes out, smiling broadly, as the visitors have 
 been generous. 
 
 SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS. I trust you ll pardon my intrusion, 
 Mr. Ryland. But ladies of fashion . . . gentleman s apart 
 ment . . . you understand. Even in so irreproachable 
 a place as Newgate. 
 
 ANGELICA KAUFFMAN (crossing Sir Joshua). It grieves me 
 deeply, Mr. Ryland ... 
 
 RYLAND (to Angelica). Couldn t you have trusted me enough 
 to come alone ? 
 
 SIR JOSHUA (adjusting his ear trumpet). Eh, what s that? 
 
 ANGELICA. Mr. Ryland spoke of his sense of the honour you 
 do him in coming, Sir Joshua. 
 
 SIR JOSHUA. Ah, did he say that? Well, well, where s the 
 plate? We came to see the plate you ve engraved from 
 Mistress Kauffman s picture. 
 
388 RYLAND 
 
 [Ryland holds up the plate, bows Sir Joshua to the chair, 
 
 extreme right, and goes over to Angelica, handing her the 
 
 plate. 
 RYLAND (to Angelica). It was more, much more than the 
 
 plate. . . . 
 
 SIR JOSHUA. Eh, what s that ? A little more distinctly, sir. 
 RYLAND (to Angelica). Confound your dragon. (To Sir 
 
 Joshua) I wish to consult Mistress Kauffman about the 
 
 drawing of the arm. 
 SIR JOSHUA. Eh ? Oh. . . . Ah, the drawing. I shouldn t 
 
 examine it. Better let it pass. 
 
 ANGELICA. Oh, lud, sir, I scarcely know how to take you. 
 SIR JOSHUA. Always said, dear lady, your art . . . tran 
 scends mere drawing. 
 ANGELICA. Ah, the kind lies he tosses to the vanity of his 
 
 friends. Dear Sir Joshua. 
 SIR JOSHUA. Well, sir, have you nothing to show ? No trial 
 
 proofs? Let me see the work, sir, and I ll toss you no 
 
 kind lies. I ve an engagement. 
 RYLAND. Give it to him, madam, and for God s sake grant 
 
 me a moment s speech with you apart. 
 SIR JOSHUA. If you desire my criticism, Mr. Ryland, you 
 
 must speak more distinctly. 
 ANGELICA (hands a proof to Sir Joshua) . Do me the honor, 
 
 sir. (Referring to the plate) This is all my intention in 
 
 the cartoon, Mr. Ryland. You have a wonderful gift of 
 
 patience. 
 RYLAND. Not patience, Mistress, but an exquisite pleasure. 
 
 ... to follow your fancy, your sentiment. . . . 
 SIR JOSHUA. It does you credit, sir and the lady as well. 
 
 Admirable. . . . Though I see nothing in it to stay the 
 
 course of justice. 
 
 RYLAND (with lofty resignation). So you believe it to be jus 
 tice, sir? 
 SIR JOSHUA. My belief has no weight, Ryland. . . . But 
 
 now that this is done, and the legal pother over with, what 
 
 are you going to do with it ? 
 
RYLAND 389 
 
 RYLAND. If it has Mistress Kauffman s approval, what do 
 I care what they do with it ? 
 
 SIR JOSHUA. You take it too lightly. The plate must be 
 worth money, and your obligations to your 
 
 RYLAND (glancing toward Angelica). Spare me that, Sir 
 Joshua, I beg you. What is money, to a man who lodges 
 here for the last night ? 
 
 SIR JOSHUA. Rubbish ! Your affairs should be left in order. 
 . . . That is the least you can do for 
 
 RYLAND. Do you not understand, sir, that this pains me 
 deeply. Money has been the shadow, the strain of discord, 
 the flaw in the metal. . . . Money has been my ruin 
 . . . and you ask me to spend my last hours haggling 
 
 SIR JOSHUA. Calm yourself, sir. Haddrill, I suppose, brings 
 it out. I ll look to this for you. 
 
 RYLAND. That is more than I have a right to ask of you, 
 Sir Joshua. 
 
 SIR JOSHUA. Tush, tush. I m not speaking of your rights, 
 but in the interest of your 
 
 RYLAND. Haddrill will attend to everything. He s bring 
 ing me a contract. He s a very generous fellow, Haddrill. 
 I shall sign it, Sir Joshua, without reading. 
 
 SIR JOSHUA. Not without my reading. . . . Must take care 
 of you, even if you choose to hang yourself. 
 
 ANGELICA (protesting at the word). Oh, Sir Joshua. 
 
 RYLAND. I thank you for that, Mistress. 
 
 GAOLER (a* the door). Mr. Haddrill is back. Says he s 
 forgotten something. Shall I admit him, Mr. Ryland? 
 
 SIR JOSHUA. Very fortunate. . . . Show him in. I ll ar 
 range this matter now . . . take care of all the quibbles 
 before they come up. 
 
 RYLAND. Sir Joshua, I beg you not to afflict me. I have 
 only a few hours . . . and this is torture. If you are in 
 flexible in your kindness toward me, go to Haddrill and 
 do what you can in my behalf. It s more than I ought to 
 ask . . . and I hope you will not find I have been too heed- 
 
390 RYLAND 
 
 SIR JOSHUA. It should be done in your presence, but you re 
 so dem d improvident. 
 
 RYLAND. I am not so improvident as to be ungrateful, sir. 
 (He bows Sir Joshua out and turns to face Angelica) You 
 at least have a sympathy for me, Mistress ; you who un 
 derstand so well the delicacy of my feelings in an hour like 
 this. 
 
 ANGELICA. I hardly know. This is all so shocking, so ter 
 rible. I am . . . 
 
 RYLAND. Dear lady, I have been a brute to drag you here, 
 you, who live in the glow and the music ... to see a man 
 in this hopeless gloomy cell, a poor devil who is about to 
 die 
 
 ANGELICA. Please don t .... I shall faint. 
 
 RYLAND. I beg you not to faint. I will speak of other days, 
 and you shall listen out of charity. It doesn t so much 
 matter to me now ; I ve done with it all. But it was hard 
 to face the end without seeing you again. Now I can go. 
 . . . I m not unready. 
 
 ANGELICA. What difference can seeing me make ? 
 
 RYLAND. What difference? ... I ride to Tyburn with a 
 vision of you in my eyes, the sound of your voice in my 
 ears, the touch of your pity on my defeated heart. . . . 
 What difference ? . . . If you had not come, I should have 
 gone out of here with the gajjows swinging before me, and 
 my misspent years blowing in my face. 
 
 ANGELICA. This is very sentimental, Ryland. I hardly 
 imagined that you . . . that I 
 
 RYLAND. That it meant so much to me, when you last re 
 fused me? 
 
 ANGELICA. There, there, Ryland. You knew it was impos 
 sible. 
 
 RYLAND. I know. . . . You thought you loved 
 
 ANGELICA. I beg you not to speak of him. He was un 
 worthy, and he is gone . . . out of my life. 
 
 RYLAND (suddenly hilarious). And out of England! Egad, 
 why shouldn t I speak of him. The town talked on noth- 
 
RYLAND 391 
 
 ing else : The distinguished Count de Horn shows an in 
 terest in the incomparable Mistress Kauffman; he is ac 
 cepted; he isn t; he is. ... They are married; they 
 are not ; they are. . . . He is an impostor ; he is a prince 
 in disguise; he is the son of his father s cook! and then 
 . . . pouf ! He s gone. 
 
 ANGELICA. You can not imagine, sir, this is pleasant to 
 me. 
 
 RYLAND. Nor was it pleasant to me. The Count de Horn 
 . . . the son of his father s cook . . . and a bigamist ! 
 Mistress Kauffman will prosecute; she will not; she 
 will. . . . He was a criminal. He had imposed upon 
 your faith, your heart, your honour. You could have let 
 him hang. . . . But instead of that you gave him his 
 freedom and five hundred pounds. 
 
 ANGELICA. Three hundred. 
 
 RYLAND. Generous soul ! 
 
 ANGELICA. I will not remain here, sir, to be taunted with 
 my past misfortunes. 
 
 RYLAND. Nothing was further from my intention. 
 
 ANGELICA. Then why do you recall this ? 
 
 RYLAND. I m sure I don t know. . . . It s my whim to 
 marvel, just for the moment, at the charity which gives a 
 scoundrel, who had wronged you, his freedom and three 
 hundred pounds, while you see a man who has devoted his 
 life to the spreading of your fame, a man who has loved 
 you, and who still loves you, go to the gallows without 
 the compliment of a tear. 
 
 ANGELICA. This is most unjust. You have given me neither 
 time nor proper occasion for weeping, Ryland. 
 
 RYLAND (coming close to her) . And it does not occur to you, 
 now that you see me again ? . . . 
 
 ANGELICA (she backs toward the door) . Nothing occurs to me ; 
 I m all upset by your impudence. 
 
 RYLAND. Unkind, unkind ! When this is my last living 
 day, and you could, if you chose . . . 
 
 ANGELICA, If you come a step nearer, I shall call Sir Joshua. 
 
392 RYLAND 
 
 RYLAND (stops and looks at her, his eyes filled with admiration). 
 The winter in Italy has agreed with you. . . . I ve 
 never seen you look so ... dangerous, Angelica. 
 
 ANGELICA. You mustn t call me that. . . . My name 
 
 RYLAND. That was what I called you when we danced to 
 gether at Tunbridge, the night you laughed with me over 
 Fuseli s proposal; Angelica I called you when we sat 
 together on Richmond Hill, and watched the moon trace 
 out the Thames with silver fingers ; Angelica I called you 
 that divine day in Windsor Forest, the day I first told 
 you I loved you ; Angelica 
 
 ANGELICA. You play upon the word, Ryland, as though it 
 were a refrain. 
 
 RYLAND. The refrain of a living love, dearest ... in the song 
 of a dead life. 
 
 ANGELICA. Is it a dead life, William ? . . . 
 
 RYLAND. It dies at sunrise . . . and all for a few pounds un 
 wisely borrowed, a few creditors inhumanly clamorous, 
 and the lies of a paper-maker who hated me. 
 
 ANGELICA. What is it they accuse you of? 
 
 RYLAND. Forgery. 
 
 ANGELICA. And you are not guilty. 
 
 RYLAND. Guilty? ... I have borrowed unwisely, I tell 
 you. I was hungry for the sight of ... Italy. Is that 
 guilt ? There was a matter of a note an India com 
 pany note. Thirty men had signed it, and not one of them 
 at the trial could say the hand was not his own. (She 
 makes a gesture of inquiry) This paper-maker ... he 
 swore he had made the paper on which it was written a 
 year after the date of the note. Guilty? . . . That 
 would have been criminally stupid, and of stupidity no 
 one has ever accused me. . . . For all that, the court 
 passed sentence. 
 
 ANGELICA. And is there no appeal? 
 
 RYLAND. What need of appeal, if it no longer touches 
 you? 
 
 ANGELICA. But if it does touch me ? 
 
RYLAND 393 
 
 RYLAND. We have tried what we could. ... I have been 
 
 three times reprieved, to finish this plate. It is done. His 
 
 Majesty is inexorable. But with you in England, with 
 
 the lure of you 
 ANGELICA. Don t tell me you would not make the effort 
 
 except as I inspired it. 
 RYLAND. Why ? 
 
 ANGELICA. I could not believe you. 
 ROLAND. The truth, then : you can reach the Queen. 
 
 Through her, King George. Till you came, I had no 
 
 voice to reach him. You can have what you ask. Let it 
 
 be ... my life. 
 
 ANGELICA. You want me to go to the Queen ? 
 RYLAND. Yes ! 
 ANGELICA. This would compromise me more deeply than you 
 
 can imagine. 
 RYLAND (sardonically). You have not imagined how high 
 
 it will hang me . . .if you refuse. 
 ANGELICA. And if I fail ? 
 RYLAND. I shall not murmur. . . . But I do not believe 
 
 you can fail. 
 ANGELICA. Willliam. William. . . . No, don t come near 
 
 me. I will go. This must be secret 
 RYLAND. You can trust me. 
 ANGELICA. And there must be no more talk of love ... no 
 
 notes, messages, flowers, tokens. You are to be merely a 
 
 man an artist in whose work I take a great interest 
 
 ... an innocent man whom I endeavor to deliver from an 
 
 unjust death 
 RYLAND. Stop. I agree to the secrecy, but I do not pledge 
 
 myself not to love you. 
 
 ANGELICA. YOU must. 
 
 RYLAND. I will not take life on these terms. Secrecy dis 
 cretion yes. . . . You can not require that I forget you. 
 
 ANGELICA. It cuts me . . . you have been faithful to a mem 
 ory so long. Perhaps, when this is over, I may permit you 
 to remember again. 
 
394 RYLAND 
 
 RYLAND (seizing her hand and kissing it). Better to blot out 
 my life than the memories of Richmond Hill ! 
 
 ANGELICA. You must keep them deep hidden, William. . . . 
 These are perilous things, these memories. 
 
 RYLAND. They have been my stay, my comfort, since these 
 ungentle days came upon me. A faith like mine, Angelica, 
 a love that endures unshaken ... it must be something, 
 even to you. Tell me you go to the Queen because you 
 too remember 
 
 ANGELICA. It is enough that I go. 
 
 RYLAND. No. . . . That you go out of love for me. 
 
 ANGELICA. You must content yourself, William. . . . For 
 you I go to the Queen. 
 
 [She starts toward the bars, when the Gaoler opens them quietly 
 and Mary Ryland comes in. Mistress Ryland pauses, 
 glances at Angelica, and goes over to Ryland, who waves her 
 away and sinks back against the table. Mary comes down. 
 Left, hesitates a moment, then comes down above Angelica, 
 Left Center, and falls on her knees, clasping Angelica s 
 hand. 
 
 MARY RYLAND. Oh madam, madam ! 
 
 ANGELICA. What s this ? . . . Let go my hand, girl. 
 
 RYLAND. What brings you back ? . . . 
 
 MARY RYLAND. Mr. Haddrill says . . . Oh, Madam, you 
 could do something, you could help us 
 
 ANGELICA. Help us? Who are you, child? 
 
 MARY RYLAND. I m the unhappiest woman . . . I ve been a 
 jealous fool . . . But I know he s too proud, too hon 
 ourable. He would die rather than be too heavily beholden 
 to you. But I have no pride : I can beg you to plead for 
 him ; I can beseech you on my knees. If you are not moved 
 to do your utmost for him, at least you must look with 
 pity on me. . . . 
 
 ANGELICA. Is this lady your wife, Mr. Ryland? 
 
 RYLAND. Yes. 
 
 ANGELICA (with menace). I regret that you omitted to 
 mention her. 
 
RYLAND 395 
 
 [Mary Ryland moves away from her, and Ryland sinks back 
 
 in despair. 
 SIR JOSHUA (heard outside). Well, I must say, Haddrill, he s 
 
 driven a sharp bargain with you. 
 HADDRILL. Sharp bargain ! Dem d close to robbery, I 
 
 call it. 
 
 [Enter Sir Joshua and Haddrill , Fielding following them. 
 ANGELICA (to Sir Joshua). So you ve not found him so 
 
 simple ? 
 SIR JOSHUA. Simple ! He has bound this poor fellow to 
 
 support his wife for the rest of her days. 
 HADDRILL. I m a man of my word, Ryland. If you re 
 
 satisfied, I ll trouble you for the plate. (Ryland hands over 
 
 the plate, bowing) I shall live up to my part of the contract. 
 RYLAND. You may rest assured as to my part of it. 
 SIR JOSHUA. I m sorry, Ryland. I tell you frankly, I 
 
 wished to think well of you. But this contract ... a 
 
 man capable of such a document, sir I spare you my 
 
 opinion, in your wife s presence. 
 
 ANGELICA (joining Haddrill and Sir Joshua). Your pre 
 sumption, sir ; your lack of candour ... 
 RYLAND. My best friends ... it grieves me exceedingly that 
 
 the confidence of one s best friends should be turned aside 
 
 by a man s natural efforts to save his neck and to provide 
 
 for his family. 
 MARY RYLAND (to Angelica). Madam, is there nothing you 
 
 can do? 
 
 ANGELICA. Nothing I care to do. 
 FIELDING. Oh, Mr. Ryland, if you would only - 
 RYLAND. Let me alone. You won t grieve long. You ll 
 
 get your reward. 
 
 MARY RYLAND. Oh, William, William ! 
 RYLAND. Tush, child, go with Fielding. He ll take care of 
 
 you. You ve done enough ... for me. 
 ANGELICA. For shame, Ryland ! (She gathers Mary Ryland 
 
 under her arm) When you need to see her, Mr. Haddrill, 
 
 come to me. 
 
396 RYLAND 
 
 HADDRILL (from the door, where he and Sir Joshua are about 
 to go out). Your servant, madam. 
 
 SIR JOSHUA. Come, Mistress Angelica. Remember, Ry- 
 land, I wished to think well of you. 
 
 RYLAND. I have not long to remember. Sir, your very hum 
 ble servant. 
 
 [Exeunt Sir Joshua, Haddrill, and Fielding. Angelica stops 
 at the door and turns back, Mary Ryland with her. 
 
 ANGELICA. She goes under my protection, Ryland. 
 
 [Mistress Ryland leaves Angelica for a moment, and goes 
 slowly over to Ryland, who kisses her forehead and leads her 
 back to Angelica. 
 
 RYLAND. I am filled with gratitude, Mistress. Mary, you 
 will find it most pleasant I am sure. ... A gay house 
 hold, Mary you ll like that. 
 
 ANGELICA. Not so gay as it has been, Ryland. You see, I 
 have my husband to consider. 
 [Ryland draws himself up, swiftly. 
 
 RYLAND. Your husband ? . . . I m sorry you omitted to 
 mention him. My compliments, madam. (Exeunt An 
 gelica and Mistress Ryland. Ryland speaks to the Gaoler, 
 who is about to close the door) It won t be necessary to ad 
 mit any more visitors. 
 
 GAOLER. No, sir. But there s the chaplain to see you, sir. 
 
 RYLAND. What s that ? 
 
 GAOLER. The chaplain of the prison, Mr. Ryland, to see you. 
 
 RYLAND (rising and fumbling with his cravat). The chaplain. 
 . . . Oh, God, yes ! . . . Yes, yes, yes ! I suppose I shall 
 have to see the chaplain. 
 
 CURTAIN 
 
THE LAST STRAW 
 
 BOSWORTH CROCKER 
 
 MR. BOSWORTH CROCKER was born in Surrey, England, on 
 March 2, 1882, and was brought to the United States in child 
 hood. He has published "The Last Straw *, 1917, "Pawns 
 of War", 1918, and some poems, short stories, criticism, and 
 feature articles, which have appeared in magazines and news 
 papers, over other signatures. 
 
 "The Last Straw" was produced by The Washington 
 Square Players. " The Dog ", " The First Time ", " The Cost 
 of a Hat", " The Hour Before ", " The Baby Carriage ", and 
 "Stone Walls" (a play in three acts), have been successfully 
 given at amateur performances. 
 
THE LAST STRAW 
 
 BY BOSWORTH CROCKER 
 
"The Last Straw" was originally produced by The Wash 
 ington Square Players at the Comedy Theatre, New York 
 City, February 12, 1917. 
 
 Original Cast 
 
 FRIEDRICH BAUER, janitor of the Bryn 
 
 Mawr Arthur E. Hohle 
 
 MIENE, his wife Marjorie Vonnegut 
 
 KARL, elder son, aged ten .... Nick Long 
 FRITZI, younger son, aged seven . . Frank Longacre 
 JIM LANE, a grocer boy Glenn Hunter 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1914, BY BOSWORTH CROCKER. 
 
 All rights reserved. 
 
 Reprinted from pamphlet form by permission of, and by special arrangement with, 
 Mr. Bosworth Crocker. Published in pamphlet form by Frank Shay, New York. 
 
 Application for the right of performing "The Last Straw" must be made to Mr. 
 Bosworth Crocker. Authors League, New York City. 
 
THE LAST STRAW 
 
 TIME. The present day. 
 
 SCENE. The basement of a large apartment house in New 
 York City. 
 
 SCENE. The kitchen of the Bauer flat in the basement of 
 the Bryn Mawr. A window at the side gives on an area and 
 shows the walk above and the houses across the street. Opposite 
 the windows is a door to an inner room. Through the outer 
 door, in the centre of the back wall, a dumb-waiter and whistles 
 to tenants can be seen. A broken milk bottle lies in a puddle of 
 milk on the cement floor in front of the dumb-waiter. To the 
 right of the outer door, a telephone; gas-range on which there 
 are flat irons healing and vegetables cooking. To the left of the 
 outer door is an old sideboard; over it hangs a picture of Schiller. 
 Near the centre of the room, a little to the right, stands a kitchen 
 table with four chairs around it. Ironing board is placed be 
 tween the kitchen table and the sink, a basket of dampened 
 clothes under it. A large calendar on the wall. An alarm- 
 clock on the window-sill. Time: a little before noon. The 
 telephone rings, Mrs. Bauer leaves her ironing and goes to 
 answer it. 
 MRS. BAUER. No, Mr. Bauer s out yet. (She listens through 
 
 the transmitter) Thank you, Mrs. Mohler. (Another pause) 
 
 I ll tell him just so soon he comes in yes ma am. 
 
 [Mrs. Bauer goes back to her ironing. Grocer boy rushes into 
 
 basement, whistling; he puts down his basket, goes up to 
 
 Mrs. Bauer s door and looks in. 
 LANE. Say where s the boss ? 
 MBS. BAUER. He ll be home soon, I hope Jim. What 
 
 you want? 
 
 [He stands looking at her with growing sympathy. 
 
402 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 LANE. Nothin . Got a rag round here ? Dumb-waiter s all 
 
 wet. . . . Lot of groceries for Sawyers. 
 MRS. BAUER (without lifting her eyes, mechanically hands him 
 
 a mop which hangs beside the door). Here. 
 LANE. What s the matter? 
 MRS. BAUER (dully). Huh ? 
 LANE (significantly). Oh, I know. 
 MRS. BAUER. What you know ? 
 LANE. About the boss. (Mrs. Bauer looks distressed) 
 
 Heard your friends across the street talkin . 
 MRS BAUER (bitterly) . Friends ! 
 LANE. Rotten trick to play on the boss, all right, puttin 
 
 that old maid up to get him pinched. 
 MRS. BAUER (absently). Was she an old maid? 
 LANE. The cruelty to animals woman over there (waves 
 
 his hand) regular old crank. Nies * put her up to it 
 
 all right. 
 MRS. BAUER. I guess it was his old woman. Nies ain t 
 
 so bad. She s the one. Because my two boys dress up a 
 
 little on Sunday, she don t like it. 
 LANE. Yes, she s sore because the boys told her the boss 
 
 kicks their dog. 
 MRS. BAUER. He don t do nothin of the sort jus drives 
 
 it way from the garbage pails that s all. We coulda 
 
 had that dog took up long ago they ain t got no license. 
 
 But Fritz he s so easy he jus takes it out chasin 
 
 the dog and hollerin . 
 
 LANE. That ain t no way. He ought to make the dog hol 
 ler good and hard once ; then it d keep out of here. 
 MRS. BAUER. Don t you go to talkin like that round my 
 
 man. Look at all this trouble we re in on account of a 
 
 stray cat. 
 LANE. I better get busy. They ll be callin up the store 
 
 in a minute. That woman s the limit. . . . Send up the 
 
 groceries in that slop, she d send them down again. High- 
 toned people like her ought to keep maids. 
 * Pronounced niece. 
 
THE LAST STRAW 403 
 
 [He mops out the lower shelf of the dumb-waiter, then looks at 
 the broken bottle and the puddle of milk inquiringly. 
 
 MRS. BAUER (taking the mop away from him). I ll clean that 
 up. I forgot in all this trouble. 
 
 LANE. Whose milk ? 
 
 MRS. BAUER. The Mohlers . That s how it all happened. 
 Somebody upset their milk on the dumb-waiter and the 
 cat was on the shelf lickin it up ; my man, not noticin*. 
 starts the waiter up and the cat tries to jump out; the 
 bottle rolls off and breaks. The cat was hurt awful 
 caught in the shaft. I don t see how it coulda run after 
 that, but it did right into the street, right into that 
 woman Fritz after it. Then it fell over. "You did 
 that?" she says to Fritz. "Yes", he says, "I did that." 
 He didn t say no more, jus went off and then after a while 
 they came for him and - 
 [She begins to cry softly. 
 
 LANE. Brace up; they ain t goin to do anything to him. 
 . . . (Comes into kitchen. Hesitatingly) Say ! . . . He 
 didn t kick the cat did he ? 
 
 MRS. BAUER. Who said so? 
 
 LANE. Mrs. Nies says she saw him from her win 
 dow. 
 
 MRS. BAUER (as though to herself). I dunno. (Excitedly) 
 Of course he didn t kick that cat. (Again as though to 
 herself) Fritz is so quick-tempered he mighta kicked it 
 fore he knew what he was about. No one d ever know 
 how good Fritz is unless they lived with him. He never 
 hurt no one and nothing except himself. 
 
 LANE. Oh, I m on to the boss. I never mind his hollerin*. 
 
 MRS. BAUER. If you get a chance, bring me some butter 
 for dinner a pound. 
 
 LANE. All right. I ll run over with it in ten or fifteen 
 minutes, soon as I get rid of these orders out here in the 
 wagon. 
 
 MRS. BAUER. That ll do. 
 
 [She moves about apathetically, lays the cloth on the kitchen 
 
404 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 table and begins to set it. Lane goes to the dumb-waiter, 
 whistles up the tube, puts the basket of groceries on the shelf of 
 the dumb-waiter, pulls rope and sends waiter up. Mrs. Bauer 
 continues to set the table. Boys from the street suddenly 
 swoop into the basement and yell. 
 
 CHORUS OF BOYS VOICES. Who killed the cat ! Who killed 
 the cat ! 
 
 LANE (letting the rope go and making a dive for the boys). I ll 
 show you, you 
 
 [ They rush out, Mrs. Bauer stands despairingly in the door 
 way shaking her clasped hands. 
 
 MRS. BAUER. Those are Nies s boys. 
 
 LANE. Regular toughs ! Call the cop and have em pinched 
 if they don t stop it. 
 
 MRS. BAUER. If my man hears them you know there ll 
 be more trouble. 
 
 LANE. The boss ought to make it hot for them. 
 
 MRS. BAUER. Such trouble ! 
 
 LANE (starts to go) Well, luck to the boss. 
 
 MRS. BAUER. There ain t no such thing as luck for us. 
 
 LANE. Aw, come on. . . . 
 
 MRS. BAUER. Everything s against us. First Fritz s mother 
 dies. We named the baby after her Trude. . . . Then 
 we lost Trude. That finished Fritz After that he be 
 gan this holler n business And now this here trouble 
 just when things was goin half ways decent for the 
 first time. 
 [She pushes past him and goes to her ironing. 
 
 LANE (shakes his head sympathetically and takes up his basket) . 
 A pound you said ? 
 
 MRS. BAUER. Yes. 
 
 LANE. All right. (He starts off and then rushes back) Here s 
 
 the boss comin , Mrs. Bauer. 
 
 [Rushes off again. 
 
 LANE S VOICE (cheerfully). Hello, there ! 
 BAUER S VOICE (dull and strained) . Hello ! 
 
 [Bauer comes in. His naturally bright blue eyes are tired 
 
THE LAST STRAW 405 
 
 and lustreless ; his strong frame seems to have lost all vigor 
 
 and alertness; there is a look of utter despondency on his 
 
 face. 
 MRS. BAUER (closing the door after him). They let you 
 
 off? 
 BAUER (with a hard little laugh). Yes, they let me off they 
 
 let me off w ;th a fine all right. 
 MRS. BAUER (aghast). They think you did it then. 
 BAUER (harshly). The judge fined me, I tell you. 
 MRS. BAUER (unable to express her poignant sympathy). Fined 
 
 you!. . . O Fritz! 
 
 [She lays her hand on his shoulder. 
 BAUER (roughly, to keep himself from going to pieces). That 
 
 slop out there ain t cleaned up yet. 
 MRS. BAUER. I ve been so worried. 
 
 BAUER (with sudden desperation). I can t stand it, I tell you. 
 MRS. BAUER. Well, it s all over now, Fritz. 
 BAUER. Yes, it s all over . . . it s all up with me. 
 
 MRS. BAUER Fritz ! 
 
 BAUER. That s one sure thing. 
 
 MRS. BAUER. You oughtn t to give up like this. 
 
 BAUER (pounding on the table). I tell you I can t hold up my 
 
 head again. 
 
 MRS. BAUER. Why, Fritz ? 
 BAUER. They ve made me out guilty. The judge fined me f 
 
 Fined me, Miene ! How is that ? Can a man stand for 
 
 that ? The woman said I told her myself right out 
 
 that I did it. 
 MRS. BAUER. The woman that had you (He winces as she 
 
 hesitates) took? 
 BAUER. Damned - 
 
 MRS. BAUER (putting her hand over his mouth). Hush, Fritz. 
 BAUER. Why will I hush, Miene ? She said I was proud of 
 
 the job. (Passionately raising his voice) The damned 
 
 interferin* 
 MRS. BAUER. Don t holler, Fritz. It s your hollerin that s 
 
 made all this trouble. 
 
406 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 BAUER (penetrated by her words more and more). My hol- 
 
 lerin ! . . . . 
 
 [The telephone rings; she answers it. 
 MRS. BAUER. Yes, Mrs. Mohler, he s come in now. Yes. 
 
 - Won t after dinner do ? All right. Thank you, 
 Mrs. Mohler. (She hangs up the receiver) Mrs. Mohler 
 wants you to fix her sink right after dinner. 
 
 BAUER. I m not goin to do any more fixin around here. 
 MRS. BAUER. You hold on to yourself, Fritz ; that s no way 
 
 to talk ; Mrs. Mohler s a nice woman. 
 BAUER. I don t want to see no more nice women. (After 
 
 a pause) Hollerin ! that s what s the matter with me 
 
 - hollerin , eh? Well, I ve took it all out in hollerin . 
 MRS. BAUER. They hear you and they think you ve got no 
 
 feelings. 
 
 BAUER (in utter amazement at the irony of the situation) . And 
 I was goin after the damned cat to take care of it. 
 
 MRS. BAUER. Why didn t you tell the judge all about 
 it? 
 
 BAUER. They got me rattled among them. The lady was 
 so soft and pleasant "He must be made to understand, 
 your Honor," she said to the judge, "that dumb animals 
 has feelin s, too, just as well as human beings" Me, 
 Meine, made to understand that ! I couldn t say nothin*. 
 My voice just stuck in my throat. 
 
 MRS. BAUER. What s the matter with you ! You oughta 
 spoke up and told the judge just how it all happened. 
 
 BAUER. I said to myself : I ll go home and put a bullet 
 through my head that s the best thing for me now. 
 
 MRS. BAUER (with impatient unbelief). Ach, Fritz, Fritz! 
 [Clatter of feet. 
 
 CHORUS OF VOICES (at the outer door). Who killed the cat! 
 Who killed the cat ! 
 
 [Bauer jumps up, pale and shaken with strange rage; she 
 pushes him gently back into his chair, opens the door, steps 
 out for a moment, then comes in and leaves the door open be 
 hind her. 
 
THE LAST STRAW 407 
 
 BAUER. You see? . . . Even the kids ... I m disgraced 
 all over the place. 
 
 MRS. BAUER. So long as you didn t hurt the cat 
 
 BAUER. What s the difference? Everybody believes it. 
 
 MRS. BAUER. No, they don t, Fritz. 
 
 BAUER. You can t fool me, Miene. I see it in their eyes. 
 They looked away from me when I was comin round the 
 corner. Some of them kinder smiled like (Passes his 
 hand over his head) Even the cop says to me on the way 
 over, yesterday: "Don t you put your foot in it any 
 more n you have to." You see? He thought I did it 
 all right. Everybody believes it. 
 
 MRS. BAUER (putting towels away). Well, then let them be 
 lieve it. ... The agent don t believe it. 
 
 BAUER. I dunno. He da paid my fine anyhow. 
 
 MRS. BAUER. He gave you a good name. 
 
 BAUER (with indignant derision). He gave me a good name ! 
 . . . Haven t I always kept this place all right since we 
 been here? Afterwards he said to me: "I m surprised 
 at this business, Bauer, very much surprised." That shows 
 what he thinks. I told him it ain t true, I didn t mean to 
 hurt it. I saw by his eyes he didn t believe me. 
 
 MRS. BAUER. Well, don t you worry any more now. 
 
 BAUER (to himself). Hollerin ! 
 
 MRS. BAUER (shuts the door). Well now holler a little if it 
 does you good. 
 
 BAUER. Nothin s goin to do me good. 
 
 MRS. BAUER. You just put it out of your mind. (The 
 telephone rings. She answers it) Yes, but he can t come 
 now, Mrs. McAllister. He ll be up this afternoon. 
 [She hangs up the receiver. 
 
 BAUER. And I ain t goin this afternoon nowhere. 
 
 MRS. BAUER. It s Mrs. McAllister. Somethin s wrong 
 with her refrigerator the water won t run off, she says. 
 
 BAUER. They can clean out their own drain pipes. 
 
 MRS. BAUER. You go to work and get your mind off this 
 here business. 
 
408 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 BAUEB (staring staight ahead of him). I ain t goin round 
 
 among the people in this house ... to have them lookin 
 
 at me . . . disgraced like this. 
 MRS. BAUER. You want to hold up your head and act as if 
 
 nothin s happened. 
 BAUER. Nobody spoke to me at the dumb-waiter when I 
 
 took off the garbage and paper this morning. Mrs. 
 
 Mohler always says something pleasant. 
 MRS. BAUER. You just think that because you re all upset. 
 
 (The telephone rings; she goes to it and listens) Yes, 
 
 ma am, I ll see. Fritz, have you any fine wire? Mrs. 
 
 McAllister thinks she might try and fix the drain with 
 
 it till you come up. 
 BAUER. I got no wire. 
 MRS. BAUER. Mr. Bauer ll fix it right after dinner, Mrs. 
 
 McAllister. (Impatiently) He can t find the wire this 
 
 minute soon s he eats his dinner. 
 BAUER (doggedly). You ll see. . . . 
 MRS. BAUER (soothingly) . Come now, Fritz, give me your 
 
 hat. 
 
 [She takes his hat from him. 
 VOICES IN THE STREET (receding from the front area). Who 
 
 killed the cat ! Who killed the cat ! j 
 
 [Bauer rushes toward the window in a fury of excitement. 
 BAUER (shouting at the top of his voice) Verdammte loafers ! 
 
 Schweine ! 
 
 MRS. BAUER (goes up to him) . Fritz ! Fritz ! 
 BAUER (collapses and drops into chair). You hear em. 
 MRS. BAUER. Don t pay no attention, then they ll get tired. 
 BAUER. Miene, we must go away. I can t stand it here 
 
 no longer. 
 MRS. BAUER. But there s not such another good place, 
 
 Fritz And the movin . . . jl 
 BAUER. I say I can t stand it. 
 MRS. BAUER (desperately). It . . .it would be just the same 
 
 any other place. 
 BAUER. Just the same ? 
 
THE LAST STRAW 409 
 
 MRS. BAUER. Yes, something d go wrong anyhow. 
 
 BAUER. You think I m a regular Jonah. 
 
 [He shakes his head repeatedly in the affirmative as though 
 wholly embracing her point of view. 
 
 MRS. BAUER. Folks don t get to know you. They hear 
 you hollerin round and they think you beat the children 
 and kick the dogs and cats. 
 
 BAUER. Do I ever lick the children when they don t need it ? 
 
 MRS. BAUER. Not Fritzi. 
 
 BAUER. You want to spoil Karl. I just touch him with 
 the strap once, a little like this (illustrates with a gesture) 
 to scare him and he howls like hell. 
 
 MRS. BAUER. Yes, and then he don t mind you no more be 
 cause he knows you don t mean it. 
 
 BAUER (to himself). That s the way it goes ... a man s 
 own wife and children . . . 
 
 MRS. BAUER (attending to the dinner. Irritably). Fritz, if 
 you would clean that up out there and Mrs. Carroll 
 wants her waste-basket. You musta forgot to send it up 
 again. 
 
 BAUER. All right. 
 
 [He goes out and leaves the door open. She stands her flat- 
 iron on the ledge of the range to cool and puts her ironing- 
 board away, watching him at the dumb-waiter while he picks 
 up the glass and cleans up the milk on the cement floor. He 
 disappears for a moment, then he comes in again, goes to a 
 drawer and takes out rags and a bottle of polish. 
 
 MRS. BAUER (pushing the clothes-basket out of the way). This 
 ain t cleanin day, Fritz. 
 
 BAUER (dully, putting the polish back into the drawer). That s 
 so. 
 
 MRS. BAUER (comforting him). You ve got to eat a good 
 dinner and then go upstairs and fix that sink for Mrs. 
 Mohler and the drain for Mrs. McAllister. 
 
 BAUER (in a tense voice). I tell you I can t stand it. ... 
 I tell you, Miene. . . . 
 
 MRS. BAUER. What now, Fritz ? 
 
410 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 BAUER. People laugh in my face. (Nods in the direction of 
 the street) Frazer s boy standin on the stoop calls his 
 dog away when it runs up to me like it always does. 
 
 MRS. BAUER. Dogs know better n men who s good to them. 
 
 BAUER. He acted like he thought I d kick it. 
 
 MRS. BAUER. You ve got all kinds of foolishness in your 
 head now .... You sent up Carroll s basket ? 
 
 BAUER. No. 
 
 MRS. BAUER. Well 
 
 [She checks herself. 
 BAUER. All right. 
 
 [He gets up. 
 MRS. BAUER. It s settin right beside the other dumb-waiter. 
 
 (He goes out) O Gott ! O Gott ! O Gott ! 
 
 [Enter Karl and Fritzi. Fritzi is crying. 
 MRS. BAUER (running to them). What s the matter? 
 
 [She hushes them and carefully closes the door. 
 KARL. The boys make fun of us ; they mock us. 
 FRITZI. They mock us "Miau! Miau!" they cry, and 
 
 then they go like this 
 
 [Fritzi imitates kicking and breaks out crying afresh. 
 MRS. BAUER. Hush, Fritzi, you mustn t let your father hear. 
 FRITZI. He d make them shut up. 
 KARL. I don t want to go to school this afternoon. 
 
 [He doubles his fists. 
 MRS. BAUER (turning on him fiercely). Why not? (In an 
 
 undertone) You talk that way before your little brother. 
 
 Have you no sense ? 
 FRITZI (beginning to whimper). I d-d-d-on t want to go to 
 
 school this afternoon. 
 MRS. BAUER. You just go long to school and mind your 
 
 own business. 
 
 KARL AND FRITZI (together). But the boys. . . . 
 MRS. BAUER. They ain t a goin to keep it up forever. Don t 
 
 you answer them. Just go long together and pay no 
 
 attention. 
 KARL. Then they get fresher and fresher. 
 
THE LAST STRAW 411 
 
 FRITZI (echoing Karl) . Yes, then they get fresher and fresher. 
 
 [Mrs. Bauer begins to take up the dinner. The sound oj 
 
 footfalls just outside the door is heard. 
 MRS. BAUER. Go on now, hang up your caps and get ready 
 
 for your dinners. 
 FRITZI. I m going to tell my papa. 
 
 [Goes to inner door. 
 MRS. BAUER. For God s sake, Fritzi, shut up. You mustn t 
 
 tell no one. Papa d be disgraced all over. 
 KARL (coming up to her) Disgraced ? 
 
 MRS. BAUER. Hush ! 
 
 KARL. Why disgraced ? 
 
 MRS. BAUER. Because there s liars, low-down snoopin 
 liars in the world. 
 
 KARL. Who s lied, Mamma ? 
 
 MRS. BAUER. The janitress across the street. 
 
 KARL. Mrs. Nies? 
 
 FRITZI (calling out). Henny Nies is a tough. 
 
 MRS. BAUER (looking toward the outer door anxiously and 
 shaking her head threateningly at Fritzi) . I give you some- 
 thin , if you don t stop hollerin out like that. 
 
 KARL. Who d she lie to ? 
 
 MRS. BAUER. Never mind. Go long now. It s time you 
 begin to eat. 
 
 KARL. What d she lie about ? 
 
 MRS. BAUER (warningly) . S-s-sh ! Papa ll be comin in now 
 in a minute. 
 
 KARL. It was Henny Nies set the gang on to us. I coulda 
 licked them all if I hadn t had to take care of Fritzi. 
 
 MRS. BAUER. You ll get a lickin all right if you don t keep 
 away from Henny Nies. 
 
 KARL. Well if they call me names and say my father s 
 been to the station-house for killing a cat . . . ? 
 
 FRITZI. Miau ! Miau ! Miau ! 
 
 MRS. BAUER. Hold your mouth. 
 
 FRITZI (swaggering). My father never was in jail was he, 
 Mamma ? 
 
412 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 KARL. Course not. 
 
 MRS. BAUER (to Fritzi) . Go, wash your hands, Fritzi. 
 
 [She steers him to the door of the inner room, he exits. 
 MRS. BAUER (distressed). Karl . . . 
 KARL (turning to his mother). Was he, Mamma? 
 MRS. BAUER. Papa don t act like he used to. Sometimes 
 
 I wonder what s come over him. Of course it s enough to 
 
 ruin any man s temper, all the trouble we ve had. 
 CHORUS OF VOICES (from the area by the window). Who 
 
 killed the cat ! Who killed the cat ! 
 
 [Sound of feet clattering up the area steps. Fritzi rushes in, 
 
 flourishing a revolver. 
 FRITZI. I shoot them, Mamma. 
 MRSI BAUER (grabbing the revolver). Mein Gott! Fritzi! 
 
 Papa s pistol! (She examines it carefully) You ever 
 
 touch that again and I ll .... 
 
 [She menaces him. 
 
 FRITZI (sulkily). I ll save up my money and buy me one. 
 MRS. BAUER (smiling a little to herself). I see you buy in 
 
 one. 
 
 [Carries revolver into inner room. 
 FRITZI (in a loud voice and as though shooting at Karl). Bang ! 
 
 Bang ! Bang ! 
 
 [Karl strikes at Fritzi; Fritzi dodges. 
 KARL (to his mother as she re-enters). Trouble with Fritzi is 
 
 he don t mind me any more. 
 MRS. BAUER. You wash your dirty hands and face this 
 
 minute d you hear me, Fritzi ! 
 FRITZI (looking at his hands). That s ink stains. I got the 
 
 highest mark in spelling today. Capital H-e-n-n-y, 
 
 capital N-i-e-s Henny Nies, a bum. 
 
 [Mrs. Bauer makes a rush at him and he runs back into the 
 
 inner room. 
 KARL (sitting down beside the table). Do we have to go to 
 
 school this afternoon ? 
 
 MRS. BAUER. You have to do what you always do. 
 KARL. Can t we stay home. . . . 
 
THE LAST STRAW 413 
 
 MRS. BAUER (fiercely) . Why ? Why ? 
 
 KARL (sheepishly) I ain t feelin well. 
 
 MRS. BAUER. Karlchen ! . . . sham dich ! 
 
 KARL. Till the boys forget. . . . 
 
 MRS. BAUER. Papa d know somethin was wrong right 
 away. That d be the end. You mustn t act as if any 
 thing was different from always. 
 
 KARL (indignantly). Sayin my father s been to jail! 
 
 MRS. BAUER. Karl. . . . 
 
 KARL. Papa d make them stop. 
 
 MRS. BAUER (panic-stricken) . Karl, don t you tell Papa 
 nothing. 
 
 KARL. Not tell Papa ? 
 
 MRS. BAUER. No. 
 
 KARL. Why not tell Papa? 
 
 MRS. BAUER. Because 
 
 KARL. Yes, Mamma? 
 
 MRS. BAUER. Because he was arrested yesterday. 
 
 KARL (shocked). What for, Mamma? Why was he 
 
 MRS. BAUER. For nothing. ... It was all a lie. 
 
 KARL. Well what was it, Mamma ? 
 
 MRS. BAUER. The cat got hurt in the dumb-waiter Papa 
 
 didn t mean to then they saw Papa chasin it then it 
 
 died. 
 
 KARL. Why did Papa chase it ? 
 MRS. BAUER. To see how it hurt itself. 
 KARL. Whose cat ? 
 MRS. BAUER. The stray cat. 
 KARL. The little black cat ? Is Blacky dead ? 
 MRS. BAUER. Yes, he died on the sidewalk. 
 KARL. Where was we? 
 MRS. BAUER. You was at school. 
 KARL. Papa didn t want us to keep Blacky. 
 MBS. BAUER. So many cats and dogs around. . . . 
 FRITZI (wailing at the door) . Blacky was my cat. 
 MRS. BAUER. S-s-h ! What do you know about Blacky ? 
 FRITZI. I was listening. Why did Papa kill Blacky ? 
 
414 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 MRS. BAUER. Hush ! 
 
 FRITZI. Why was Papa took to jail ? 
 
 MRS. BAUER. Fritzi ! If Papa was to hear. . . . 
 
 [Mrs. Bauer goes out. 
 
 FRITZI (sidling up to Karl) . Miau ! Miau ! 
 KARL. You shut up that. Didn t Mamma tell you. 
 FRITZI. When I m a man I m going to get arrested. I ll 
 
 shoot Henny Nies. 
 KARL (contemptuously). Yes, you ll do a lot of shooting. 
 
 [Fritzi punches Karl in back. 
 KARL (striking at Fritzi). You re as big a tough as Henny 
 
 Nies. 
 FRITZI (proud of this alleged likeness). I m going to be a 
 
 man just like my father ; I ll holler and make them stand 
 
 around. 
 KARL (with conviction). What you need is a good licking. 
 
 [Telephone rings; Karl goes to it. 
 KARL. No, Ma am, we re just going to eat now. 
 FRITZI (sits down beside the table). Blacky was a nice cat; 
 
 she purred just like a steam engine. 
 KARL. Mamma told you not to bring her in. 
 FRITZI. Papa said I could. 
 
 [There is the sound of footfalls. Bauer and his wife come 
 
 in and close the door behind them. 
 MRS. BAUER (putting the dinner on the table). Come, children. 
 
 (To Bauer) Sit down, Fritz. 
 
 [She serves the dinner. Karl pulls Fritzi out of his father s 
 
 chair and pushes him into his own ; then he takes his place 
 
 next to his mother. 
 
 MRS. BAUER (to Bauer t who sits looking at his food) . Eat some- 
 thin , Friedrich. 
 
 [She sits down. 
 BAUER. I can t eat nothin*. I m full up to here. 
 
 [He touches his throat. 
 MRS. BAUER. If you haven t done nothin wrong why do you 
 
 let it worry you so ? 
 
 [Children are absorbed in eating. 
 
THE LAST STRAW 415 
 
 FRITZI (suddenly). Gee, didn t Blacky like liver ! 
 [Mrs. Bauer and Karl look at him warningly. 
 
 MRS. BAUER (fiercely). You eat your dinner. 
 
 BAUER (affectionately, laying his hand on Fritzi s arm). 
 Fritzi. 
 
 FRITZI (points toward the inner room). I m going to have a 
 gun, too, when I m a man. 
 
 [Bauer follows Fritzi s gesture and falls to musing. There 
 is a look of brooding misery on his face. Karl nudges 
 Fritzi warningly and watches his father furtively. Bauer 
 sits motionless, staring straight ahead of him. 
 
 MRS. BAUER (to Bauer). Now drink your coffee. 
 
 BAUER. Don t you see, Miene, don t you see ? . . . Noth 
 ing makes it right now ; no one believes me no one 
 believes me no one. 
 
 MRS. BAUER. What do you care, if you didn t do it. 
 
 BAUER. I care like hell. 
 
 MRS. BAUER (with a searching look at her husband). Fritzi, 
 when you go on like this, people won t believe you didn t 
 do it. You ought to act like you don t care . . . (She 
 fixes him with a beseeching glance) if you didn t do it. 
 [Bauer looks at his wife as though a hidden meaning to her 
 words had suddenly bitten into his mind. 
 
 BAUER (as though to himself). A man can t stand that. 
 I ve gone hungry . . . I ve been in the hospital . . . I ve 
 worked when I couldn t stand up hardly. . . . 
 
 MRS. BAUER (coaxingly). Drink your coffee, drink it now, 
 Fritz, while it s hot. 
 [He tries to swallow a little coffee and then puts down the cup. 
 
 BAUER. I ve never asked favors of no man. 
 
 MRS. BAUER. Well, an if you did . . . 
 
 BAUER. I ve always kept my good name. . . . 
 
 MRS. BAUER. If a man hasn t done nothin wrong it don t 
 matter. Just go ahead like always if - 
 
 BAUER (muttering) . If if - 
 
 MRS. BAUER (to the boys). Get your caps now, it s time to 
 go to school. 
 
416 THE LAST STRAW 
 
 [Karl gets up, passes behind his father and beckons to Fritzi to 
 follow him. 
 
 FRITZI (keeping his seat). Do we have to go to school? 
 
 BAUER (suddenly alert). Why, what s the matter? 
 
 FRITZI. The boys 
 
 MRS. BAUER (breaking in) . Fritzi ! 
 
 (The boys go into the inner room. Bauer collapses again. 
 Mrs. Bauer, looking at him strangely) Fritzi if you 
 didn t 
 
 BAUER. I can t prove nothing and no one believes me. 
 (A pause. She is silent under his gaze) No one ! (He 
 waits for her to speak. She sits with averted face. He sinks 
 into a dull misery. The expression in his eyes changes from 
 beseeching to despair as her silence continues, and he cries 
 out hoarsely) No one ! Even if you kill a cat what s 
 a cat against a man s life ! 
 
 MRS. BAUER (tensely, her eyes fastened on his). But you 
 didn t kill it ? 
 [A pause. 
 
 MRS. BAUER (in a low appealing voice). Did you, Fritz? 
 DID you ? (Bauer gets up slowly. He stands very still and 
 stares at his wife. Karl s voice. "Mamma, Fritzi s fooling 
 with Papa s gun.") 
 [Both children rush into the room. 
 
 KARL. You oughta lock it up. 
 
 MRS. BAUER (to Fritzi). Bad boy! (To Karl) Fritzi wants 
 to kill himself that s what. Go on to school. 
 [Boys run past area. 
 
 VOICES. Who killed the cat ! Who killed the cat ! 
 
 [At the sound of the voices the boys start back. Instinctively 
 Mrs. Bauer lays a protecting hand on each. She looks 
 around at her husband with a sudden anxiety which she tries 
 to conceal from the children, who whisper together. Bauer 
 rises heavily to his feet and walks staggeringly toward the 
 inner room. 
 
 MRS. BAUER (in a worried tone as she pushes the children out). 
 Go on to school. 
 
THE LAST STRAW 417 
 
 [At the threshold of the inner room, Bauer stops, half turns 
 back with distorted features, and then hurries in. The door 
 slams behind him. Mrs. Bauer closes the outer door, turns, 
 takes a step as though to follow Bauer, hesitates, then crosses 
 to the kitchen table and starts to clear up the dishes. The 
 report of a revolver sounds from the inner room. Terror- 
 stricken, Mrs. Bauer rushes in. 
 
 MRS. BAUER S VOICE. Fritz ! Fritz ! Speak to me ! Look 
 at me, Fritz ! You didn t do it, Fritz ! I know you didn t 
 doit! 
 
 [Sound of low sobbing . . . After a few seconds the telephone 
 bell . . . It rings continuously while the CURTAIN slowly falls. 
 
HATTIE 
 
 ELVA DE PUE MATTHEWS 
 
 MRS. ELVA DE PUE MATTHEWS (Mrs. Warren Shepard 
 Matthews) was born in California, April 23, 1889. She 
 has studied at Dana Hall, Massachusetts, The University of 
 California, Columbia University, and in Europe. In June, 
 1918, she married Warren Shepard Matthews. She has 
 written several articles for magazines, but "Hattie" is her 
 only play. 
 
HATTIE 
 
 A DRAMA 
 BY ELVA DE PUE 
 
"Hattie" was originally produced by The Morningside 
 Players, April 22, 1917, at the Comedy Theatre, New York. 
 
 Original Cast 
 
 HATTIE Sophie Wilds 
 
 MINA Clarice McCauley 
 
 MRS. SCROGGINS Mildred Hamburger 
 
 TIM Robert A. Pines 
 
 HEINRICH Roger Wheeler 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1917, BY THE MORNINGSIDE PLAYERS. 
 All rights reserved. 
 
 Printed originally in "Morningside Plays." 
 
 Application for the right of performing "Hattie" must be made to Mrs. Warren 
 Shepard Matthews, 2226 Sacramento Street, San Francisco, California. 
 
HATTIE 
 
 TIME : The Present. 
 
 SCENE : Room in a New York tenement. At the back of 
 the stage a cot in left corner, and next it a mattress made up as 
 a bed. On the right a cupboard and a table. On the left an old 
 bureau. A door at the back leads into the next room; a door at 
 the right into the hall. Across the hall from it are supposed to 
 be the outside door to the street and a window. A woman comes 
 in hurriedly from the hall. She is a small, bright German, 
 whose hair at first appears to be gray, but turns out to be flaxen. 
 When excited, she has an accent. She goes hastily to the door in 
 the back of the stage. 
 MINA (calls). Mrs. Scroggins ! Oh, Mrs. Scroggins ! 
 
 [A tall woman opens the door and gestures to silence Mina. 
 
 She has a long neck that stretches forward, near-sighted eyes 
 
 with which she is always examining what is nearest, and a 
 
 parrot nose. She has in her hand a brown blanket. 
 MRS. SCROGGINS. Sh . . . ! He s asleep. You don t 
 
 want him hollering all evening, do you ? 
 MINA. I ll just take a look at him. 
 
 [She slips past Mrs. Scroggins into the other room. 
 MRS. SCROGGINS (tossing the blanket on the mattress). Aw, 
 
 shucks ! He s all right ... if you d let him alone. 
 
 [Mina reappears smiling, closing door carefully. 
 MRS. SCROGGINS. Well, I ain t hurt him, have I ? Where s 
 
 Hattie? I want to talk to her ... I thought you two 
 
 worked in the same laundry. 
 MINA. She stayed behind for something to-night. She 
 
 wouldn t tell me. . . . You know how quiet she is. I 
 
 just had to run ahead and see if my baby was all right. 
 
 [She takes off her cape and battered hat and hangs them on 
 
 hooks over the mattress. 
 
HATTIE 
 
 MBS. SCROGGINS (huffily). All right! I ain t going to eat 
 him. . . . Here s your blanket. But now let me tell 
 you something ... if you expect to stay right along here 
 as a steady thing, Hattie s got to pay me more for this 
 room. You said when you come you was going to stay a 
 few days. A few days ! It s been some few ! Nearly 
 three weeks. 
 
 MINA (blinking rapidly). Ah, Mrs. Scroggins, you ain t 
 goin to put up the rent on her ! Every day I think I 
 hear dot my Heinrich has got a job. Sure I thought it 
 was goin to be a few days ! 
 
 MRS. SCROGGINS. You Germans, you think you just about 
 own the country ! Here I been takin care of your squallin* 
 kid for only fifty . . . 
 
 MINA (pleadingly). I ll pay you a little more for that . . . 
 lemme see . . . only I don t want to get Hattie into trouble. 
 Mrs. Scroggins, please don t say nothin to her ... she s 
 been so good to me. I wasn t used to workin right along 
 at one job . . . them irons seemed so heavy to me . 
 You see, little Heinie ain t only six months old, and I give 
 out, the first day . . . Hattie, she was the only one was 
 sorry for me ... she brought me here to stay so s I could 
 be pretty near to my work. 
 
 MRS. SCROGGINS. Yes, you and her s been as thick as thieves. 
 . . . (Suddenly) . . . What d you go and turn her against 
 my son Tim, for ? Hey ? That s what I d like to know ! 
 [The door opens and Hattie comes in. She is a big, raw- 
 boned girl, seemingly gruff. She has had few friends and 
 seems shy and suspicious. She looks defiantly at Mrs. 
 Scroggins. She is carrying three packages, which she lays 
 down. Mrs. Scroggins approaches them, peering curiously. 
 
 MRS. SCROGGINS (in a conciliatory tone). Well, here you are ! 
 Been shoppin ? 
 
 HATTIE (shortly) . Where s the baby ? 
 
 MINA. Oh, he s in there sleepin just fine. ... I thought 
 I wouldn t wake him up. 
 [Hattie goes into the next room. Mina has thrown herself on 
 
HATTIE 425 
 
 the cot in an attitude of exhaustion. Mrs. Scroggins wanders 
 about aimlessly, Hattie comes back. She notices Mrs. Scrog 
 gins eyeing the packages and removes her things deliberately. 
 Finally she undoes one bundle, a loaf of bread. She starts 
 to put it in the cupboard, then puts it out on the table instead. 
 With it she sets out some sausage. 
 
 MRS. SCROGGINS (no longer able to contain herself, pokes the 
 large bundle). What you got here, Hattie? 
 
 HATTIE (sheepishly). Nothin . 
 
 MRS. SCROGGINS (with withering sarcasm). Seems to take a 
 terrible lot o good paper to do up nothin in ! 
 [Hattie looks at her sullenly. There is nothing left to do but 
 to open the package. It is a baby s tin bath tub. Mina 
 gives an exclamation of pleasure. While Mrs. Scroggins is 
 examining the tub, bottom side up, Hattie slips the third 
 package in the bureau drawer. 
 
 MRS. SCROGGINS. For the land s sakes ! The way you do for 
 that child . . . you d think he was your first born, stead 
 of another girl s .... 
 
 MINA (sitting up, much enlivened by the good fortune of acquiring 
 a tub). Ach, I must go to phone to the grosmutter . . . 
 
 MRS. SCROGGINS. To who ? 
 
 MINA. She s . . . Why, my husband s mutter. . . . She s 
 been takin care of my other children ever since. . . . 
 
 MRS. SCROGGINS. Your other children ? 
 
 MINA (proudly). Sure! I got two nice girls . . . one can t 
 see so very good, but she s getting better . . . and one 
 more boy. . . . Say, Hattie, you got two nickels for this 
 dime? 
 [Hattie gets them from her coat pocket. 
 
 MRS. SCROGGINS. For the love o Gawd ! And you so little 
 and sick like. . . . 
 
 MINA. Oh, I ain t really sick ! 
 
 [She puts on her dingy cape, but no hat, and goes out. 
 
 MRS. SCROGGINS (spitefully). You see here, Hattie. . . . 
 You re throwin money around on other people s brats, 
 when you ought to be havin some of your own. (flattie, 
 
426 HATTIE 
 
 putting coffee on the stove to heat, turns suddenly and stares 
 at the other woman) And you can up and pay me a dollar 
 more for this here room; understand? You make good 
 wages .... I heard tell you was one of the best workers 
 they got, doin that fancy ironin . (She pauses for breath. 
 Hattie looks at her steadily without answering. Annoyed at 
 not feeling justified in her demands, Mrs. Scroggins tries 
 to work herself up into a fit of indignation) What on 
 earth did you get yourself all mixed up with her for, any 
 how? 
 
 HATTIE (muttering). The work was too hard for her. 
 
 MRS. SCROGGINS. Well, you fool, you can t afford to start 
 a hospital for all the laundry girls that ain t feelin like 
 workin , can you ? (Hattie makes no reply, which irritates 
 Mrs. Scroggins, who cannot understand any one not liking 
 to talk) What on earth s the matter with you lately, any 
 how? You go around with your jaw hangin* . . . like 
 this . . . (Makes a face denoting dejection) Why can t 
 she help you pay for the room .... She makes good 
 money at that laundry, too, I bet. 
 
 HATTIE (drily). Good money! 
 
 MRS. SCROGGINS (stamping her foot). You drive me crazy 
 just repeating what I says ! Why don t she pony up, I m 
 askin ? 
 
 HATTIE (in a low tone). Sends it to the other kids. Hus 
 band s lost his job. 
 
 MRS. SCROGGINS. Oh, yes. That s what she s tellin you, I 
 know. I guess, maybe, there ain t no more husband than 
 there is a job ! Ha ! Ha ! 
 
 HATTIE (hotly). There is too! 
 
 [As they talk Hattie unconsciously draws near the door, for 
 there is a noise of thumping outside, going along the hall. 
 Hattie , drawn up tensely, keeps looking toward the door. The 
 thumping passes without stopping. Her shoulders droop 
 forward dejectedly. 
 
 MRS. SCROGGINS You seen him yourself ? 
 
 HATTIE (with a start). Seen him? Seen who? 
 
HATTIE 427 
 
 MRS. SCROGGINS (with exasperation). There you go again! 
 Why don t you listen to what I m sayin ? Seen her hus 
 band, of course. 
 
 HATTIE (sullenly) . Naw ! When he come, I was out with Tim. 
 
 MRS. SCROGGINS. Now you take my word for it, I ve seen 
 the world. ... I know these here soft-spoken little 
 chits. . . . 
 
 VOICE OUTSIDE. Say, Maw! 
 
 HATTIE (jumping). That s Tim, ain t it,? Why don t he 
 . . . s-stop in here any more ? 
 
 MRS. SCROGGINS. I guess you know that as well as me. 
 
 HATTIE. What do you mean ? 
 
 MRS. SCROGGINS. You know all right ... I can tell by 
 the look on your face. What d ye tell him you wasn t 
 goin with him no more unless he quit sellin papers ? D ye 
 think a sperrited feller like Tim is goin to stand for that 
 kind o talk ? He was doin all right at it, too. You kep 
 at him till he nearly went an tuk a job as bartend in 
 O Shaunessy s saloon down here at the corner . . . (With 
 a sneer) . . . You re so high and mighty . . . too good 
 for him, eh ? 
 
 HATTIE (tensely, with clenched fists). No, no. That wasn t 
 it at all. I wanted him to get a better job, something 
 that would get him on . . . so as . . . so as . . .1 didn t 
 want him to be a bartend, though. 
 
 MRS. SCROGGINS. Yes, so as to have money to throw around 
 on you. 
 
 HATTIE. No, no . . . so as we could . . . get married . . . 
 sometime. 
 
 MRS. SCROGGINS. He works hard enough. He was willing 
 to marry you on what he s getting. 
 
 HATTIE. That s not enough ! You know that s not enough ! 
 Why look at Mina . . . she says . . . 
 
 MRS. SCROGGINS (furiously) . That Mina! I knowed it was 
 her turned you against him ! 
 
 HATTIE (slowly). I saw . . . from her . . . you got to be 
 careful. 
 
428 HATTIE 
 
 MBS. SCROQGINS. Careful ? Tim would make any girl a 
 good husband ! There s plenty as thinks so too. 
 
 HATTIE (on the verge of breaking down). I didn t go to make 
 him mad. I just spoke of the delicatessen shop . . . they 
 need a clerk there. Tim s so smart ... he could ... he 
 could ... I hate to have him have to borrow money off 
 of me. 
 
 MRS. SCROGGINS (hotly). See here! Don t you come a- 
 complainin of Tim to me ! I ve always humored him with 
 his lameness and all ... I ain t goin to have no abusin 
 of him. You re too old for him anyways .... He s got 
 another girl now. 
 
 HATTIE (with effort) . Who do you mean ? 
 
 MRS. SCROGGINS. That Sadie Horst .... 
 
 HATTIE (shrilly). That . . . that little ... she ... she 
 makes eyes at every feller .... 
 
 MRS. SCROGGINS. Shut up your insults. She ain t makin 
 eyes at Tim. . . . She means business. 
 
 VOICE (from back) . Say, Maw, what about supper ? Do I 
 get it or don t I ? 
 
 MRS. SCROGGINS (annoyed) . I m comin\ if you ll wait a second. 
 [She goes out, reopens the door and sets a clothes basket on the 
 mattress with a bump. Hattie stares at the door a moment, 
 then runs to the basket, takes out the baby, holds him close, 
 hiding her face. Through the window comes the glow of a 
 street lamp. Pause. Mina opens the door and enters. 
 
 MINA. Hattie ! Ach, there you are ! Why don t you light 
 the gas? 
 
 [Mina finds a match, lights the gas in center of the room. 
 She hangs up her cape and holds out her arms for the baby. 
 
 HATTIE (in a husky voice). Say, Mina, can t I ... fix him 
 and give him a bath to-night ? It kind o takes my mind 
 off of ... 
 
 MINA (solicitously). Why, Hattie, what s been happening? 
 Mrs. Scroggins ... did she ... did she stay long after 
 I went out? (Indignantly) Did she sass you about the 
 rent or anything ? (Hattie bends over the baby, but does not 
 
HATTIE 429 
 
 answer. Putting an arm over Rattle s shoulder) That 
 
 Tim . . . Has he been bothering you again ? 
 HATTIE (throwing off Minors arm; in a tearful voice). 
 
 Botherin ? Not likely he ll bother me no more! He s 
 
 got another girl. 
 MINA. Another girl ! How do you know ? Did he tell 
 
 you? 
 HATTIE. No, Mrs. Scroggins did. (Suddenly) You never 
 
 did like Tim ! I wish I d never listened to you. 
 MINA. Mrs. Scroggins ! Ach, she just tries to make you 
 
 jealous ! Don t you pay no attention to that. 
 HATTIE (wistfully, wanting to be convinced). Do you think 
 
 that s it? 
 MINA (heartily). Sure! Don t you see? She wants that 
 
 Tim to get you. She wants him to have an easy time . . . 
 
 to live off of you instead of off of her. She was as sweet 
 
 as honey cakes to you till you had that fight with him . . . 
 
 now she s a little grouchy. 
 HATTIE (her spirits rising somewhat). We d ought to be a- 
 
 givin him his bath. 
 
 [Mina gets the tub and fills it in the hall. She kneels on the 
 
 other side of it from Hattie. 
 
 MINA. Tim, he yust waitin for you to make up with him. 
 HATTIE (undressing the baby). Don t you be too sure. Fel 
 lers here ain t so faithful as they are . . . some places. 
 MINA. Well, if you want to make up with him, you stick 
 
 to what I told you. . . . You tell him you won t marry 
 
 him without enough to bring up a family on. ... You 
 
 better give him to me, your hand is shaky. (Hattie hands 
 
 her the child, cooing to him). . . Look, he s getting fat ... 
 
 just since I come here to you. 
 HATTIE (in a dull voice). Aw, you needn t worry about me 
 
 and Tim. We ain t goin to make up. 
 MINA (to the baby) . Ach, you was a little kicker ! Yust see 
 
 him kick . . . Hattie, you re awful touchy. I noticed it 
 
 with the girls at the laundry. You seemed like you was 
 
 scared of Tim. 
 
430 HATTIE 
 
 HATTIE (shamefacedly). Always think people ain t goin to 
 like me ... I feel so kind o awkward and ugly. 
 [She gets a towel for Mina. 
 
 MINA. Ach, no, you ain t so bad. 
 
 [She blinks at her friend in embarrassment. 
 
 HATTIE. Now you, you re friendly to all of em, and you 
 make me feel right to home with you. 
 
 MINA. Anyway, you got the best heart of em all. When I 
 was so sick, it was you who took me home. The others 
 said they was sorry, but they shied off, I noticed . . . 
 (Wiping the child) . . . He was pretty weak when he was 
 born, but I think he s gaining all right now. 
 
 HATTIE (hesitatingly). The other ones, are they strong? 
 
 MINA (after a moment). The two oldest, they are. I had a 
 little girl that died, and then little Elsa, I had an awful 
 time with her . . . poor little thing ... I used to wish I 
 could feel the pains for her. 
 
 HATTIE (with her face buried, shuddering). Yes, it don t seem 
 fair for them to start out without a chance , . ain t it 
 funny ? Those that have em don t want em, always . . . 
 and there s other people, that hasn t anybody of their 
 own . . . 
 
 MINA (reflectively). It s mighty different here from on a 
 farm in the old country. Here you haf to like a feller 
 pretty much before you want to take a chance on all the 
 trouble . . . (In a more cheerful voice) . . . Now my Hein- 
 rich, he s so different to most of the Americans. I don t 
 mind the trouble . . . if we . . . if we could only stay to 
 gether. 
 
 [She puts the baby in the basket and takes the tub away to 
 empty it. 
 
 HATTIE. Do you think he will find something soon? 
 
 MINA. Oh, yes, I know he will. He tries so hard ... I 
 yust know how crazy he is for to get us all together again. 
 [Her face lights up and she looks much younger. 
 
 HATTIE (wistfully) . It must be fine to be so sure of anybody. 
 You don t mind the hard work, if you think it s getting 
 
HATTIE 431 
 
 you anywheres. (Suddenly) Now what am I workin 
 for, I d like to know? What am I livin for? 
 
 MINA (alarmed by Hattie s unusual violence). Ach, Hattie, 
 you ll get somebody of your own. . . . You ll feel better 
 to-morrow, maybe. 
 
 HATTIE. Somebody ! You can t understand why I like 
 Tim. . . . His shiftlessness just makes me like him all the 
 more. I kind o want to look out for him. It ain t his 
 fault his mother spoiled him. And the way he grins, kind 
 of to one side, and his blue eyes shinin , and all . . .1 guess 
 I m a fool. 
 [She breaks down, sobbing hard. 
 
 MINA (patting her on the shoulder). Say, he ll be comin out 
 from his supper pretty soon. (She goes to the bureau and 
 pokes about in the drawer. She holds up a little white dress, 
 which she has taken out of the paper in which it was wrapped. 
 To divert Hattie s mind) Did you do this, Hattie ? When 
 did you iron it? (Hattie nods, wiping her eyes) When 
 did you ? It s just swell ! 
 
 HATTIE (with an occasional sob) . After you left to-day. The 
 boss let me use the fluter. 
 
 MINA. It s lovely. I put it on him the first time my Hein- 
 rich is to see him. 
 
 [She hunts further in the drawer and finally brings out a 
 piece of bright green ribbon, which she takes to Hattie. 
 
 MINA. I don t wear this now, try it on. 
 
 [Hattie shakes her head. A thumping is heard in the hall. 
 Hattie suddenly rouses herself, gets up and takes the ribbon. 
 She ties it nervously around her neck, glancing now and then 
 furtively in the little cracked mirror over the bureau. She 
 wipes hw eyes. The thumping goes into the hall. Mina 
 opens the door, and motions Hattie towards it. Hattie, 
 trembling, does not move, but shrinks back. Mina pulls her 
 with all her might. They almost struggle. Hattie finally 
 stands in the door, pressed against the casing. She breathes 
 hard with a rigid face. Mina slips back and busies herself 
 about the food. 
 
HATTIE 
 
 HATTIE (faintly). Hello, Tim! 
 
 VOICE (outside, carelessly). Hello, Hat! 
 [He does not stop. 
 
 HATTIE (with visible effort as he is passing). Say, Tim, can t 
 you come in ... just a minute ? 
 
 [Tim limps into the room, standing just inside the door. He 
 is slightly shorter than Hattie, with reddish hair, blue eyes, 
 and a thin face, with a sarcastic smile which has an indefin 
 able charm for girls, in spite of his infirmity. A short 
 pause ensues, agonizing for Hattie, boring to Tim, and 
 unnoticed by Mina, who is scanning Tim carefully. 
 
 HATTIE (choking a little). Make you acquainted with my 
 friend, Mrs. Kleber. 
 [Tim murmurs an inarticulate salutation, looking at the door. 
 
 MINA. Can t you set down, Mr. Scroggins ? 
 
 TIM. Naw, I can t. . . . Got to see somebody . . . outside. 
 [He turns. 
 
 HATTIE (with a gasp) . Right . . . right away ? 
 
 MINA (seeing how disturbed Hattie is). Ach, stay awhile and 
 eat somethin ... or have a cup of coffee. 
 
 TIM (looking uncomfortably toward the door). Naw, I can t, 
 sure ... I just eat. I got a date .... 
 [With a faint smile. 
 
 HATTIE (throwing her pride to the winds) . You don t ever. . . 
 make dates with . . . with me, no more, Tim. 
 
 TIM. Whose fault s that ? 
 
 HATTIE. Oh, Tim ! I never meant to throw you down. 
 I only wanted you to get another job ... for your own 
 good. . . . 
 
 TIM. Yes, for my own good. Say, I can picture myself in 
 the delicatessen joint there among the pickles and cheeses 
 and sauerkraut ! Nobody ever goes in there but fat old 
 Dutch women. I m off the Germans, I tell you. (Hattie 
 looks ready to faint) Stead of being outside with the fel 
 lers that sells for me, goin where I please, seein all that 
 goes on, talkin to all kinds of folks . . . that s my job, and 
 it s as good or better than any . . . it s good enough for me. 
 
HATTIE 433 
 
 MINA. But you don t get ahead. 
 
 TIM (resenting Mind s interference and her knowledge of his 
 having been repulsed). Well, there s others as ain t so fussy 
 about my gettin ahead. 
 
 HATTIE (taking a sharp breath and moving toward him). Tim, 
 forget what I said. I don t care what you do ... 
 I. . . 
 
 [Tim, showing off before the other woman, holds up his hand 
 humorously to ward off Hattie. He smiles crookedly, not 
 unkindly. 
 
 TIM. It s pretty late to come honeyin round me now. How 
 d ye know I ain t goin to get married . . . maybe this 
 afternoon? There s somebody outside. 
 
 HATTIE. Tim . . . you re not. . . . 
 
 TIM (loftily). Well, maybe I ll put it off a day or two . . . 
 but I m goin to get hitched, all right. ... So long. 
 [He limps out with unusual speed. Hattie waits a moment, 
 then runs after him. She calls him once, but it is muffled in 
 the bang of the door. She looks out the window in the 
 hall and Mina hears her give a sharp ejaculation. Then 
 she reenters the room, staggering a little, and tears the 
 ribbon from her neck, dropping it and treading on it. She 
 throws herself face downward on the mattress. For a 
 moment Mina watches her with clasped hands and an agon 
 ized expression, not daring to speak. 
 
 MINA. Hattie. . . . 
 
 HATTIE (frantically). What did you make me see him for? 
 What did you push me for ? I m so ashamed. . . . Oh, 
 I m so ashamed. 
 
 MINA (in a small voice). I ... I knew you wanted to talk 
 to him. . . . Did you see who was outside ? 
 [She blinks apprehensively at Hattie. 
 
 HATTIE (smothering her sobs in the bed). That Sadie . . . 
 that girl with the black eyes. . . . Oh, oh ! I always knew 
 he would like somebody else. 
 
 MINA (trying to soothe her). Never mind, Hattie, he wasn t 
 good enough for you anyway ! 
 
434 HATTIE 
 
 HATTIE (bursting forth vehemently). Not good enough ! Not 
 good enough ! (With a laugh like a scream) . . . Who s 
 good enough then? Who s good enough? Who s ever 
 goin to look at me ? He s the only feller I ever had. It s 
 better to have one like him than nobody at all. . . . 
 
 MINA. Ach, poor Hattie, I m so sorry. . . . 
 
 HATTIE. You, . . . you spoiled my last chance. You told 
 me not to marry him ... I was a coward ... I was afraid 
 ... I can just see that Sadie s black eyes. . . . 
 
 MINA (feeling that she has brought disaster, and sobbing more 
 than Hattie) . Ach, Hattie, an you bin so good to me too. . . . 
 [She creeps up to Hattie and takes her hand. Seeing that 
 Hattie does not resent it, she puts her arm about her and they 
 cry together. 
 
 MINA (sitting up, trying to divert Hattie). Say, we ain t ate our 
 supper. . . . (Hattie makes no answer. She takes the 
 coffee from the stove and pours out a cupful) Come on, 
 Hattie, you better have a bite . . . (Hattie shakes her head) 
 ... A cup of this kaffee will do you good. 
 
 HATTIE (drags herself up and leans over the basket). He ain t 
 had his ... (sobs) . . . milk. (Mina gets the baby s bottle, 
 but Hattie takes it from her. She pours milk into a saucepan 
 to heat. She goes into the hall to rinse the bottle, then tries to 
 fill it from the pan. Turning suddenly to Mina) How old 
 are you? 
 
 MINA (surprised). I ... guess I m twenty-six. 
 
 HATTIE (tonelessly) . You got four children, ain t you?. . . 
 (She lets the milk drip on the floor) And I m thirty-seven 
 . . . thirty-seven years old, and . . . 
 
 MINA (changing the subject) . Look out, Hattie, all the milk 
 is spilling. Leave a little in the pan, we can feed him again 
 in the night . . . the way you did last night. Ach, Gott ! 
 How tired I was last night. Anyway, Hattie, you got your 
 strength ! 
 
 HATTIE (bitterly) . What good s that ? 
 
 MINA. Last night when you was so good to get up and 
 feed him, I thought for a minute I had my good Heinrich 
 
HATTIE 435 
 
 back. You bin so awful good, I d like to help you some 
 time. . . . I d like to do something nice for you. 
 [Hattie gives the baby his bottle and stands watching him. 
 Mina is putting away the food. 
 HATTIE. Lemme take care of him, then. 
 
 [There is a knock at the door. Hattie starts violently, runs 
 toward it, then stops to get her breath. 
 HATTIE (in a loud whisper). Did you hear anybody 
 come up ... did you, Mina ? We was talkin and maybe 
 didn t hear. . . . 
 MINA (also agitated). Open the door, quick. 
 
 [The knock is repeated and Hattie opens the door, so that Mina 
 does not at first see who it is. From Hattie s attitude Mina 
 knows it is not Tim. 
 
 VOICE (outside). Say, my wife Mina ... she bin here? 
 [Mina runs to the door and pulls in a big man with clean 
 skin and a shock of blond hair, his clothes those of a work 
 man. Hattie draws back. The couple stand looking joyfully 
 into each other s eyes, then Mina with a little cry throws her 
 arms about his neck. Hattie turns away, bends over the 
 basket, and seeing they do not notice her, picks up the baby. 
 The two whisper, and Heinrich s voice rises as he says 
 something in German. He kisses his wife below the ear, and 
 Mina smiles 
 
 MINA (remembering they are not alone). Say, Hattie, what do 
 you think ? He s bin and got a job in Brooklyn, driving 
 a wagon for a big grocer. He s took a room already in 
 Brooklyn, and he s got the wagon downstairs, right now 
 to take us over in. He wanted to surprise me. 
 HEINRICH. Where s the little one ? Ach, so, here he is. 
 
 [He takes the baby from Hattie clumsily. 
 MINA (delightedly). Ain t he got fat, Heinrich? 
 HEINRICH (beaming and laying the baby in the basket). Oh, 
 Mina, I brought some boxes that you can put your things 
 in. You don t have to carry them in the shawl. I better 
 go get them while you get ready. 
 [He goes out. 
 
436 HATTIE 
 
 MINA (excitedly). He thinks of every single thing. Ain t 
 he a fine man ? And so good. He says he got a job where 
 they let him drive horses. (She spreads her shawl and piles 
 a few things in) You see he lost his job before cause 
 they changed the horses to having autos ... he likes so 
 much better to drive horses ... he likes them. 
 [She sees Hattie is not listening. 
 
 HATTIE (in a high unnatural voice). You goin to take . 
 the baby . . . away? 
 
 MINA. What you say ? 
 
 HATTIE. You goin to take .... 
 [Pointing to the basket. 
 
 MINA (in amazement). Take my little Heinie? Why, what 
 you think I do ? 
 
 HATTIE. Couldn t you leave him . . . just a few days . . . 
 till I got used to bein alone ? 
 
 MINA. Leave him here ? How could I leave him here ? 
 
 HATTIE (desperately) You said . . . maybe you d do some 
 thing for me ... I ll be all alone, and . . . 
 
 MINA (after a pause, much concerned) . Yes, that s right . . . 
 I been so happy, I forgot all about that. 
 
 HATTIE. You got all the others, and your husband . . . 
 
 MINA (very doubtfully). But I m afraid . . . supposin he 
 gets sick, or ... 
 
 HATTIE. I ll let you know right away. I know how to take 
 good care of him. Oh, please, Mina. 
 
 MINA (uncertainly, not knowing how to refuse). Well, I d like 
 to do it for you, sure I would, Hattie, but I got to see what 
 Heinrich says. 
 
 HATTIE. He won t let me ... you beg him . . . can t you 
 make him ? 
 
 [She holds Minors arm in a frantic grip. Heinrich enters 
 with two large boxes. Hattie drops Mina s arm. 
 
 HEINRICH. Whew ! I run up all them steps. Here s your 
 trunks, Mina. 
 
 [Mina piles her belongings into the box, glances at her husband, 
 but says nothing. She looks around the room to see if she 
 
HATTIE 437 
 
 has left anything. Hattie hands her a saucepan. Heinrich 
 looks around, too, finds an empty baby s bottle and puts 
 that in. Hattie stares at it, looking from it to Mina. 
 Mina sees the tin bath tub, which she does not take. 
 HEINRICH (pleasantly unconscious of anything). Well, you 
 
 don t need so many trunks, eh ? 
 
 MINA (slowly). Heinrich, Hattie, she been awful good to me. 
 HEINRICH. Much obliged to you, Miss, I m sure. It was 
 fine for you and Mina to be company for one another. I d 
 like to pay you for half your room. How much do you 
 give for it ? (Hattie shakes her head and mumbles) Yes, 
 yes, go ahead, I can afford to pay you. 
 [He sets the empty box on end by the door. Hattie looks at 
 him appealingly. 
 MINA (not knowing how to begin). Heinrich, she don t want 
 
 the money, but . . . 
 
 HEINRICH. Well, if she won t have it ... much obliged, 
 Miss, I m sure. . . . Come on, Mina, you bring Heinie, and 
 I ll take this. 
 
 [He starts to take up the full box. 
 MINA (trying to gain time). Maybe can t we stay here a little 
 
 while longer ? 
 HEINRICH (straightening up). Stay here? It s getting late 
 
 and we got a long way to go. 
 
 MINA. Well, you see, Hattie, she s goin to be awful lone 
 some. Maybe we could leave . . . little Heinie . . . 
 with her. 
 HEINRICH. That s a good joke . . . leave little Heinie, eh ? 
 
 His father ain t seen him for some time. 
 MINA. No, but really, Hattie, she would like to keep him . 
 
 just a little while ; she can feed him fine now. 
 HEINRICH. You giving away your baby? You re crazy, 
 
 Mina? 
 
 MINA. Hattie, she goin to be awful lonesome. 
 HEINRICH. What s the matter with you, Mina ? You ain t 
 never complained about takin care of the children 
 before. 
 
438 HATTIE 
 
 How can she look out for him like his mother? (More 
 sternly) You and she been havin too easy a time, yes ? 
 
 MINA (reproachfully). Ach, Heinrich. 
 
 HEINRICH. Now come on, no more nonsense ! 
 
 MINA (more and more faintly) . But I promised her I would 
 do something for ... 
 
 HEINRICH (used to being obeyed and getting angry) . Sure you 
 can do something for her, but not give her your child, 
 Gott im Himmel ! 
 
 MINA (breathing fast). Not for one night ? 
 
 HEINRICH. Why don t she get an orphan, if she don t want 
 a family of her own ? (Mina tries to stop him, but he raises 
 his voice) There s too many unmarried women in this 
 country. All they want is an easy time ... no respon 
 sibility. 
 
 [Haltie has drawn further back in the room. Heinrich takes 
 the child summarily and the box under the other arm and 
 stalks out of the room. Mina, with alarm, goes toward 
 Hattie, who stares at her fixedly. Mina murmurs "Good 
 bye, Hattie, good bye, I ... I ll come and see you." 
 Hattie does not answer and Mina slips out. The baby cries, 
 Hattie listens and takes a few steps toward the door. She 
 turns and looks about the room, sees the green ribbon on 
 the floor, picks it up, and starts across the room, stumbles 
 over the bathtub, picks it up, stands holding it for a moment, 
 and then lets it fall with a clatter and throws herself across the 
 mattress. 
 
 CURTAIN 
 
DREGS 
 
 FRANCES PEMBERTON SPENCER 
 
 MRS. FRANCES PEMBERTON SPENCER is a resident of Los 
 Angeles, California, where she is at present turning out 
 eighteen and more synopses of scenarios a week, besides doing 
 a great amount of critic work and revising. In addition to 
 this, however, she has found time to write a few plays, all of 
 which have been successfully produced and one of which, 
 "Dregs", received a first prize from the Plays and Players of 
 Philadelphia. 
 
 Mrs. Spencer states that "Dregs" was not a sudden in 
 spiration, but on the contrary, was written in order to keep 
 her from being bored by life in a sanatorium where she was 
 trying to recuperate from a case of shattered nerves. The 
 play began as a collaboration, but the partnership dissolved 
 almost immediately when it was found that the two authors 
 disagreed entirely upon the kind of person who leads a 
 crook s life. Mrs. Spencer maintained that the fashionable, 
 charming person, who is so very often seen as a crook upon the 
 stage, is not true to life, for when he is so charming he is 
 not under the necessity of leading a crook s life, but may be 
 a president, a moving picture actor, or anything else he 
 pleases. With this theory, Mrs. Spencer began her own 
 creation of the plot. When it was presented by the Plays 
 and Players it was a great success, and won by a big majority 
 over the two other plays which were chosen for the contest. 
 
 Mrs. Spencer s other plays are : "In That Darkest Hour", 
 "Patriotism", and "The Eternal Triangle." 
 
DREGS 
 
 BY FRANCES PEMBERTON SPENCER 
 
"Dregs" was originally produced by the Plays and Players, 
 at the Little Theatre, Philadelphia, on May 8, 1916. 
 
 Original Cast 
 
 JIM Mr. Henry C. Sheppard 
 
 NANCE Mrs. Frances Pemberton Dade 
 
 THE BOY Miss Emma Fegley Mearns 
 
 THE DETECTIVE .... Mr. Vinton Freedley 
 
 POLICEMAN Mr. Howard F. Brinton 
 
 Director Mrs. C. Yarnall Abbott 
 
 All rights reserved. 
 
 Application for the right of performing " Dregs " must be made to Mrs. Frances 
 Pemberton Spencer, care of Little, Brown and Company, 34 Beacon Street, Boston, 
 Mass. 
 
DREGS 
 A MELODRAMA IN ONE ACT 
 
 TIME. The Present. 
 
 SCENE. A room distinctly sordid in appearance, the furnish 
 ings unhappily combining the kitchen, dining, parlor, and bed 
 room all in one. Up stage to the right, an unvarnished wooden 
 table with an oilcloth covering. Above this two shelves hold 
 some battered-looking dishes, one tin and one china cup. Door 
 at center back. Up stage to the left, a dilapidated folding bed, 
 down stage left, an old-fashioned stove built into the wall with 
 shelf above. A kitchen chair is facing it. A depressing rem 
 nant of upholstery and satin, falsely posing as an "easy -chair", 
 holds the center of the stage. To the right of this a musty look 
 ing lounge decorated with an equally musty looking pillow and 
 an untidy scattering of woman s clothes. 
 
 As the curtain rises Nance is discovered sitting hunched up 
 close to stove. That the coals are not "burning brightly" is 
 quite evident, since her hands are almost touching them and her 
 contracted position suggests anything but warmth. She looks 
 about the room vaguely until her eyes light on a cigarette box 
 that rests upon the center chair. She crosses stage and opens it 
 eagerly. It is empty. She throws it impatiently upon floor 
 and returns to former position at stove. Discovers a cigarette 
 stump under it ; lights it from matches on shelf, inhales a long 
 puff and sinks back into smoky meditation. 
 
 The door opens and Jim enters. He is breathing quickly and 
 rather heavily, partly from excitement, partly from the weight 
 of the child that he carries in his arms. 
 
 Nance goes forward with something of the adoration of a dog 
 /or its master showing in her eyes. 
 
444 DREGS 
 
 NANCE. Hello, Jim. (Then, seeing the child she stops} Why ! 
 
 What in Hell? A child ! 
 JIM (peremptorily). Lock the door. 
 
 [She obeys quickly. 
 NANCE. Where d ye get him ? What are ye goin to do 
 
 with him ? Why did you bring him here ? 
 JIM (moving toward couch). Move those things. 
 
 [She obeys and the clothes are dropped upon the floor. He lets 
 
 the child slide with rough carelessness from his arms to the 
 
 couch. 
 NANCE (suppressed exclamation of dismay). Yer cruel rough 
 
 handlin a kid. 
 JIM (laughing sardonically). He ain t likely to object at the 
 
 present time. 
 
 NANCE. Ye don t mean he ain t 
 JIM. Yep doped, that s what he is. 
 NANCE. Jim ! Jim ! hadn t I better try to rouse him ? He 
 
 looks fearful strange. Hadn t I better wake him ? Hadn t 
 
 I, Jim ? 
 
 [She leans over the boy. 
 JIM. And have him rouse the whole police force with his 
 
 yells ? Damn ye. He s all right. It s only one-sixteenth 
 
 grain of morphine. Here s the rest of it. (Takes small 
 
 box from pocket. Grimly) I m saving it ; if things don t 
 
 pan out right he ll need a bigger dose next time. 
 
 [Puts drug back in pocket, removes coat and throws it over 
 
 chair, center. 
 NANCE (with a little moan, covering her face with her hands). 
 
 Gawd, ye have kidnapped him then ? 
 JIM. Did ye think I was hired as his wet nurse? (Nance 
 
 moans again) Here, brace up. No hysterics. This is 
 
 going to be the biggest thing we ever pulled if ye 
 
 keep yer wits about ye. 
 
 NANCE (with an effort at control). Whose child is he ? 
 JIM. Did ye ever hear of Judge Freeman ? 
 NANCE (with wide, awe-stricken eyes). Freeman, the mil 
 lionaire ? 
 
DREGS 445 
 
 JIM (with emphasis). The multi-millionaire. 
 
 NANCE. Jim ! This ain t the kid Freeman has jest adopted, 
 that the papers is all talkin about and showin pictures of 
 and all that. 
 
 JIM. Yes, it s his legally adopted son all right. Of course 
 the free advertisin they give him does add to the danger, 
 but if we win we ll get at least twenty thousand each. 
 
 NANCE (in a low tone). And if we lose, at least twenty years 
 is comin to us both. 
 
 JIM. Oh, ye white-faced snivellin female ! Can t ye do 
 anything but croak ? 
 
 NANCE (swallowing the insult submissively). Are ye goin to 
 tell me how ye swiped him, Jim ? 
 
 JIM (eyeing her suspiciously). No, I ain t, nor how I m goin 
 to get rid of him again. Taxi Louis is in this game with me 
 and I guess we ll play our hands without yer help. Ye 
 can get out if ye want to ; there ain t no ties between us 
 that need hold ye here. 
 
 NANCE (wincing). Don t, Jim. I d rather ye beat me than 
 talk to me like that Is it my fault a minister ain t said 
 words above our heads ? Could a wife be f aithf uler ? 
 Love ye more ? Don t I obey ye absolute ? 
 
 JIM. Then what in Hell is wrong ? 
 
 NANCE. This deal is, Jim, so wrong it scares me. I 
 never balked before ye know that. I ve stole fer ye, 
 lied, done any crooked thing ye told me to. 
 
 JIM. Cut it. Ye was crooked when we met. I plucked ye 
 off the prison steps. 
 
 NANCE (eagerly). That s just it. That s what I m sayin . 
 I ve always been a bad un. We re just two seeds, Jim, 
 you and me, two seeds that was planted in the mud. 
 Gawd hisself must find excuse for us ; don t his own flowers 
 stretch up towards the sun? 
 
 JIM. Ah, what are ye drivin* at ? 
 
 NANCE. Don t ye see? Oh, don t ye understand? We 
 gotta live, and so we pick pockets, play any con games 
 that we can but kidnappin , stealin a helpless little 
 
446 DREGS 
 
 child and sellin him for gold that s different. Hor 
 rible ! It ll bring its punishment. 
 
 JIM. Rot, it don t hurt the kid if they take him back again. 
 
 NANCE. But suppose they don t take him back. Suppose 
 the Judge decides a kid out of a charity home ain t worth 
 payin twenty thousand for, what then ? 
 
 JIM. Do ye think me a fool? Do ye suppose I haven t 
 looked into all that? He ll pay $20,000, double that if 
 I choose to ask it ; he s dippy over the kid. Would he 
 made it heir to all his millions if he wasn t? What s 
 twenty or forty or eighty thousand dollars to a man like 
 him? He ll pay. He ll pay just what I choose to bleed 
 him for (savagely) or by God I ll 
 
 NANCE (down on her knees beside his chair) . No ! No ! Jim ! 
 Don t say it, don t swear no oath like that. Yer queer 
 hard-set when once ye ve said a thing. Don t yer see 
 what yer doin ? Boltin the jail door from the inside, 
 buildin your own scaffold. Look at all the kidnappin* 
 cases that ye know. How many gets away with it ? The 
 whole world s yer detective, even the crooks; yer own 
 kind ll despise you. 
 
 (He rises, throwing off her hands which clutch in frantic 
 entreaty. Crosses left) Take the child back. Just this 
 once do what I ask, do it, Jim. Ye can cook up a story 
 about findin him wanderin along the street. Ye gotta do 
 what I ask ye. Take him back. 
 [Her voice rises hysterically. 
 
 JIM (shaking her savagely and putting his hand across her mouth) . 
 Swallow that or I ll put ye both to sleep. 
 
 NANCE. Ye-es, I m tryin to. (She slips her arms about his 
 neck) No, don t shove me away. Don t ye want me close 
 like this ? 
 
 JIM. I don t want no coward woman. 
 
 NANCE. Do ye think I wouldn t go through Hell if ye could 
 face it with me ? It ain t the fear of prison, Jim, it s the 
 separatin . Twenty years they d send us up for, twenty 
 years apart! When we met again perhaps ye wouldn t 
 
DREGS 447 
 
 be so different ; yer a man, but I d be a bent, wrinkled, yel 
 low thing, jest a thing that ye d spit at fer darin to look 
 ye in the face. What s twenty or forty thousand, Jim, 
 against the strength of yer arms, the softness of me, the 
 bein young together ? Why, even when youVe beat me 
 the pain s a kind of hurtin joy. Twenty thousand. 
 Why, Jim, there s things that Mr. Rockefeller, with 
 all his millions, couldn t buy. 
 
 JIM (with an effort shaking off the influence of her appeal). It 
 ain t no use, Nance. 
 
 [He passes left, picking up his hat and starting towards the 
 door. 
 
 NANCE. Jim, where are ye goin ? 
 
 JIM. A woman always runs to fear and pity. I don t trust 
 ye. I m goin to phone Louis to bring his taxi here and 
 take the kid away. 
 
 NANCE. Jim, for Gawd s sake, there ain t nothing in this 
 world ye could ask of me, I wouldn t do for ye. Just this 
 one for Gawd s sake 
 
 JIM. Cut it. (Nance stares at him a moment, throws herself 
 face downward into chair on which his coat is lying. It is 
 an acknowledgment of defeat. She sobs, Jim opens door, but 
 closes it again. He stands looking down at her and then 
 sinks into chair at left. He covers his face with his hands, 
 remaining motionless until her sobs have quieted, then slowly, 
 and evidently with an effort, he speaks) I tell ye it ain t 
 no use, Nance. It s mebbe all true, what ye ve been sayin , 
 I dunno it makes no difference. If I m jailed for all 
 time, if I ve got to swing for it, I m goin to see this 
 through. If ye want to listen I ll try to make ye 
 understand. 
 
 I ll begin where ye spoke of us bein two seeds that was 
 planted in the mud. Life didn t start me that way. Oh, 
 I hadn t any fancy riches, but my people was respect- 
 able and I was straight enough, until I run to seed. I guess 
 it s an ordinary happenin go to any ten-cent movie and 
 ye ll see it on the screen. Young man falls in love, marries. 
 
448 DREGS 
 
 Love! I thought Gawd proved hisself by creatin her. 
 He comes home from work one night, finds a letter ; she s 
 gone off with another man. At the end of a few months 
 the man tires of her, taunts her with desertin of her child 
 and husband, she comes back home, dies. 
 I guess the movie actors has got more strength than I had. 
 The boy had heart trouble, a leakin valve the Doctor called 
 it. There was the Hell o death behind me, and it looked 
 as though the future was a-holdin it again. I paid a 
 woman half my wages to look after the boy, but he kept 
 gettin worse. I took to drinkin ; it seemed to ease some- 
 thin inside of me that burned. The boss warned me, but 
 I wouldn t stop ; then one day he fired me. There was a 
 row ; I beat him up. After that there wasn t no chance of 
 gettin other work. 
 
 If it hadn t been for the boy, I would have ended it all, 
 cashed in ; but the woman had gone when I couldn t pay 
 her. There was just him and me to face things it seemed 
 to bring us closer. I couldn t chuck him my little pal. 
 I quit drinkin , tried My God, how I did try to get work, 
 but luck all played against me I suppose I was a pretty 
 rough-lookin customer, all my clothes was hocked except 
 the suit I wore ; in the scrap with the foreman he d man 
 aged to plant his fist inside my eye it didn t want to heal. 
 There was a discouragin afternoon when I come in and the 
 boy didn t shout and run to meet me, but just lay a smilin 
 little heap upon the floor. That night I held up a man 
 successful. The swag lasted for a week. But I was too 
 green to know the ropes, and the third time that I crooked 
 they caught me in a pawnshop with the goods on. 
 I was "sent up" fer a year. I knew I deserved the medi 
 cine, so I didn t howl against the dose, but kept on "good 
 behavior" the whole term. 
 
 When they let me out o jail, I went straight to the charity 
 that had my boy in charge. I d learned my lesson, and I 
 meant to live straight and decent when I got my boy again. 
 I could hardly wait to hold him in my arms. I couldn t 
 
DREGS 449 
 
 understand when they wouldn t let me see him. (In 
 tensely bitter) I didn t know what charity meant then. 
 (With the resentment and despair of that morning in his voice) 
 They wouldn t even tell me where he was. All Hell let 
 loose in me. I dunno just what happened. Even now it s 
 all kind of dim and misty. I didn t realize nothin until 
 I found myself arrested and back in jail again. 
 I wouldn t have no lawyer when the case come up in court. 
 I thought if I stood up man to man and told the judge my 
 story he d understand. I told it bad, I guess. I was 
 still pretty young and the sobs kept chokin in my throat 
 and my hands was twistin around my cap to keep them 
 still. I told him why I d done the things I done and how 
 I meant to be different. I thought he did understand, I 
 thought so. He seemed to hesitate a minute, and then I 
 heard the sentence two more years for me, and the boy 
 give to charities for keeps. (He rises) That s all, except, 
 the man who sentenced me was Judge Freeman. (Bringing 
 his hand down on table) Damn him damn him to Hell. 
 [Exit. 
 
 NANCE (raises hand, stares vacantly in a state of dazed despair. 
 In a half whisper) . He don t know what he s doin . He s 
 crazy hatin so. They ll take him away from me. Oh, 
 Gawd ! Oh, Gawd ! Ain t love stronger n hate ? Ain t 
 there somethin I can do ? (Looks at child) Poor little kid. 
 If I could, I d steal ye away from him and take ye back 
 myself. (Drops head on back of chair, sobbing) Gawd ! 
 [Quick indrawn breath. Her face has pressed against the mor 
 phine inside Jim s coat. She draws it out, rises, goes to 
 door, locks it, takes down cups from shelf, gets whiskey bottle 
 back of folding bed. She is breathing quickly. Jim is heard 
 at the door. 
 
 JIM. Open the door ! D ye hear, open, I say. 
 
 NANCE. Comin right away, Jim. (She empties contents of 
 box into cup and pours out drinks. Jim shakes door angrily 
 and kicks it with feet while this is going on. She opens door) 
 Gee, yer in a hurry. 
 
450 DREGS 
 
 JIM (enters looks about suspiciously). What did ye do that 
 fer? 
 
 NANCE (whose manner is now transformed to affected gaiety). 
 Why, I I didn t want to chance some one walkin in on 
 me. (He still looks suspicious; she laughs up in his face) 
 Not with twenty thousand lyin there dozin on the couch. 
 
 JIM. All right I ve phoned to Louis. He ll be here 
 pretty soon to take the boy in charge. 
 
 NANCE (laughing excitedly, with a touch of hysteria) . I ve been 
 thinkin over what ye told me, and I ve changed my mind. 
 The drinks is on me, Jim. See, I ve already poured em 
 out. (He starts to help himself) No, ye take the cup, 
 it holds more liquor. To success, Jim ! And damn the 
 Judge. ( They drink) Gee, ye looks all in. Sit down here 
 by the fire while yer waitin for Louis and I ll stir up some 
 grub. 
 
 JIM. It s a good thing ye come to yer senses. I am pretty 
 nearly all in. 
 
 [Jim, after pouring himself another drink, flings himself in 
 to a chair. 
 
 NANCE (leaning over back of his chair). Close yer eyes and 
 rest. Ye needn t never be afraid to trust me, Jim; I 
 wouldn t never do nothin that wasn t fer yer good. 
 (Nance moves softly about the room, sets table, interrupting 
 the silence by low humming sounds; she glances frequently 
 at Jim, waiting for the drug to take effect. He begins to 
 drowse almost at once, rouses himself as though startled at 
 his own intense languor, and then falls into a heavy sleep. 
 Nance gets shawl from hook, goes to child and shakes it gently. 
 Child does not stir). 
 
 Wake up, kid, wake up. (Whispering) I m goin* to 
 take ye back to yer governesses and ribboned nusses, 
 to yer Jedges and satin canopies. Wake up ! Wake up ! 
 Ye lazy little lubber, ye don t expect me to carry ye 
 that distance ? Gawd, there ain t much time ! Wake up ! 
 [Glances uneasily at Jim, attempts to lift child. Something 
 about the limp form startles her. She puts hand upon his 
 
DREGS 451 
 
 face, draws back, her own face blanching, forces herself to 
 feel his heart. She utters a piercing scream; it reaches Jim s 
 drugged senses and he struggles to throw off the effect of the 
 drug. He rises, staggering, collects his blurred senses. 
 
 JIM. What is it ? What is the matter with my head ? I m 
 drunk. (Looks at Nance who is standing in frozen attitude, 
 staring at the child) No, I m not, drink never made me 
 feel like this. What is it? I feel as if I m drugged. 
 [He takes in the fact she is wearing outdoor clothes, and under 
 stands. Lunges at her in frenzied rage, his hands at her 
 throat in strangling hold. 
 
 JIM. Ye done this. Ye drugged me. You ve got your 
 street things on. Ye meant to steal the boy, ye she devil, 
 ye female stool pidgeon ye was going to double-cross me. 
 
 NANCE (choking inarticulate). Jim! Jim! the boy. 
 
 [Points with hand. He releases his hand so roughly that she 
 is thrown upon the floor. lie is about to turn and look at 
 the boy when there is a pounding on the door. Enter officer 
 and detective. 
 
 JIM (whipping out pistol from his pocket, insolent, defiant, 
 snarling like an animal at bay). All right, ye found me. 
 Now take me. 
 
 DETECTIVE (easily). Oh, I guess not this time, Jim. Just 
 give us the boy. The Judge has a sentimental prejudice 
 against arresting a father for stealing his own child. 
 [Jim s figure crumples as the truth dawns upon him. He 
 drops upon his knees beside the child, lifts the small body 
 that is now hanging head downward, draws it into his arms, 
 holding him close and hungrily, staring down into the white 
 face. Suddenly his face presses against the child s, he sobs 
 convulsive, racking sobs, that tell the audience the boy is dead. 
 Nance drags herself like some faithful dog across to him un 
 til her head rests upon his foot. 
 
 The curtain slowly falls. 
 
BIBLIOGRAPHIES 
 
 1. THE LITTLE THEATRE MOVEMENT 
 IN AMERICA 
 
 Burleigh, Louise. " The Community Theatre." Little, Brown & Company, 
 
 Boston, 1917. 
 
 Cheney, Sheldon. "The Art Theatre." Alfred A. Knopf, New York, 1917. 
 Dickinson, Thomas H. "The Insurgent Theatre." B. W. Huebsch, New 
 
 York, 1917. 
 Mackay, Constance D Arcy. "The Little Theatre in the United States." 
 
 Henry Holt & Co., New York, 1917. 
 
 ABROAD 
 
 Bakshy, Alexander. "The Path of the Modern Russian Stage." Palmer 
 
 & Hayward, London, 1916. 
 
 Boyd, E. A. "Contemporary Drama of Ireland." Little, Brown & Com 
 pany, Boston, 1917. 
 Carter, Huntley. "The Theatre of Max Reinhardt." F. & C. Palmer, 
 
 London, 1914. 
 Clark, Barrett H. "Four Plays of the Free Theatre" (Introduction). 
 
 Stewart & Kidd, Cincinnati, 1915. 
 Dickinson, Thomas H. "Contemporary Drama of England." Little, 
 
 Brown & Company, Boston, 1917. 
 
 Filon, Augustin. "De Dumas a Rostand." A. Colin, Paris, 1911. 
 Jullien, Jean. "Le Theatre Vivant." G. Charpentier & E. Fasquele, 
 
 Paris, 1892. 
 Long, R. E. C. "The People s Theatre in Russia." Nineteenth Century, 
 
 Vol. 52, p. 775. 
 Mackay, Constance D Arcy. "The Little Theatre in the United States" 
 
 (Introduction). Henry Holt & Co., New York, 1917. 
 Thalasso, A. "Le Theatre Libre." Mercure de France, Paris, 1909. 
 
 2. THE ONE-ACT PLAY 
 
 Corbin, John. "The One- Act Play." New York Time*, May, 1918, 
 
 IV, p. 8, col. 1. 
 
 Eaton, Walter P. "Washington Square Plays" (Introduction). Double- 
 day, Page & Co., Garden City, 1916. 
 
454 BIBLIOGRAPHIES 
 
 Gibbs, Clayton E. "The One- Act Play." Theatre, Vol. 23, 143, 156, 
 March, 1916. 
 
 Goodman, Edward. "Why the One- Act Play." Theatre, Vol. 25, 327, 
 June, 1917. 
 
 Hamilton, Clayton. "The One- Act Play in America." Bookman, April, 1913 : 
 "Studies in Stagecraft." Henry Holt & Co., New York, 1914. 
 
 Lewis, B. Roland. "The Technique of the One- Act Play." John W. Luce 
 & Co., Boston, 1918. 
 
 Loving, Pierre. Introduction to " Comedies of Words", by Arthur Schnitz- 
 ler. Stewart & Kidd, Cincinnati, 1917. 
 
 Middle ton, George. "The Neglected One- Act Play." Dramatic Mirror, 
 January 31, 1913, pp. 13-14, New York. 
 
 Moses, Montrose J. "The American Dramatist." Comment on the one- 
 act play. Little, Brown & Company, Boston, 1917. 
 
 Underbill, John Garrett. "The One- Act Play in Spain." Drama, Feb 
 ruary, 1917. 
 
 3. BIBLIOGRAPHIES OF ONE-ACT PLAYS 
 
 Actable One-Act Plays. Chicago Public Library, 1916. 
 
 Cheney, Sheldon. "The Art Theatre." (Appendix: Plays produced at 
 
 the Arts and Crafts Theatre, Detroit.) Alfred A. Knopf, New 
 
 York, 1917. 
 Clapp, John Mantel. "Plays for Amateurs." Drama League of America, 
 
 Chicago, 1915. 
 Clark, Barrett H. "How to Produce Amateur Plays." Little, Brown & 
 
 Company, 1917. 
 Dickinson, Thomas H. "The Insurgent Theatre." (Appendix: List of 
 
 plays produced by Little Theatres.) B. W. Huebsch, New York, 
 
 1917. 
 Drummond, A. M. "Fifty One- Act Plays." Quarterly Journal of Public 
 
 Speaking, Vol. 1, p. 234. 1915. 
 Drummond, A. M. " One- Act Plays for Schools and Colleges." Education, 
 
 Vol. 4, p. 372. 1918. 
 Mackay, Constance D Arcy. " The Little Theatre in the United States." 
 
 (Appendix: List of plays produced by Little Theatres.) Henry 
 
 Holt & Co., New York, 1917. 
 Riley, Alice C. D. "The One- Act Play Study Course." Drama League 
 
 Monthly, February-April, 1918, Washington, D.C. 
 Selective List of Christmas Plays. Drama League Calendar, November 15, 
 
 1918. New York. 
 Selected List of Patriotic Plays and Pageants Suitable for Amateurs. Drama 
 
 League Calendar, October 1, 1918. New York. 
 Selective List of Plays for Amateurs. Drama League, Boston, 1915. 
 
BIBLIOGRAPHIES 
 
 455 
 
 4. SELECTIVE LIST OF AVAILABLE ONE-ACT 
 PLAYS BY AMERICAN AUTHORS 
 
 Akins, Zoe. 
 
 Aldis, Mary. 
 
 (In 
 Andrews, Kenneth. 
 
 Bates, W. O. 
 
 Beach, Lewis. 
 
 Belasco, David. 
 
 Block, Bertram 
 
 Bodenheim, 
 
 Bottomley, Gordon. 
 
 Boyce, Neith. 
 
 Titles designated by f are collections. 
 
 "Did It Really Happen?" Sophisticated drama. Smart 
 
 Set, Vol. 52, 343. New York, 1917. 
 "The Magical City." Drama in free verse. Forum, Vol. 
 
 55, 507. New York, May, 1916. 
 "Such a Charming Young Man." Sophisticated comedy. 
 
 Smart Set, Vol. 48, 67. New York, 1916. 
 "Mrs. Pat and the Law" (included in this volume). 
 "The Drama Class of Tankaha, Nevada." Satirical comedy. 
 " Extreme Unction." Serious play on spiritism. 
 "The Letter." Play of ideas in which real and false love 
 
 are demonstrated. 
 
 "Temperament." Humorous play on the subject of ar 
 tistic temperaments. 
 
 Plays for Small Stages." f Duffield, New York, 1915.) 
 "America Passes By." Humorous sketch. Walter 
 Baker & Co., Boston, 1918; (In "Plays of the Har 
 vard Dramatic Club." t Brentano, New York, 1918.) 
 Polly of Pogue s Run." Play of Civil War times in Indiana. 
 
 Frank Shay, New York, 1917. 
 
 "The Clod." Character drama. (In "Washington Square 
 Plays." f Doubleday, Page & Co., Garden City, 
 1916.) 
 
 Madame Butterfly." Drama in the life of a Japanese. 
 (In "Representative American Plays", f edited by 
 A. H. Quinn, p. 649. The Century Co., New York, 
 1917.) 
 The Maiden Over the Wall." Fantasy. Drama, Vol. 
 
 8, 436. Chicago, 1918. 
 
 Maxwell. " The Master Poisoner " (in collaboration with Ben 
 Hecht). A poetic play in which the woman is the 
 master poisoner. 
 
 " Poet s Heart." An idyll of the poet s heart. 
 (In " Minna and Myself," f Pagan Publishing Co., 
 New York, 1918.) 
 
 "Laodice and Danae"." A poetic play, laid in 
 Smyrna, 246 B.C. Four Seas Publishing Co;, Boston, 
 1916. 
 
 The Two Sons." Drama. Frank Shay, New York, 1916. 
 A Winter s Night." Drama. Trend, Vol. 7, 524-^30. 
 New York, 1914. 
 
456 BIBLIOGRAPHIES 
 
 Briggs, Caroline. "One a Day." Comedy. (In " Morningside Plays." f 
 
 Frank Shay, New York, 1917.) 
 Brock, Howard. "The Bank Account." Serious play of money and 
 
 marriage. 
 (In " Plays of the Harvard Dramatic Club." f Brentano, 
 
 New York, 1918.) 
 Brown, Alice. "Dr. Auntie." Serious. 
 
 "Joint Owners in Spain." Comedy. 
 
 "The Loving Cup." Play of mingled pathos and humor. 
 
 "Melia s Tramp." Play of mingled pathos and humor. 
 
 "Milly Dear." Serious. 
 
 "The Web." Serious. Norman Lee Swartout, Summit, 
 
 N. J. 
 Browne, Maurice. "King of the Jews." Passion play. Drama, Vol. 6, 
 
 496. Chicago, 1916. 
 
 Bryant, Louise. "The Game." Morality. Frank Shay, New York, 1916. 
 Bynner, Witter. "The Little King." Story of the French Revolution. 
 Forum, Vol. 51, 605. New York, April, 1914; Mit 
 chell Kennerley, New York, 1914. 
 "Tiger." Drama of the underworld. Forum, Vol. 49, 
 
 522. New York, May, 1913. 
 Cowan, Sada. "In the Morgue." Sordid drama. Forum, Vol. 55, 339. 
 
 New York, April, 1916. 
 
 "Sintram of Skagerrak" (included in this volume). 
 "The State Forbids." Serious presentation of the theme of 
 birth control. Mitchell Kennerley, New York, 1915. 
 Cronyn, George W. "The Smdbar Queen." Crass melodrama. E. 
 
 Arens, New York, 1918. 
 Dargan, 0. T. "Woods of Ida." Masque of forty years before the Fall of 
 
 Troy. Century, Vol. 74, 590-604, August, 1907. 
 Davies, Mary Caroline. "The Slave with Two Faces." Morality. E. 
 
 Arens, New York, 1918. 
 Davis, R. H., and Sheehan, P. P. "Efficiency." Drama of the War. 
 
 George H. Doran, New York, 1917. 
 
 Dell, Floyd. "The Angel Intrudes." In which a man is saved by his 
 guardian angel from running away with a flirt. E. 
 Arens, New York, 1918. 
 "King Arthur s Socks." Sophisticated farce. Frank Shay, 
 
 New York, 1916. 
 "A Long Time Ago." Fantasy. Forum, Vol. 51, 261. 
 
 New York, February, 1914. 
 
 Dickinson, Thomas H. "In Hospital." Serious study. (In "Wisconsin 
 Plays," f Vol. I. B. W. Huebsch, New York, 1914.) 
 Dix, Beulah. "Allison s Lad" (included in this volume). 
 
BIBLIOGRAPHIES 457 
 
 "The Hundredth Trick." Drama at the time of the reign 
 of Elizabeth. 
 
 "The Weakest Link." Laid in Brittany during the Hun 
 dred Years War. 
 
 " The Snare and the Fowler." Drama during the early days 
 of the French Republic. 
 
 "The Dark of the Dawn." Drama of the Thirty Years 
 War. 
 
 (In "Allison s Lad and Other Martial Interludes." f Henry 
 Holt & Co., New York, 1910.) 
 
 "Clemency." Serious play on the theme of war. 
 "The Enemy." Serious play of war. 
 
 "The Glorious Game." Serious play of war. American 
 School Peace League, Boston, 1916. 
 
 "A Legend of St. Nicholas." Poetic drama for children. 
 
 Poet Lore, Vol. 25, 473. Boston, 1914. 
 
 Dreiser, Theodore. "The Dream." Play of the natural and supernatural. 
 Seven Arts, Vol. 2, 319. New York, 1917. 
 
 "The Girl in the Coffin." Naturalistic play of ideas. 
 "The Blue Sphere." Play of ideas upon the natural and 
 
 the supernatural. 
 "Laughing Gas." Play of ideas upon the natural and the 
 
 supernatural. 
 "In the Dark." Play of ideas upon the natural and the 
 
 supernatural. 
 "The Spring Recital." Supernatural play on the power 
 
 of music. 
 "The Light in the Window." Thoughtful presentation of 
 
 the action which passes before a house in the 
 
 city. 
 
 "Old Rag-Picker. " Serious play. 
 (In "Plays of the Natural and Supernatural." f John Lane 
 
 Co., New York, 1916.) 
 Field, Rachel L. "Rise up, Jennie Smith." Liberty Loan propaganda. 
 
 Samuel French, New York, 1918. 
 "Three Pills in a Bottle." Moral fantasy in which real 
 
 souls appear. (In "47 Workshop Plays. "f Bren- 
 
 tano, New York, 1918.) 
 Fillmore, J. E. "War." Melodrama. Poet Lore, Vol. 25. 523. Boston, 
 
 1914. 
 
 Flexner, Hortense. "Voices" (included in this volume). 
 "47 Workshop, Plays of the" f : 
 
 Field, Rachel L. " Three Pills in a Bottle. " 
 
458 BIBLIOGRAPHIES 
 
 Osborne, Hubert. "The Good Men Do." 
 Pillot, Eugene. "Two Crooks and a Lady." 
 Prosser, William L. "Free Speech." (See Authors for 
 descriptions of plays.) Brentano, New York, 1918. 
 Frank, Florence Kiper. "Jael." Poetic drama of the Jewish life. Chicago 
 
 Little Theatre, 1914. 
 Freybe, C. E. "In Garrison." Drama of garrison life at Christmas time. 
 
 Poet Lore, Vol. 26, 499. Boston, 1815. 
 
 Froome, John Redhead, Jr. "Listening." Play built about a tense situ 
 ation. Poet Lore, Vol. 28, 422. Boston, 1917. 
 
 Galbraith, Esther. "The Brink of Silence" (included in this volume). 
 Gale, Zona. "Neighbors." Comedy of rural life. (In "Wisconsin 
 Plays, " f Vol. 1. B. W. Huebsch, New York, 1914.) 
 Garland, Robert. "At Night All Cats Are Gray." Melodrama. Smart 
 
 Set, Vol. 48, 247. New York, 1916. 
 " Double Miracle." Mystical drama of love and religion 
 in Sicily. Forum, Vol. 53, 511. New York, April, 
 1915. 
 Gerstenberg, Alice. "Beyond" (included in this volume). 
 
 "Overtones." Unusual play involving the actors and 
 their subconscious selves. (In "Washington Square 
 Plays." f Doubleday, Page & Co., Garden City, 
 1916.) 
 
 Gilman, Thornton. "We Live Again." Serious play about religion. 
 (In "Wisconsin Plays ",f Vol. 2, B. W. Huebsch, 
 1918.) 
 Glaspell, Susan. "Close the Book." Farce. 
 
 "The People." In which "the banner of the ideal" is 
 flown in a magazine office. Frank Shay, New York, 
 1918. 
 "Trifles." Drams, inherent in trifles. Frank Shay, New 
 
 York, 1916. 
 Glaspell, Susan, and Cook, George Cram. "Suppressed Desires " (included 
 
 in this volume). 
 
 Goodman, Edward. "EugenicaHy Speaking." Farce. (In " Washington 
 Square Plays." f Doubleday, Page & Co., Garden 
 City, 1916.) 
 Goodman, Kenneth Sawyer. "Dust of the Road." Serious play with 
 
 religious theme. 
 
 "The Game of Chess." Serious play set in Russia. 
 "Barbara." Satirical farce. 
 "Ephraim and the Winged Bear." Fantasy. 
 "Back of the Yards." Serious play of Chicago. 
 * " Dancing Dolls." Dolls in their off-stage moments. 
 
BIBLIOGRAPHIES 459 
 
 "A Man Can Only Do His Best." Farce. 
 (In "Quick Curtains." f Sta g e Guild, Chicago, 1915.) 
 Goodman, Kenneth Sawyer, and Ben Hecht. "The Hero of Santa Maria." 
 Farce of a country town. Stage Guild, Chicago, 1916. 
 
 Goodman, Kenneth Sawyer, and Thomas Wood Stevens. "Holbein in 
 Blackfriars." Comedy of the sixteenth century in 
 England. Stage Guild, Chicago, 1913. 
 Gould, Felix. " The Marsh Maiden," " The Stranger," " In the Marshes." 
 
 Plays of mood and symbol. 
 (In " The Marsh Maiden and Other Plays," f Four Seas 
 
 Publishing Co., Boston, 1918.) 
 
 Halman, Doris. "Will o the Wisp " (included in this volume). 
 "Harvard Dramatic Club, Plays of the " : f 
 
 Hawkridge, Winifred. " The Florist Shop. " 
 Brock, Howard. "The Bank Account." 
 Smith, Rita C. "The Rescue." 
 
 Andrews, Kenneth. "America Passes By." (See Authors 
 for descriptions of plays.) Brentano, New York, 
 1918. 
 
 Hawkridge, Winifred. "The Florist Shop." Humorous play of life as 
 seen in a florist shop. (In "Plays of the Harvard 
 Dramatic Club." f Brentano, New York, 1918.) 
 
 Hecht, Ben, and Kenneth Sawyer Goodman. "The Wonder Hat" (in 
 cluded in this volume). 
 
 Helburn, Theresa. "Enter the Hero." Farce, but embodying a psycho 
 logical truth. E. Arens, New York, 1918. 
 
 Hoffman, Phoebe. "Martha s Mourning" (included in this volume). 
 Ilsley, S. Marshall. "The Feast of the Holy Innocents." Comedy of 
 rural life. (In "Wisconsin Plays ", f Vol. 2. B. W. 
 Huebsch, New York, 1918.) 
 Jex, John. " Violet Souls." A satire upon the affinity theme. 
 
 " The Nest." A serious play in which the Doctor censures 
 
 the husband s immorality. 
 
 " Mr. Willoughly Calls." A serious play in which opportu 
 nity to marry the man she loves does not come to the 
 woman a second time. 
 
 "The Unnecessary Atom." A tragedy in which a man s 
 hopes, ambitions, and achievements collapse with the 
 disintegration of his home life. 
 
 (In " Passion Playlets ", f Cornhill Company, Detroit, 1918.) 
 
 Jones, Howard Mumford. "The Shadow." Arabesque. (In "Wisconsin 
 
 Plays", f Vol. 2. B. W. Huebsch, New York, 1918.) 
 
 Kallen, Horace M. " Book of Job." Tragedy of the Book of Job. Moffatt. 
 Yard & Co., New York, 1918. 
 
460 BIBLIOGRAPHIES 
 
 Kemp, Harry. "The Prodigal Son." Comedy of the prodigal son. Smart 
 
 Set, Vol. 52, 83. New York, 1917. 
 Kennedy, Charles Rann. "The Terrible Meek." Religious drama. 
 
 Harper & Bros., New York, 1912. 
 "The Necessary Evil." Sentimental melodrama. 
 
 Harper & Bros., New York, 1913. 
 King, Pendleton. "Cocaine." Sordid melodrama. Frank Shay, New 
 
 York, 1918. 
 
 Kinkead, Cleves. "The Fourflushers." Farce of New York life. Nor 
 man Lee Swartout, Summit, N. J., 1918. 
 
 Kreymborg, Alfred. "When the Willow Nods." Dance-play. 
 "Jack s House." Cubic-play. 
 "Lima Beans " (included in this volume). 
 "Blue and Green." Shadow-play. 
 * "Manikin and Minikin." Bisque-play. 
 
 "People Who Die." Dream-play. 
 (In "Plays for Poem Mimes." f The Other Press, New 
 
 York, 1918.) 
 Langner, Lawrence. "Another Way Out." Sophisticated farce. Frank 
 
 Shay, New York, 1916. 
 "Wedded." Serious study. Little Review, Vol. 1, 
 
 No. 8, p. 8. Chicago, 1914. 
 
 "The Broken Image." Wherein the image of Christ is 
 broken by Von Ludendorf . Egmont Arens, New 
 York, 1918. 
 
 Leland, Robert DeCamp. "Purple Youth." Satire in which two artist- 
 lovers trap the "Puritan." Four Seas Co., Boston, 
 1918. 
 
 Leonard, William Ellery. "Glory of the Morning." Play of Indian life. 
 (In "Wisconsin Plays," f Vol. 1. B. W. Huebsch, 
 New York, 1914.) 
 Levinger, Elmer. "The Burden." Serious play of Jewish life. Walter 
 
 Baker & Co., Boston, 1918. 
 
 Macdonald, Zillah. "Light Along the Rails." Drama of the New York 
 
 subway. Touchstone, Vol. 3, 229. New York, 1918. 
 
 "Markheim." Dramatization. (In "Morningside 
 
 Plays." f Frank Shay, New York, 1917.) 
 
 Mackay, Constance D Arcy. "Festival of Pomona." Story of the Greek 
 myth of Pomona and Vertumnus. Drama, Vol. 5, 
 161. Chicago, 1915. 
 
 "The Gift of Time." Masque for the New Year. 
 "A Masque of Conservation." Of forests and of rivers. 
 "The Masque of Pomona." Masque for spring or autumn. 
 "The Sun Goddess." Masque of Old Japan. 
 
BIBLIOGRAPHIES 461 
 
 (In "The Forest Princess and Other Masques." f Henry 
 Holt & Co., New York, 1916.) 
 
 "The Beau of Bath"; "The Silver Lining"; "Ashes of 
 
 Roses " ; " Gretna Green " ; " Counsel Retained " ; 
 
 "The Prince of Court Painters." One-act plays of 
 
 18th-century life. 
 (In "The Beau of Bath and Other One- Act Plays." f 
 
 Henry Holt & Co., New York, 1915.) 
 
 " The Pioneers " ; " The Fountain of Youth " ; " May Day " ; 
 "The Vanishing Race"; "The Passing of Hiawatha"; 
 "Dame Greel o Portland Town." Historical pageant 
 plays. (In "Plays of the Pioneers."! Harper & 
 Bros., New York, 1915.) 
 MacKaye, Percy. "Chuck." Orchard fantasy. 
 
 "Gettysburg." Woodshed commentary. 
 
 "The Antick." Wayside sketch. 
 
 "The Cat-Boat." Fantasy for music. 
 
 "Sam Average" (included in this volume). 
 
 (In "Yankee Fantasies."! Duffield & Co., New York, 
 
 1912.) 
 Mapes, Victor. "Flower of Yeddo." Noh of old Japan. Samuel French, 
 
 New York, 1906. 
 Marks, Jeannette A. "The Merry, Merry Cuckoo" (included in this 
 
 volume) . 
 
 "The Deacon s Hat." Play of peasant religion in Wales. 
 "Welsh Honeymoon." Play of Welsh superstition on 
 
 Allhallows Eve. 
 (In "Three Welsh Plays." f Little, Brown & Company, 
 
 Boston, 1917.) 
 
 Matthews, Elva DePue. "Hattie " (included in this volume). 
 McFadden, Elizabeth. "Why the Chimes Rang." Poetic story of Christ 
 mas and the Christ Child. Samuel French, New 
 York, 1915. 
 Middleton, George. "Back of the Ballot." Woman suffrage farce 
 
 Samuel French, New York, 1915. 
 "Criminals." Play about marriage. B. W. Huebsch, 
 New York, 1915. 
 
 " Embers " ; " The Failures " ; " The Gargoyle " ; " In His 
 House"; "Madonna"; "The Man Masterful." 
 Serious plays of contemporary life. 
 
 (In "Embers and Other One- Act Plays." f Henry 
 Holt & Co., New York, 1911.) 
 
462 BIBLIOGRAPHIES 
 
 "The Groove"; "The Unborn"; "Circles"; "A Good 
 Woman" (included in this volume); "The 
 Black Tie." Serious plays of contemporary life. 
 
 (In "Possession and Other One- Act Plays." f Henry 
 Holt & Co., New York, 1915.) 
 
 "The Reason." Serious play. Smart Set, Vol. 53, 89. 
 New York, 1917. 
 
 " Tradition " ; " On Bail " ; " Their Wife " ; " Waiting " ; 
 "The Cheat of Pity " ; " Mothers." Serious plays 
 of contemporary life. 
 (In "Tradition and Other One- Act Plays." f Henry 
 
 Holt & Co., New York, 1913.) 
 
 Moeller, Philip. "Helena s Husband"; "A Roadhouse in Arden"; 
 "Sisters of Susannah"; "The Little Supper"; 
 "Pokey." Burlesques. 
 
 (In "Five Somewhat Historical Plays." f Alfred A. 
 Knopf, New York, 1918.) 
 
 "Two Blind Beggars and One Less Blind." Symbolic 
 
 play. E. Arens, New York, 1918. 
 " Morningside Plays " f : 
 
 DePue, Elva. "Hattie." 
 Briggs, C. "One a Day." 
 Macdonald, Zellah. "Markheim." 
 
 Reizenstein, Elmer L. "The Home of the Free." (See 
 Authors for descriptions of plays.) Frank Shay, 
 New York, 1917. 
 Mosher, John Chapin. "Sauce for the Emperor." Burlesque. Frank 
 
 Shay, New York, 1916. 
 O Neill, Eugene G. "Before Breakfast." Tragedy. Frank Shay, New 
 
 York, 1916. 
 "Bound East for Cardiff." Tale of the sea. Frank 
 
 Shay, New York, 1916. 
 "In the Zone " (included in this volume). 
 " The Long Voyage Home." Serious play of seamen on 
 land. Smart Set, Vol. 53, 83. New York, 1917. 
 "The Moon of the Caribbees." Seamen in the fore 
 castle. Smart Set, Vol. 55, 73. New York, 1918. 
 
 "Thirst." Impressionistic drama on the theme of 
 
 thirst. 
 
 "The Web." Melodramatic episode of sordid life. 
 "Warnings." Dramatic episodes of the sea. 
 "Fog." Symbolic play of a life-boat in the open sea. 
 "Recklessness." A drama of love and marriage. (In 
 
BIBLIOGR APHIES 463 
 
 "Thirst and Other One- Act Plays." f Gor- 
 ham Press, Boston, 1914.) 
 Oppenheim, James. "Night." Thoughtful, poetic play in free verse. 
 
 E. Arens, New York, 1918. 
 "Prelude." (To Creation.) Mystical and pictorial 
 
 play in verse. Seven Arts, Vol. 1, 240, 1917. 
 
 Osborne, Hubert. "The Good Men Do." In which Shakespeare s plays 
 are interred with his bones. (In "47 Workshop 
 Plays." f Brentano, New York, 1918.) 
 
 O Shea, Monica Barrie. "The Rushlight." Drama laid in Ireland during 
 the Rebellion. Drama, Vol. 7, 602. Chicago, 1917. 
 
 Peabody, Josephine Preston. "Fortune and Men s Eyes." A tale of 
 Shakespeare. Samuel French, New York, 1917. 
 "The Wings." Poetic drama of Northumberland in 700 
 A.D. Harper, Vol. 110, 947. New York, 1905; 
 Poet Lore, Vol. 25, 352. Boston, 1914. 
 Pillot, Eugene. "Hunger " (included in this volume). 
 
 "Two Crooks and a Lady." Unusual presentation of 
 crook melodrama. (In "47 Workshop Plays." f 
 Brentano, New York, 1918.) 
 
 Prosser, William L. "Free Speech." Farce on law and order in Russia. 
 (In "47 Workshop Plays." f Brentano, New York, 
 
 1918.) 
 Provincetown Plays, Series 1 f : 
 
 O Neill, Eugene G. "Bound East for Cardiff." 
 Bryant, Louise. "The Game." 
 Dell, Floyd. " King Arthur s Socks." 
 
 Series 2. Glaspell, Susan, and George Cram Cook. " Sup 
 pressed Desires." 
 Series 3. 
 
 Boyce, Neith. "The Two Sons." 
 Kreymborg, Alfred. "Lima Beans." 
 O Neill, Eugene G. "Before Breakfast." 
 (See Authors for descriptions of plays.) Frank Shay, New 
 
 York. 
 
 Reizenstein, Elmer L. "The Home of the Free." Sophisticated comedy. 
 (In "Morningside Plays." f Frank Shay, New 
 York, 1917.) 
 
 Rice, Cale Young. "Giorgione." Drama of love in Italy. 
 "Arduin." Drama of love in Egypt. 
 "O-Ume s Gods." Love drama of Japan. 
 "The Immortal Lure." Love drama in India. 
 (In "The Immortal Lure and Other Poetic Dramas." f 
 Doubleday, Page & Co., Garden City, 1911.) 
 
464 BIBLIOGRAPHIES 
 
 " A Night in Avignon." Poetic drama of love and mar 
 riage. 
 (In "Collected Plays and Poems." f Doubleday, Page 
 
 & Co., Garden City, 1915.) 
 
 Rice, Wallace, and Thomas Wood Stevens. "Chaplet of Pan." Masque 
 of a May Day in the 15th century. Stage Guild, 
 Chicago, 1912. 
 Rogers, Robert Emrnons. "Behind a W T atteau Picture." Fantasy. 
 
 Norman Lee Swartout, Summit, N. J. 
 Sherry, Laura. "On the Pier." Serious play. (In "Wisconsin Plays ",f 
 
 Vol. 2. B. W. Huebsch, New York, 1918.) 
 
 Smith, Rita C. "The Rescue." Serious play in which mind rules matter. 
 (In "Plays of the Harvard Dramatic Club." f Bren- 
 tano, New York, 1918.) 
 
 Spencer, Frances Pemberton. "Dregs " (included in this volume). 
 Stevens, Thomas Wood, and Kenneth Sawyer Goodman. "The Daimio s 
 
 Head." Masque of old Japan. 
 "The Masque of Montezuma." 
 "Caesar s Gods." Byzantine masque. 
 "Rainald and the Red Wolf." Mediaeval masque of the 
 
 Shrovetide miracle. 
 "The Masque of Quetzal s Bowl." 
 (In " Masques of East and West." f Vaughan and Gomme, 
 
 New York,, 1914.) 
 Stevens, Thomas Wood, and Kenneth Sawyer Goodman. "Ryland " 
 
 (included in this volume). 
 Stratton, Clarence. "The Coda." 1 Serious play. Drama, Vol. 8, 215. 
 
 Chicago, 1918. 
 
 Tarkington, Booth. " Beauty and the Jacobin." Interlude of the French 
 Revolution. Harper, Vol. 125, 390. New York, 
 1912; Harper & Bros., New York, 1912. 
 
 Torrence, Ridgely, "The Rider of Dreams." Poetic drama of negro life. 
 " Granny Maumee." Poetic tragedy of negro life. 
 "Simon the Cyrenian." Biblical play. 
 (In "The Rider of Dreams, and Other One- Act Plays." f 
 
 Macmillan, New York, 1917.) 
 
 Walker, Stuart. "The Trimplet"; "Nevertheless"; "The Medicine 
 Show"; "Six Who Pass While the Lentils Boil" 
 (included in this volume). Fantasies. 
 (In "Portmanteau Plays." f Stewart & Kidd, Cincinnati, 
 
 1917.) 
 "Washington Square Plays" f: 
 
 Beach, Lewis. "The Clod." 
 
 Goodman, Edward. "Eugenically Speaking." 
 
BIBLIOGRAPHIES 465 
 
 Gerstenberg, Alice. "Overtones." 
 
 Moeller, Philip. "Helena s Husband." (See Authors for 
 descriptions of plays.) Doubleday, Page & Co., 
 Garden City, 1918. 
 Wellman, Rita. "Funiculi Funicula " (included in this volume). 
 
 "The Lady with the Mirror." Allegory. Drama, Vol. 8, 
 
 299. Chicago, 1918. 
 Wentworth, Marion Craig. "War Brides." Play of the War. The 
 
 Century Co., New York, 1915. 
 Wilde, Percival. "Confessional." Serious play. 
 
 "The Villain in the Piece." Dramatic situation 
 "According to Darwin." Naturalistic play of sordid life. 
 "A Question of Morality " (included in this volume). 
 "The Beautiful Story." Thoughtful play. 
 (In "Confessional and Other American Plays." f Henry 
 Holt & Co., New York, 1916.) 
 
 "Dawn." Drama of the dawn after death. 
 "The Noble Lord." Artificial comedy. 
 "The Traitors." Surprise drama. 
 "A House of Cards." Surprise play. 
 "Playing with Fire." Comedy. 
 "The Finger of God." Serious. 
 
 (In "Dawn and Other One-Act Plays." f Henry Holt & 
 Co., New York, 1915.) 
 
 "Mothers of Men"; "Pawns"; "In the Ravine"; "Val 
 kyrie." Plays giving different viewpoints on the 
 War. 
 
 (In "The Unseen Host, and Other War Plays." f Little, 
 
 Brown & Company, Boston, 1917.) 
 "Wisconsin Plays." f Series 1 : 
 
 Gale, Zona. " Neighbors. " 
 
 Dickinson, Thomas H. "In Hospital." 
 
 Leonard, W. E. "Glory of the Morning." (See Authors 
 for descriptions of plays.) B. W. Huebsch, New 
 York, 1914. 
 
 Series 2 : 
 
 Ilsley, Marshall. "The Feast of the Holy Innocents." 
 
 Sherry, Laura. "On the Pier." 
 
 Jones, Howard Mumford. "The Shadow." 
 
 Gilman, Thornton. "We Live Again." (See Authors for 
 descriptions of plays.) B. W. Huebsch, New York, 
 1918. 
 Wolff, Oscar M. "Where But in America " (included in this volume). 
 

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