FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS FRANK SHAY AND PIERRE LOVING DIEGO j\ w . MADONNA DIANORA II Caressed and stroked the dog, and had to laugh [She laughs immoderately and shrilly in a way that threatens to be a scream, or to break into tears at any moment.] BRACCTO [seems to listen]. DIANORA [also listens. Her face ex- presses horrible tension. Soon she can- not bear it, begins to speak again almost deliriously]. Why whosoever saw me walk would know! Walked I not differently? Did not I ride Ecstatically? I could look at you And at your brother and this gloomy house And feel as light as air, floating in space. The myriad trees seemed all to come to me Filled with the sunlight dancing toward me, All paths were open in the azure air Those sunlit paths were all the roads to him. To start with fright was sweet he might appear From any corner, any bush or tree [Her language becomes incoherent from terror, because she sees that Braccio has drawn the curtains be- hind him close. Her eyes are un- naturally wide open her lips drawn more constantly.] BRACCIO [in a tone that the actor must find for himself, not loud, not low, not strong, nor yet weak, but penetrating]. If I, your husband, had not at this hour Come to your chamber to fetch me a salve, An ointment for my wounded hand What would What had you done, intended, meant to do? DIANORA [looks at him, as though dis- traught, does not understand his latest question. Her right hand presses her forehead with the left she shakes the ladder before his face, lets it fall at his feet, one end remains tied, shrieks]. What had I done? What had I done, you ask? Why, waited thus I would have waited so! [She sways her open arms before him like one intoxicated, throws herself around, with the upper part of her body over the balus- trade, stretches her arms towards the ground her hair falls over them.] BRACCIO [with a hurried gesture tears off a piece of his sleeve and winds it around his right hand. With the sure- ness of a wild animal on the hunt, he grasps the ladder that w lying there, like a thin, dark rope, with both hands, makes a loop, throws it over his wife's head and pulls her body towards him.] [During this time the curtain falls.] LITERATURE A COMEDY BY ARTHUR SCHNITZI/ER TRANSLATED BY PIEREE LOVING. Copyright, 1917, by Stewart & Kidd Company. All rights reserved. PERSONS MARGARET. CLEMENT. GILBERT. LITERATURE is reprinted from " Comedies of Words " by Arthur' Schnitzler, by permission of Messrs. Stewart & Kidd Company, Cincinnati, Ohio. LITERATURE A COMEDY [SCENE: Moderately well, but quite inexpensively furnished apartments occu- pied by Margaret. A small fireplace, a table, a small escritoire, a settee, a ward- robe cabinet, two icindows in the back, entrances left and right. As the curtain rises, Clement, dressed in a modish, tarnished-gray sack suit, is discovered reclining in a fauteuil near the fireplace. He is smoking a cigarette and perusing a newspaper. Margaret is standing at the window. She walks back and forth, finally goes up directly behind Clement, and playfully musses- his hair. Evidently she has something troublesome on her mind.] CLEM, [reading, seizes her hand and kisses it]. Horner's certain about his pick and doubly certain about mine; Waterloo five to one; Barometer twenty- one to one; Busserl seven to one; Attila sixteen to one. MARG. Sixteen to one! CLEM. Lord Byron one and one-half to one that's us, my dear. MARG. I know. CLEM. Besides, it's sixteen weeks yet to the Handicap. MARG. Evidently he looks upon it as a clean " runaway." CLEM. Not quite but where did you pick up your turf-lingo, Brava? MAHG. Oh, I used this kind of talk before I knew you. Is it settled that you are to ride Lord Byron yourself? CLEM. How absurd to ask ! You for- get, it's the Damenpreis Handicap. Whom else could I get to ride him? And if Homer thought for a moment that I wasn't going to ride him, he'd never put up one and a half to one. You may stake all you've got on that. MARG. I'm well aware of that. You are so handsome when you mount a horse honest and truly, too sweet for any- BY ARTHUR SCHNITZLJER thing! I shall never forget that day in Munich, when I first made your acquaint- ance CLEM. Please do not remind me of it. I had rotten luck that day. But you can believe me, Windy would never have won if it weren't for the ten lengths he gained at the start. But this time never! You know, of course, it is de- cided; we leave town the same day. MARG. Same evening, you mean. CLEM. If you will but why? MARG. Because it's been arranged we're to be married in the morning, hasn't it? CLEM. Quite so. MARG. I am so happy. [Embraces him.] Now, where shall we spend our honeymoon ? CLEM. I take it we're agreed. Aren't we? On the estate. MARG. Oh, of course, later. Aren't we going to take in the Riviera, as a preliminary tidbit? CLEM. As for that, it all depends on the Handicap. If we win MARG. Surest thing! CLEM. And besides, in April the Riviera's not at all good ton. MARG. Is that your reason? CLEM. Of course it is, my love. In your former way of life, there were so few opportunities for your getting a clear idea of fashion Pardon me, but whatever there was, you must admit, really had its origin in the comic jour- nals. MARG. Clem, please ! CLEM. Well, well. We'll see. [Con- tinues reading.] Badegast fifteen to one MARG. Badegast? There isn't a ghost of a show for him ! CLEM. Where did you get that in- formation? , MAHG. Szigrati himself gave me a tip. i6 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS CLEM. Where and when? MARO. Oh, this morning in the Frede- nau, while you were talking with Mil- ner. CLEM. Now, look here; Szigrati isn't fit company for you. MARO. Jealous? CLEM. Not at all. Moreover, let it be understood that from now on I shall in- troduce you everywhere as my fiancee. [Margaret kisses him.] CLEM. Now, what did Szigrati say? MAHG. That he's not going to enter Badegast in the Handicap at all. CLEM. Well, don't you believe every- thing Szigrati is likely to say. He's cir- culating the rumor that Badegast will not be entered so that the odds may be bigger. MARO. Nonsense! That's too much like an investment. CLEM. So you don't believe there is such a thing as investment in this game? For a great many it's all a commercial enterprise. Do you think that a fellow of Szigrati's ilk cares a fig for sport? He might just as well speculate on the market, and wouldn't realize the differ- ence. Anyway, as far as Badegast is concerned, one hundred to one wouldn't be too much to put up against him. MARO. Really? I found him in first- rate fettle this morning. CLEM. Then you saw Badegast, too? MAHG. Certainly. Didn't Butters put him through his paces, right behind Busserl? CLEM. But Butters isn't riding for Szigrati. He was only a stableboy. Badegast can be in as fine fettle as he chooses it's all the same to me. He's nothing but a blind. Some day, Mar- garet, with the aid of your exceptional talent, you will be able to distinguish the veritable somebodies from the shams. Really, it's remarkable with what pro- ficiency you have, so to speak, insinuated yourself into all these things. You go beyond my expectations. MARG. [chagrined]. Pray, why do I go beyond your expectations? All this, as you know, is not so new to me. At our house we entertained very good people Count Libowski and people of that sort and at my husband's CLEM. Quite so. No question about that As a matter of principle, you realize, I've no grudge against the cotton industry. MAHG. Even if my husband happened to be the owner of a cotton mill, that didn't have to effect my personal out- look on life, did it? I always sought culture in my own way. Now, don't let's talk of that period of my life. It's dead and buried, thank heaven! CLEM. Yes. But there's another pe- riod which lies nearer. MARG. I know. But why mention it? CLEM. Well, I simply mean that you couldn't possibly have heard much about sportsmanship from your friends in Munich at least, as far as I am able to judge. MARG. I do hope you will stop tor- menting me about those friends in whose company you first made my acquaint- ance. CLEM. Tormenting you? Nonsense! Only it's incomprehensible to me how you ever got amongst those people. MARG. You speak of them as if they were a gang of criminals. CLEM. Dearest, I'd stake my honor on it, some of them looked the very picture of pickpockets. Tell me, how did you manage to do it? I can't understand how you, with your refined taste lei alone your purity and the scent you used could have tolerated their society. How could you have sat at the same table with them? MAHG. [laughing]. Didn't you do the same? CLEM. Next to them not with them. And for your sake merely for your sake, as you know. To do them justice, however, I will admit that many bettered upon closer acquaintance. There were some interesting people among them. You mustn't for a moment believe, dear- est, that I hold myself superior to those who happen to be shabbily dressed. That's nothing against them. But there was something in their conduct, in their manners, which was positively revolting. MAHG. It wasn't quite so bad. CLEM. Don't take offense, dear. I said there were some interesting people among them. But that a lady should feel at ease in their company, for any length of time, I cannot and do not pre- tend to understand. MARO. You forget, dear Clem, that in LITERATURE a sense I'm one of them or was at one time. CLEM. Now, please ! For my sake ! MARG. They were artists. CLEM. Thank goodness, we've re- turned to the old theme. MARG. Yes, because it hurts me to think you always lose sight of that fact. CLEM. Lose sight of that fact! Non- sense! You know what pained me in your writings things entirely personal. MARG. Let me tell you, Clem, there are women who, in my situation, would have done worse than write poetry. CLEM. But what sort of poetry! What sort of poetry! \Takes a slender volume from the mantel-shelf.] That's what repels me. I assure you, every time I see this book lying here; every time I think of it, I blush with shame that it was you who wrote it. MARG. That's why you fail to under- stand Now, don't take offense. If you did understand, you'd be quite per- fect, and that, obviously, is impossible. Why does it repel you? You know I didn't live through all the experiences I write about. CLEM. I hope not. MAHG. The poems are only visions. CLEM. That's just it. That's what makes me ask: How can a lady indulge in visions of that character? [Reads.] " Abandoned on thy breast and suckled by thy lips" [shaking his head]. How can a lady write such stuff how can a lady have such stuff printed? That's what I simply cannot make out. Every- body who reads will inevitably conjure up the person of the authoress, and the particular breast mentioned, and the par- ticular abandonment hinted at. MARG. But, I'm telling you, no such breast ever existed. CLEM. I can't bring myself to imagine that it did. That's lucky for both of us, Margaret. But where did these visions originate? These glowing passion-poems could not have been inspired by your first husband. Besides, he could never appreciate you, as you yourself always say. MARG. Certainly not. That's why I brought suit for divorce. You know the story. I just couldn't bear living with a man who had no other interest in life than eating and drinking and cotton. CLEM. I dare say. But that was three years ago. These poems were written later. MAHG. Quite so. But consider the po- sition in which I found myself CLEM. What do you mean? You didn't have to endure any privation? In this respect you must admit your hus- band acted very decently toward you. You were not under the necessity of earning your own living. And suppose the publishers did pay you one hundred gulden for a poem surely they don't pay more than that still, you were not bound to write a book of this sort. MARG. I did not refer to position in a material sense. It was the state of my soul. Have you a notion how when you came to know me things were con- siderably improved. I had in many ways found myself again. But in the begin- ning! I was so friendless, so crushed! I tried my hand at everything; I painted, I gave English lessons in the pension where I lived. Just think of it! A divorcee, having nobody CLEM. Why didn't you stay in Vi- enna? MARG. Because I couldn't get along with my family. No one appreciated me. Oh, what people ! Did any one of them realize that a woman of my type asks more of life than a husband, pretty dresses and social position? My God! If I had had a child, probably everything would have ended differently and may- be not. I'm not quite lacking in accom- plishments, you know. Are you still pre- pared to complain? Was it not for the best that I went to Munich? Would I have made your acquaintance else? CLEM. You didn't go there with that object in view. MAHG. I wanted to be free spiritually, I mean. I wanted to prove to myself whether I could succeed through my own efforts. And, admit, didn't it look as if I was jolly well going to? I had made some headway on the road to fame. CLEM. H'm ! MARG. But you were dearer to me than fame. CLEM [good-naturedly]. And surer. MAHG. I didn't give it a thought. I suppose it's because I loved you from the very start. For in my dreams, I always conjured up a man of your likeness. FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS I always seemed to realize that it could only be a man like you who would make me happy. Blood is no empty thing. Nothing whatever can weigh in the bal- ance with that. You see, that's why I can't resist the belief CLEM. What? MARG. Oh, sometimes I think I must have blue blood in my veins, too. CLEM. How so? MAHG. It's not improbable? CLEM. I'm afraid I don't understand. MARG. But I told you that members of the nobility were entertained at our house CLEM. Well, and if they were? MARG. Who knows CLEM. Margaret, you're positively shocking. How can you hint at such a thing! MARG. I can never say what I think in your presence! That's your only shortcoming otherwise you would be quite perfect. [She smiles up to him.] You've won my heart completely. That very first evening, when you walked into the cafe with Wangenheim, I had an im- mediate presentiment: this is he! You came among that group, like a soul from another world. CLEM. I hope so. And I thank heaven that somehow you didn't seem to be al- together one of them, either. No. Whenever I call to mind that junto the Russian girl, for instance, who be- cause of her close-cropped hair gave the appearance of a student except that she did not wear a cap MARG. Baranzewitsch is a very gifted painter. CLEM. No doubt. You pointed her out to me one day in the picture gallery. She was standing on a ladder at the time, copying. And then the fellow with the Polish name MAHG. [beginning]. Zrkd CLEM. Spare yourself the pains. You don't have to use it now any more. He read something at the cafe while I was there, without putting himself out the least bit. MAHG. He's a man of extraordinary talent. I'll vouch for it CLEM. Oh, no doubt. Everybody is talented at the cafe. And then that yokel, that insufferable MARG. Who? CLEM. You know whom I mean. That fellow who persisted in making tactless observations about the aristocracy. MAHG. Gilbert. You must mean Gil- bert. CLEM. Yes. Of course. I don't feel called upon to make a brief for my class. Profligates crop up everywhere, even among writers, I understand. But, don't you know it was very bad taste on his part while one of us was present? MARG. That's just like him. CLEM. I had to hold myself in check not to knock him down. MARG. In spite of that, he was quite interesting. And, then, you mustn't for- get he was raving jealous of you. CLEM. I thought I noticed that, too. [Pause.] MARG. Good heavens, they were all jealous of you. Naturally enough you were so unlike them. They all paid court to me because I wouldn't discrim- inate in favor of any one of them. You certainly must have noticed that, eh? Why are you laughing? CLEM. Comical is no word for it! If some one had prophesied to me that I was going to marry a regular fre- quenter of the Cafe Maxmillian I fancied the two young painters most. They'd have made an incomparable vaudeville team. Do you know, they re- sembled each other so much and owned everything they possessed in common and, if I'm not mistaken, the Russian on the ladder along with the rest. MAHG. I didn't bother myself with such things. CLEM. And, then, both must have been Jews? MAHG. Why so? CLEM. Oh, simply because they al- ways jested in such a way. And their enunciation. MAHG. You may spare your anti-Semi- tic remarks. CLEM. Now, sweetheart, don't be touchy. I know that your blood is not untainted, and I have nothing whatever against the Jews. I once had a tutor in Greek who was a Jew. Upon my word ! He was a capital fellow. One meets all sorts and conditions of people. I don't in the least regret having made the ac- quaintance of your associates in Munich. It's all the weave of our life experience. LITERATURE But I can't help thinking that I must have appeared to you like a hero come to rescue you in the nick of time. MARG. Yes, so you did. My Clem! Clem ! [Embraces him.] CLEM. What are you laughing at? MARG. Something's just occurred to me. CLEM. What? MARG. " Abandoned on thy breast and " CLEM, [vexed]. Please! Must you al- ways shatter my illusions? MAHG. Tell me truly, Clem, wouldn't you be proud if your fiance"e, your wife, were to become a great, a famous writer? CLEM. I have already told you. I am rooted in my decision. And I promise you that if you begin scribbling or pub- lishing poems in which you paint your passion for me, and sing to the world the progress of our love it's all up with our wedding, and off I go. MARG. You threaten you, who have had a dozen well-known affairs. CLEM. My dear, well-known or not, I didn't tell anybody. I didn't bring out a book whenever a woman abandoned herself on my breast, so that any Tom, Dick or Harry could buy it for a gulden and a half. There's the rub. I know there are people who thrive by it, but, as for me, I find it extremely coarse. It's more degrading to me than if you were to pose as a Greek goddess in flesh-col- ored tights at Ronacher's. A Greek statue like that doesn't say " Mew." But a writer who makes copy of everything goes beyond the merely humorous. MARG. [nervously]. Dearest, you for- get that the poet does not always tell the truth. CLEM. And suppose he only vaporizes. Does that make it any better? MARG. It isn't called vaporizing; it's " distU'ation." CLEM. What sort of an expression is that? MARG. We disclose things we never experience, things we dreamed plainly invented. CLEM. Don't say " we " any more, Margaret. Thank goodness, that is past. MAHG. Who knows? CLEM. What? MARG. [tenderly]. Clement, I must tell you aU. CLEM. W T hat is it? MAHG. It is not past; I haven't given up my writing. CLEM. Why? MARG. I'm still going on with my writing, or, rather, I've finished writing another book. Yes, the impulse is stronger than most people realize. I really believe I should have gone to pieces if it hadn't been for my writing. CLEM. What have you written now? MARG. A novel. The weight was too heavy to be borne. It might have dragged me down down. Until to-day, I tried to hide it from you, but it had to come out at last. Kunigel is im- mensely taken with it. CLEM. Who's Kunigel? MARG. My publisher. CLEM. Then it's been read already. MARG. Yes, and lots more will read it. Clement, you will have cause to be proud, believe me. CLEM. You're mistaken, my dear. I think but, tell me, what's it about? MARG. I can't tell you right off. The novel contains the greatest part, so to speak, and all that can be said of the greatest part. CLEM. My compliments ! MARG. That's why I'm going to prom- ise you never to pick up a pen any more. I don't need to. CLEM. Margaret, do you love me? MARG. What a question! You and you only. Though I have seen a great deal, though I have gadded about a great deal, I have experienced comparatively little. I have waited all my life for your coming. CLEM. Well, let me have the book. MARG. Why why? What do you mean? CLEM. I grant you, there was some excuse in your having written it; but it doesn't follow that it's got to be read. Let me have it, and we'll throw it into the fire. MARG. Clem ! CLEM. I make that request. I have a right to make it. MARG. Impossible! It simply CLEM. \Vhy? If I wish it; if I tell you our whole future depends on it. Do you understand? Is it still impossible? MAHG. But, Clement, the novel has al- ready been printed. 20 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS CLEM. What! Printed? MARO. Yes. In a few days it will be on sale on all the book-stalls. . CLEM. Margaret, you did all that without a word to me ? MARO. I couldn't do otherwise. When once you see it, you will forgive me. More than that, you will be proud. CLEM. My dear, this has progressed beyond a joke. MARG. Clement ! CLEM. Adieu, Margaret. MARO. Clement, what does this mean? You are leaving? CLEM. As you see. MARO. When are you coming back again? CLEM. I can't say just now. Adieu. MARG. Clement! [Tries to hold him back.] CLEM. Please. [Goes out.] MARG. [alone]. Clement! What does this mean? He's left me for good. What shall I do? Clement! Is every- thing between us at an end? No. It can't be. Clement! I'll go after him. [She looks for her hat. The doorbell rings.] Ah, he's coming back. He only wanted to frighten me. Oh, my Clem- ent! [Goes to the door. Gilbert en- ters.] GIL. [to the maid]. I fold you so. Madame's at home. How do you do, Margaret? MAHG. [astonished]. You? GIL. It's I I. Amandus Gilbert MAHG. I'm so surprised. GIL. So I see. There's no cause for it. I merely thought I'd stop over. I'm on my way to Italy. I came to of- fer you my latest book for auld lang syne. [Hands her the book. As she does not take it, he places it on the table.] MARG. It's very good of you. Thanks! GIL. You have a certain proprietor- ship in that book. So you are living here? MARG. Yes, but - GIL. Opposite the stadium, I see. As far as furnished rooms go, it's passable enough. But these family portraits on the walls would drive me crazy. MABG. My housekeeper's the widow of a general. GIL. Oh. you needn't apologize. MABG. Apologize! 1 Really, the idea never occurred to me. GIL. It's wonderful to hark back to it now. MAHG. To what? GIL. Why shouldn't I say it? To the small room in Steinsdorf street, with its balcony abutting over the Isar. Do you remember, Margaret? MARG. Suppose we drop the familiar. GIL. As you please as you please. [Pause, then suddenly.] You acted shamefully, Margaret. MARG. What do you mean? GIL. Would you much rather that I beat around the bush? I can find no other word, to my regret. And it was so uncalled for, too. Straightforward- ness would have done just as nicely. It was quite unnecessary to run away from Munich under cover of a foggy night. MARG. It wasn't night and it wasn't foggy. I left in the morning on the eight-thirty train, in open daylight. GIL. At all events, you might have said good-by to me before leaving, eh? [Sits.] MARG. I expect the Baron back any minute. GIL. What difference does that make? Of course, you didn't tell him that you lay in my arms once and worshiped me. I'm just an old acquaintance from Mu- nich. And there's no harm in an old acquaintance calling to see you? MARG. Anybody but you. GIL. Why? Why do you persist in misunderstanding me? I assure you, I come only as an old acquaintance. Everything else is dead and buried, long dead and buried. Here. See for you-r- self. [Indicates the book.] MARG. What's that? GIL. My latest novel. MARG. Have you taken to writing novels ? GIL. Certainly. MARG. Since when have you learned the trick? GIL. What do you mean? MARG. Heavens, can't I remember? Thumb-nail sketches were your specialty, observation of daily events. GIL. [excitedly]. My specialty? My specialty is life itself. I write what suits me. I do not allow myself to be circum- LITERATURE 21 scribed. I don't see who's to prevent my writing a novel. MARG. But the opinion of an author- ity was GIL. Pray, who's an authority? MARG. I call to mind, for instance, an article by Neumann in the " Alge- meine " GIL. [angrily]. Neumann's a blamed idiot! I boxed his ears for him once, MARG. You GIL. In effigy But you were quite as much wrought up about the business as I at that time. We were perfectly agreed that Neumann was a blamed idiot. " How can such a numbskull dare " these were your very words " to set bounds to your genius? How can he dare to stifle your next work still, so to speak, in the womb?" You said that! And to-day you quote that literary hawker. MARG. Please do not shout. My housekeeper GIL. I don't propose to bother myself about the widows of defunct generals when every nerve in my body is a-tingle. MARG. What did I say? I can't ac- count for your touchiness. GIL. Touchiness! You call me touchy? You ! Who used to be seized with a vio- lent fit of trembling every time some in- significant booby or some trumpery sheet happened to utter an unfavorable word of criticism. MARG. I don't remember one word of unfavorable criticism against me. GIL. H'm! I dare say you may be right. Critics are always chivalrous to- ward beautiful women. MAHG. Chivalrous? Do you think my poems were praised out of chivalry? What about your own estimate GIL. Mine? I'm not going to retract so much as one little word. I simply want to remind you that you composed your sheaf of lovely poems while we were living together. MAHG. And you actually consider yourself worthy of them? GIL. Would you have written them if it weren't for me? They are addressed to me. MAHG. Never ! GIL. What! Do you mean to deny that they are addressed to me? This is monstrous ! MARG. No. They are not addressed to you. GIL. I am dumbfounded. I shall re- mind you of the situations in which some of your loveliest verses had birth? MARG. They were inscribed to an Ideal [Gilbert points to himself] whose representative on earth you hap- pened to be. GIL. Ha! This is precious. Where did you get that? Do you know what the French would say in a case like that? " C'est de la litterature ! " MARG. [mimicking him], Ce n'est pas de la littdrature! Now, that's the truth, the honest truth ! Or do you really fancy that by the " slim boy " I meant you? Or that the curls I hymned be- longed to you? At that time you were fat and your hair was never curly. [Runs her finyers through his hair. Gilbert seizes the opportunity to capture her hand and kiss it.] What an idea! GIL. At that time you pictured it so; or, at all events, that is what you called it. To be sure, a poet is forced to take every sort of license for the sake of the rhythm. Didn't I once apostrophise you in a sonnet as "my canny lass"? In point of fact, you were neither no, I don't want to be unfair you were can- ny, shamefully canny, perversely canny. And it suited you perfectly. Well, I suppose I really oughtn't to wonder at you. You were at all times a snob. And, by Jove ! you've attained your end. You have decoyed your blue-blooded boy with his well-manicured hands and his unmanicured brain, your matchless horse- man, fencer, marksman, tennis player, heart-trifler Marlitt could not have in- vented him more revolting than he ac- tually is. Yes, what more can you wish? Whether 'he will satisfy you who are acquainted with something nobler is, of course, another question. I can only say that, in my view, you are degenerate in love. MARG. That must have struck you on the train. GIL. Not at all. It struck me this very moment. MARG. Make a note of it then; it's an apt phrase. GIL. I've another quite as apt. For- merly you were a woman; now you're a " sweet thing." Yes, that's it. What at- 22 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS tracted you to a man of that type? Pas- sion frank and filthy passion MARO. Stop ! You have a motive GIL. My dear, I still lay claim to the possession of a soul. MARG. Except now and then. GIL. Please don't try to disparage our former relations. It's no use. They are the noblest experiences you've ever had. MARO. Heavens, when I think that I endured this twaddle for one whole year GIL. Endure? You were intoxicated with joy. Don't try to be ungrateful. I'm not. Admitting that you behaved never so execrably at the end, yet I can't bring myself to look upon it with bitter- ness. It had to come just that way. MARG. Indeed ! GIL. I owe you an explanation. This: at the moment when you were beginning to drift away from me, when homesick- ness for the stables gripped you la nostalgic de I'ecurw at that moment I was done with you. MARG. Impossible. GIL. You failed to notice the least sign in your characteristic way. I was done with you. To be plain, I didn't need you any longer. What you had to give you gave me. Your uses were ful- filled. In the depths of your soul you knew, unconsciously you knew MARG. Please don't get so hot. GIL. [unruffled]. That our day was over. Our relations had served their purpose. I don't regret having loved you. MARG. I do! GIL. Capital! This measly outburst must reveal to a person of any insight just one thing: the essential line of dif- ference between the artist and the dilet- tante. To you, Margaret, our liaison means nothing more than the memory of a few abandoned nights, a few heart-to- heart talks in the winding ways of the English gardens. But / have made it over into a work of art. MAHG. So have I ! GIL. Eh? What do you mean? MAHG. I have done what you have done. I, too, have written a novel in which our relations are depicted. I, too, have embalmed our love or what we thought was our love for all time. GIL. If I were you, I wouldn't talk of " for all time " before the appearance of the second edition. MAHG. Your writing a novel and my writing a novel are two different things. GIL. Maybe. MARG. You are a free man. You don't have to steal your hours devoted to artistic labor. And your future doesn't depend on the throw. GIL. And you? MARG. That's what I've done. Only a half hour ago Clement left me because I confessed to him that I had written a novel. GIL. Left you for good ? MAHG. I don't know. But it isn't un- likely. He went away in a fit of an- ger. What he'll decide to do I can't say. GIL. So he objects to your writing, does he? He can't bear to see his mis- tress put her intelligence to some use. Capital! And he represents the blood of the country ! H'm ! And you, you're not ashamed to give yourself up to the arms of an idiot of this sort, whom you once MARG. Don't you speak of him like that. You don't know him. GIL. Ah ! MAHG. You don't know why he ob- jects to my writing. Purely out of love. He feels that if I go on I will be living in a world entirely apart from him. He blushes at the thought that I should make copy of the most sacred feelings of my soul for unknown people to read. It is his wish that I belong to him only, and that is why he dashed out no, not dashed out for Clement doesn't belong to the class that dashes out. GIL. Your observation is well taken. In any case, he went away. We will not undertake to discuss the tempo of his going forth. And he went away because he could not bear to see you surrender yourself to the creative impulse. MARG. Ah, if he could only understand that! But, of course, that can never be! I could be the best, the faithfulest, the noblest woman in the world if the right man only existed. GIL. At all events, you admit he is not the right man. MARG. I never said that! GIL. But you ought to realize that he's fettering you, undoing you utterly, LITERATURE seeking through egotism, to destroy your inalienable self. Look back for a mo- ment at the Margaret you were; at the freedom that was yours while you loved me. Think of the younger set who gath- ered about me and who belonged no whit less to you? Do you never long for those days? Do you never call to mind the small room with its balcony Beneath us plunged the Isar [He seizes her hand and presses her near.] MARG. Ah ! GIL. All's not beyond recall. It need not be the Isar, need it? I have some- thing to propose to you, Margaret. Tell him, when he returns, that' you still have some important matters to arrange' at Munich, and spend the time with me. Margaret, you are so lovely ! We shall be happy again as then. Do you remem- ber [very near her] " Abandoned on thy breast and " MARG. [retreating brusquely from him]. Go, go away. No, no. Please go away. I don't love you any more. GIL. Oh, h'm indeed! Oh, in that case I beg your pardon. [Pause.] Adieu, Margaret. MARG. Adieu. GIL. Won't you present me with a copy of your novel as a parting gift, as I have done? MARG. It hasn't come out yet. It won't be on sale before next week. GIL. Pardon my inquisitiveness, what kind of a story is it? MARG. The story of my life. So veiled, to be sure, that I am in no danger of being recognized. GIL. I see. How did you manage to do it? MARG. Very simple. For' one thing, the heroine is not a writer but a painter. GIL. Very clever. MARG. Her first husband is not a cot- ton manufacturer, but a big financier, and, of course, it wouldn't do to deceive him with a tenor GIL. Ha ! Ha ! MARG. What strikes you so funny? GIL. So you deceived him with a tenor? I didn't know that. MARG. Whoever said so? GIL. Why, you yourself, just now. MAGR. How so? I say the heroine of the book deceives her husband with a baritone. GIL. Bass would have been more sub- lime, mezzo-soprano more piquant. MARG. Then she doesn't go to Munich, but to Dresden; and there, has an affair with a sculptor. GIL. That's me veiled. MARG. Very much veiled, I rather fear. The sculptor, as it happens, is young, handsome and a genius. In spite of that she leaves him. GIL. For MARG. Guess ? GIL. A jockey, I fancy. MARG. Wretch ! GIL. A count, a prince of the empire? MARG. Wrong. An archduke. GIL. I must say you have spared no costs. MARG. Yes, an archduke, who gave up the court for her sake, married her and emigrated with her to the Canary Islands. GIL. The Canary Islands! Splendid! And then MARG. With the disembarkation GIL. In Canaryland. MARG. The story ends. GIL. Good. I'm very much interested, especially in the veiling. MARG. You yourself wouldn't recog- nize me were it not for GIL. What? MAHG. The third chapter from the end, where our correspondence is pub- lished entire. GIL. What? MARG. Yes, all the letters you sent me and those I sent you are included in the novel. GIL. I see, but may I ask where you got those you sent me? I thought I had them. MARG. I know. But, you see, I had the habit of always making a rough draft. GIL. A rough draft? MARG. Yes GIL. A rough draft? Those letters which seemed to have been dashed off in such tremendous haste. " Just one word, dearest, before I go to bed. My eye- lids are heavy " and when your eye- lids were closed you wrote the whole thing over again. MARG. Are you piqued about it? GIL. I might have expected as much. I ought to be glad, however, that they weren't bought from a professional love- FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS letter writer. Oh, how everything be- gins to crumble! The whole past is nothing but a heap of ruins. She made a rough draft of her letters ! MARO. Be content. Maybe my letters will be all that will remain immortal of your memory. GIL. And along with them will remain the fatal story. MARG. Why? GIL. [indicating his book]. Because they also appear in my book. MARO. In where? GIL. In my novel. MARG. What? GIK. Our letters yours and mine. MARG. Where did you get your own? I've got them in my possession. Ah, so you, too, made a rough draft? GJL. Nothing of the kind! I only copied them before mailing. I didn't want to lose them. There are some in my book which you didn't even get. They were, in my opinion, too beautiful for you. You wouldn't have understood them at all. MARG. Merciful heavens ! If this is so [turning the leaves of Gilbert's book]. Yes, yes, it is so. Why, it's just like telling the world that we two Merciful heavens! [Feverishly turning the leaves.] Is the letter you sent me the morning after the first night also GIL. Surely. That was brilliant. MARG. This is horrible. Why, this is going to create a European sensation. And .Clement My God ; I'm beginning to hope that he will not come back. I am ruined ! And you along with me. Wherever you are, he'll be sure to find you and blow your brains out like a mad dog. GIL. [pocketing his book]. Insipid comparison ! MARG. How did you hit upon such an insane idea? To publish the correspond- ence of a woman whom, in all sincerity, you professed to have loved! Oh, you're no gentleman. GIL. Quite charming. Haven't you done the same? MARG. I'm a woman. GIL. Do you take refuge in that now? MARG. Oh, it's true. I have nothing to reproach you with. We were made for one another. Yes, Clement was right. We're worse than those women who ap- pear in flesh-colored tights. Our most sacred feelings, our pangs everything we make copy of everything. Pfui! Pfui! It's sickening. We two belong to one another. Clement would only be doing what is right if he drove me away. [Suddenly.] Come, Amandus. GIL. What is it? MARG. I accept your proposal. GIL. What proposal? MARG. I'm going to cut it with you. [Looks for her hat and cloak.] GIL. Eh? What do you mean? MARG. [very much excited; puts her hat on tightly]. Everything can be as it was. You've said it. It needn't be the Isar well, I'm ready. GIL. Sheer madness! Cut it what's the meaning of this? Didn't you yourself say a minute ago that he'd find me any- where. If you're with me, he'll have no difficulty in finding you, too. Wouldn't it be better if each MARG. Wretch ! Now you want to leave me in a lurch! Why, only a few minutes ago you were on your knees be- fore me. Have you no conscience? GIL. What's the use? I am a sick, nervous man, suffering from hypochon- dria. [Margaret at the window utters a cry.] GIL. What's up? What will the gen- eral's widow think? MAHG. It's he. He's coming back. GIL. Well, then MARG. What? You intend to go? GIL. I didn't come here to pay the baron a visit. MARG. He'll encounter you on the stairs. That would be worse. Stay. I refuse to be sacrificed alone. GIL. Now, don't lose your senses. Why do you tremble like that? It's quite absurd to believe that he's already gone through both novels. Calm your- self. Remove your hat. Off with your cloak. [Assists her.] If he catches you in this frame of mind he can't help but suspect. MARG. It's all the same to me. Bet- ter now than later. I can't bear waiting and waiting for the horrible event. I'm going to tell him everything right away. GIL. Everything? MAHG. Yes. And while you are still here. If I make a clean breast of every- thing now maybe he'll forgive me. LITERATURE GIL And me what about me? I have a higher mission in the world, I think, than to suffer myself to be shot down like a mad dog by a jealous baron. [The bell rings.] MARG. It's he! It's he. GIL. Understand, you're not to breathe a word. MARG. I've made up my mind. GIL. Indeed, have a care. For, if you do, I shall sell my hide at a good price. I shall hurl such naked truths at him that he'll swear no baron heard the like of them. CLEM, [entering, somewhat surprised, but quite cool and courteous]. Oh, Mr. Gilbert! Am I right? GIL. The very same, Baron. I'm trav- eling south, and I couldn't repress the desire to pay my respects to madame. CLEM. Ah, indeed. [Pause.] Pardon me, it seems I've interrupted your con- versation. Pray, don't let me disturb you. GIL. What were we talking about just now? CLEM. Perhaps I can assist your mem- ory. In Munich, if I recall correctly, you always talked about your books. GIL. Quite so. As a matter of fact, I was speaking about my new novel. CLEM. Pray, continue. Nowadays, I find that I, too, can talk literature. Eh, Margaret? Is it naturalistic? Sym- bolic? Autobiographical? Or let me see is it distilled? GIL. Oh, in a certain sense we all write about our life-experiences. CLEM. H'm. That's good to know. GIL. Yes, if you're painting the char- acter of Nero, in my opinion it's abso- lutely necessary that you should have set fire to Rome CLEM. Naturally. GIL. From what source should a writer derive his inspiration if not from himself? Where should he go for his models if not to the life which is nearest to him? [Margaret becomes more and more uneasy.] CLEM. Isn't it a pity, though, that the models are so rarely consulted? But I must say, if I were a woman, I'd think twice before I'd let such people know anything [Sharply.] In decent so- ciety, sir, that's the same as compromis- ing a woman! GIL. I don't know whether I belong to decent society or not, but, in my humble opinion, it's the same as ennobling a woman. CLEM. Indeed. GIL. The essential thing is, does it really hit the mark ! In a higher sense, what does it matter if the public does know that a woman was happy in this bed or that? CLEM. Mr. Gilbert, allow me to re- mind you that you are speaking in the presence of a lady. GIL. I'm speaking in the presence of a comrade, Baron, who, perhaps, shares my views in these matters. CLEM. Oh ! MARG. Clement! [Throws herself at his feet.] Clement. CLEM [staggered]. But Margaret. MARG. .Your forgiveness, Clement! CLEM. But, Margaret. [To Gilbert.] It's very painful to me, Mr. Gilbert. Now, get up, Margaret. Get up, every- thing's all right; everything's arranged. Yes, yes. You have but to call up Kiini- gel. I have already arranged everything with him. We are going to put it out for sale. Is that suitable to you? GIL. What are you going to put out for sale, if I may be so bold as to ask? The novel madame has written? CLEM. Ah, so you know already. At all events, Mr. Gilbert, it seems that your camaraderie is not required any further. GIL. Yes. There's really nothing left for me but to beg to be excused. I'm sorry. CLEM. I very much regret, Mr. Gil- bert, that you had to witness a scene which might almost be called domestic. GIL. Oh, I do not wish to intrude any further. GIL. Madame Baron, may I offer you a copy of my book as a token that all ill-feeling between us has vanished? As a feeble sign of my sympathy, Baron? CLEM. You're very good, Mr. Gilbert. I must, however, tell you that this is going to be the last, or the one before the last, that I ever intend to read. GIL. The one before the last? CLEM. Yes. MARG. And what's the last going to be? CLEM. Yours, my love. [Draws an advanced copy from his packet.} I 26 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS wheedled an advance copy from Kiinigel to bring to you, or, rather, to both of us. [Margaret and Gilbert exchange scared glances.] MARO. How good of you! [Taking the book.] Yes, it's mine. CLEM. We will read it together. MAHG. No, Clement, no. I cannot ac- cept so much kindness. [She throws the book into the fireplace.] I don't want to hear of this sort of thing any more. GIL. [very joyful]. But, dear ma- dame CLEM, [going toward the fireplace]. Margaret, what have you done? MARG. [in front of the fireplace, throw- ing her arms about Clement}. Now, do you believe that I love you! GIL. [most gleeful]. It appears that I'm entirely de trop here. Dear Madame Baron [To himself.] Pity, though, I can't stay for the last chapter. [Goes out.] [Curtain.] THE INTRUDER A PLAY BY MAURICE MAETERLINCK CHARACTERS THE GRANDFATHER [blind], THE FATHER. THE THREE DAUGHTERS. THE UNCLE. THE SERVANT. The present translation of THE INTRUDER is the anonymous version published by Mr. Heinemann in 1892, the editor having, however, made some slight alterations in order to bring it into conformity with the current French text. The particular edition used for this purpose was the 1911 (twenty-third) reprint of Vol. I of M. Maeterlinck's " Theatre." A. L. G. Reprinted from "A Miracle of St. Antony and Five Other Plays" in the Modern Library, by permission of Messrs. Boni & Liveright, Inc. THE INTRUDER A PLAY [A sombre room in an old Chdteau. A door on the riyht, a door on the left, and a small concealed door in a corner. At the back, stained-glass windows, in which green is the dominant color, and a glass door giving on to a terrace. A big Dutch clock in one corner. A lighted lamp.] THE THREE DAUGHTERS. Come here, grandfather. Sit down under the lamp. THE GRANDFATHER. There does not seem to me to be much light here. THE FATHER. Shall we go out on the terrace, or stay in this room? THE UNCLE. Would it not be better to stay here? It has rained the whole week, and the nights are damp and cold. THE ELDEST DAUGHTER. But the stars are shining. THE UNCLE. Oh the stars that's nothing. THE GRANDFATHER. We had better stay here. One never knows what may happen. THE FATHER. There is no longer any cause for anxiety. The danger is over, and she is saved . . . THE GRANDFATHER. I believe she is not doing so well . . . THE FATHER. Why do you say that? THE GRANDFATHER. I have heard her voice. THE FATHER. But since the doctors assure us we may be easy . . . THE UNCLE. You know quite well that your father-in-law likes to alarm us need- lessly. THE GRANDFATHER. I don't see things as you do. THE UNCLE. You ought to rely on us, then, who can see. She looked very well this afternoon. She is sleeping quietly now; and we are not going to mar, need- lessly, the first pleasant evening that chance has put in our way. ... It seems BY MAURICE MAETERLINCK to me we have a perfect right to peace, and even to laugh a little, this evening, without fear. THE FATHER. That's true; this is the first time I have felt at home with my family since this terrible confinement. THE UNCLE. When once illness has come into a house, it is as though a stranger had forced himself into the fam- ily circle. THE FATHER. And then you under- stand, too, that you can count on no one outside the family. THE UNCLE. You are quite right. THE GRANDFATHER. Why couldn't I see my poor daughter to-day? THE UNCLE. You know quite well the doctor forbade it. THE GRANDFATHER. I do not know what to think . . . THE UNCLE. It is useless to worry. THE GRANDFATHER [pointing to the door on the left]. She cnnnot hear us? THE FATHER. We will not talk too loud; besides, the door is very thick, and the Sister of Mercy is with her, and she is sure to warn us if we are making too much noise. THE GRANDFATHER [pointing to the door on the right]. He cannot hear us? THE FATHER. No, no. THE GRANDFATHER. He is asleep? THE FATHER. I suppose so. THE GRANDFATHER. Some one had better go and see. THE UNCLE. The little one would cause me more anxiety than your wife. It is now several weeks since he was born, and he has scarcely stirred. He has not cried once all the time! He is like a wax doll. THE GRANDFATHER. I think he will be deaf dumb too, perhaps the usual result of a marriage between cousins . . . [A reproving silence.] FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS THE FATHER. I could almost wish him ill for the suffering he has caused his mother. THE UNCLE. Do be reasonable; it is not the poor little thing's fault. He is quite alone in the room? THE FATHER. Yes; the doctor does not wish him to stay in his mother's room any longer. THE UNCLE. But the nurse is with him? THE FATHER. No; she has gone to rest a little; she has well deserved it these last few days. Ursula, just go and see if he is asleep. THE ELDEST DAUGHTER. Yes, father. [The Three Sisters get up. and go into the room on the right, hand in hand,] THE FATHER. When will your sister come? THE UNCLE. I think she will come about nine. THE FATHER. It is past nine. I hope she will come this evening, my wife is so anxious to see her. THE UNCLE. She is sure to come. This will be the first time she has been here? THE FATHER. She has never been in the house. THE UNCLE. It is very difficult for her to leave her convent. THE FATHER. Will she be alone? THE UNCLE. I expect one of the nuns will come with her. They are not al- lowed to go out alone. THE FATHER. But she is the Superior. THE UNCLE. The rule is the same for all. THE GRANDFATHER. Do you not feel anxious? THE UNCLE. Why should we feel anxious? What's the good of harping on that? There is nothing more to fear. THE GRANDFATHER. Your sister is older than you? THE UNCLE. She is the eldest. THE GRAXDFATHEB. I do not know what ails me; I feel uneasy. I wish your sister were here. THE UNCLE. She will come; she prom- ised to. THE GRANDFATHER. Ah, if this even- ing were only over! [The three daughters come in again.] THE FATHER. He is asleep? THE ELDEST DAUGHTER. Yes, father; he is sleeping soundly. THE UNCLE. What shall we do while we are waiting? THE GRANDFATHER. Waiting for what? THE UNCLE. Waiting for our sister. THE FATHER. You see nothing com- ing, Ursula? THE ELDEST DAUGHTER [at the win- dow]. Nothing, father. THE FATHER. Not in the avenue? Can you see the avenue? THE DAUGHTER. Yes, father; it is moonlight, and I can see the avenue as far as the cypress wood. THE GRANDFATHER. And you do not see any one? THE DAUGHTER. No one, grandfather. THE UNCLE. What sort of a night is it? THE DAUGHTER. Very fine. Do you hear the nightingales? THE UNCLE. Yes, yes. THE DAUGHTER. A little wind is ris- ing in the avenue. THE GRANDFATHER. A little wind in the avenue? THE DAUGHTER. Yes; the trees are trembling a little. THE UNCLE. I am surprised that my sister is not here yet. THE GRANDFATHER. I cannot hear the nightingales any longer. THE DAUGHTER. I think some one has come into the garden, grandfather. THE GRANDFATHER. Who is it? THE DAUGHTER. I do not know; I can see no one. THE UNCLE. Because there is no one there. THE DAUGHTER. There must be some one in the garden; the nightingales have suddenly ceased singing. THE GRANDFATHER. But I do not hear any one coming. THE DAUGHTER. Some one must be passing by the pond, because the swans are ruffled. ANOTHER DAUGHTER. All the fishes in the pond are diving suddenly. THE FATHER. You cannot see any one. THE DAUGHTER. No one, father. THE FATHER. But the pond lies in the moonlight . . . THE DAUGHTER. Yes; I can see that the swans are ruffled. THE INTRUDER 3i THE UNCLE. I am sure it is my sister who is scaring them. She must have come in by the little gate. THE FATHER. I cannot understand why the dogs do not bark. THE DAUGHTER. I can see the watch- dog right at the back of his kennel. The swans are crossing to the other bank ! THE UNCLE. They are afraid of my sister. I will go and see. [He calls.] Sister! sister! Is that you? . . . There is no one there. THE DAUGHTER. I am sure that some one has come into the garden. You will see. THE UNCLE. But she would answer me! THE GRANDFATHER. Are not the night- ingales beginning to sing again, Ur- sula? THE DAUGHTER. I cannot hear one anywhere. THE GRANDFATHER. But there is no noise. THE FATHER. There is a silence of the grave. THE GRANDFATHER. It must be a stranger that is frightening them, for if it were one of the family they would not be silent. THE UNCLE. How much longer are you going to discuss these nightingales? THE GRANDFATHER. Are all the win- dows open, Ursula? THE DAUGHTER. The glass door is open, grandfather. THE GRANDFATHER. It seems to me that the cold is penetrating into the room. THE DAUGHTER. There is a little wind in the garden, grandfather, and the rose- leaves are falling. THE FATHER. Well, shut the door. It is late. THE DAUGHTER. Yes, father ... I cannot shut the door. THE Two OTHER DAUGHTERS. We can- not shut the door. THE GRANDFATHER. Why, what is the matter with the door, my children? THE UNCLE. You need not say that in such an extraordinary voice. I will go and help them. THE ELDEST DAUGHTER. We cannot manage to shut it quite. THE UNCLE. It is because of the damp. Let us all push together. There must be something in the way. THE FATHER. The carpenter will set it right to-morrow. THE GRANDFATHER. Is the carpenter coming to-morrow. THE DAUGHTER. Yes, grandfather; he is coming to do some work in the cellar. THE GRANDFATHER. He will make a noise in the house. THE DAUGHTER. I will tell him to work quietly. [Suddenly the sound of a scythe being sharpened is heard outside.] THE GRANDFATHER [with a shudder]. Oh! THE UNCLE. What is that? THE DAUGHTER. I don't quite know; I think it is the gardener. I cannot quite see; he is in the shadow of the house. THE FATHER. It is the gardener going to mow. THE UNCLE. He mows by night? THE FATHER. Is not to-morrow Sun- day? Yes. I noticed that the grass was very long round the house. THE GRANDFATHER. It seems to me that his scythe makes as much noise THE DAUGHTER. He is mowing near the house. THE GRANDFATHER. Can you see him, Ursula? THE DAUGHTER. No, grandfather. He is standing in the dark. THE GRANDFATHER. I am afraid he will wake my daughter. THE UNCLE. We can scarcely hear him. THE GRANDFATHER. Is sounds as if he were mowing inside the house. THE UNCLE. The invalid will not hear it; there is no danger. THE FATHER. It seems to me that the lamp is not burning well this evening. THE UNCLE. It wants filling. THE FATHER. I saw it filled this morn- ing. It has burnt badly since the win- dow was shut. THE UNCLE. I fancy the chimney is dirty. THE FATHER. It will burn better pres- ently. THE DAUGHTER. Grandfather is asleep. He has not slept for three nights. THE FATHER. He has been so much worried. FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS THE UNCLE. He always worries too much. At times he will not listen to reason. THE FATHER. It is quite excusable at his age. THE UNCLE. God knows what we shall be like at his age! THE FATHER. He is nearly eighty. THE UNCLE. Then he has a right to be strange. THE FATHER. He is like all blind peo- ple. THE UNCLE. They think too much. THE FATHER. They have too much time to spare. THE UNCLE. They have nothing else to do. THE FATHER. And, besides, they have no distractions. THE UNCLE. That must be terrible. THE FATHER. Apparently one gets used to it. THE UNCLE. I cannot imagine it. THE FATHER. They, are certainly to be pitied. THE UNCLE. Not to know where one is, not to know where one has come from, not to know whither one is going, not to be able to distinguish midday from midnight, or summer from winter and always darkness, darkness ! I would rather not live. Is it absolutely incur- able? THE FATHER. Apparently so. THE UNCLE. But he is not absolutely blind? THE FATHER. He can perceive a strong light. THE UNCLE. Let us take care of our poor eyes. THE FATHER. He often has strange ideas. THE UNCLE. At times he is not at all amusing. THE FATHER. He says absolutely everything he thinks. THE UNCLE. But he was not always like this? THE FATHER. No; once he was as ra- tional as we are; he never said anything extraordinary. I am afraid Ursula en- courages him a little too much; she an- swers all his questions . . . THE UNCLE: It would be better not to answer them. It's a mistaken kindness to him. [Ten o'clock strikes.] THE GRANDFATHER [waking up]. Am I facing the glass door? THE DAUGHTER. You have had a nice sleep, grandfather? THE GRANDFATHER. Am I facing the glass door? THE DAUGHTER. Yes, grandfather. THE GRANDFATHER. There is nobody at the glass door? THE DAUGHTER. No, grandfather; I do not see any one. THE GRANDFATHER. I thought some one was waiting. No one has come? THE DAUGHTER. No one, grandfather. THE GRANDFATHER [to the Uncle and Father]. And your sister has not come? THE UNCLE. It is too late; she will not come now. It is not nice of her. THE FATHER. I'm beginning to be anxious about her. [A noise, as of some one coming into the house.] THE UNCLE. She is here! Did you hear? THE FATHER. Yes; some one has come in at the basement. THE UNCLE. It must be our sister. I recognized her step. THE GRANDFATHER. I heard slow foot- steps. THE FATHER. She came in very quietly. THE UNCLE. She knows there is an invalid. THE GRANDFATHER. I hear nothing now. THE UNCLE. She will come up di- rectly; they will tell her we are here. THE FATHER. I am glad she has come. THE UNCLE. I was sure she would come this evening. THE GRANDFATHER. She is a very long time coming up THE UNCLE. It must be she. THE FATHER. We are not expecting any other visitors. THE GRANDFATHER. I cannot hear any noise in the basement. THE FATHER. I will call the servant. W.e shall know how things stand. [He pulls a bell-rope.] THE GRANDFATHER. I can hear a noise on the stairs already. THE FATHER. It is the servant coming up. THE GRANDFATHER. To me it sounds as if she were not alone. THE INTRUDER 33 THE FATHER. She is coming up slowly THE GRANDFATHER. I hear your sis- ter's step ! THE FATHER. I can only hear the servant. THE GRANDFATHER. It is your sister! It is your sister! [There is a knock at the little door.] THE UNCLE. She is knocking at the door of the back stairs ; THE FATHER. I will go and open it myself. [He opens the little door partly; the Servant remains outside in the open- ing.] Where are you? THE SERVANT. Here, sir. THE GRANDFATHER. Your sister is at the door? THE UNCLE. I can only see the serv- ant. THE FATHER. It is only the servant. [To the Servant.] Who was that, that came into the house? THE SERVANT. Came into the house? THE FATHER. Yes; some one came in just now? THE SERVANT. No one came in, sir. THE GRANDFATHER. Who is it sighing like that? THE UNCLE. It is the servant; she is out of breath. THE GRANDFATHER. Is she crying? THE UNCLE. No; why should she be crying? THE FATHER [to the Servant], No one came in just now? THE SERVANT. No, sir. THE FATHER. But we heard some one open the door ! THE SERVANT. It was I shutting the door. THE FATHER. It was open? THE SERVANT. Yes, sir. THE FATHER. Why was it open at this time of night? THE SERVANT. I do not know, sir. I had shut it myself. THE FATHER. Then who was it that opened it? THE SERVANT. I do not know, sir. Some one must have gone out after me, sir ... THE FATHER. You must be careful. Don't push the door; you know what a noise it makes ! THE SERVANT. But, sir, I am not touching the door, THE FATHER. But you are. You are pushing as if you were trying to get into the room. THE SERVANT. But, sir, I am three yards away from the door. THE FATHER. Don't talk so loud . . . THE GRANDFATHER. Are they putting out the light? THE ELDEST DAUGHTER. No, grand- father. THE GRANDFATHER. It seems to me it has grown pitch dark all at once. THE FATHER [to the Servant], You can go down again now ; but do not make so much noise on the stairs. THE SERVANT. I did not make any noise on the stairs. THE FATHER. I tell you that you did make a noise. Go down quietly; you will wake your mistress. And if any one comes now, say that we are not at home. THE UNCLE. Yes; say that we are not at home. THE GRANDFATHER [shuddering]. You must not say that! THE FATHER. . . . Except to my sister and the doctor. THE UNCLE. When will the doctor come? THE FATHER. He will not be able to come before midnight. [He shuts ths door. A clock is heard striking eleven.] THE GRANDFATHER. She has come in? THE FATHER. Who? THE GRANDFATHER. The servant. THE FATHER. No, she has gone down- stairs. THE GRANDFATHER. I thought that she was sitting at the table. THE UNCLE. The servant? THE GRANDFATHER. Yes. THE UNCLE. That would complete one's happiness! THE GRANDFATHER. No one has come into the room? THE FATHER. No; no one has come in. THE GRANDFATHER. And your sister is not here? THE UNCLE. Our sister has not come. THE GRANDFATHER. You want to de- ceive me. THE UNCLE. Deceive you? THE GRANDFATHER. Ursula, tell me the truth, for the love of God! 34 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE- ACT PLAYS THE ELDEST DAUGHTER. Grandfather! Grandfather! what is the matter with you? THE GRANDFATHER. Something has happened! I am sure my daughter is worse! . . . THE UNCLE. Are you dreaming? THE GRANDFATHER. You do not want to tell me ! ... I can see quite well there is something . . . THE UNCLE. In that case you can see better than we can. THE GRANDFATHER. Ursula, tell me the truth! THE DAUGHTER. But we have told you the truth, grandfather! THE GRANDFATHER. You do not speak in your ordinary voice. THE FATHER. That is because you frighten her. THE GRANDFATHER. Your voice is changed, too. THE FATHER. You are going mad! [He and the Uncle make signs to each other to signify the Grandfather has lost his reason.] THE GRANDFATHER. I can hear quite well that you are afraid. THE FATHER. But what should we be afraid of? THE GRANDFATHER. Why do you want to deceive me? THE UNCLE. Who is thinking of de- ceiving you? THE GRANDFATHER. Why have you put out the light? THE UNCLE. But the light has not been put out; there is as much light as there was before. THE DAUGHTER. It seems to me that the lamp has gone down. THE FATHER. I see as well now as ever. THE GRANDFATHER. I have millstones on my eyes ! Tell me, girls, what is going on here ! Tell me, for the love of God, you who can see ! I am here, all alone, in darkness without end ! I do not know who seats himself beside me! I do not know what is happening a yard from me ! . . . Why were you talking under your breath just now? THE FATHER. No one was talking under his breath. THE GRANDFATHER. You did talk in a low voice at the door. THE FATHER. You heard all I said. THE GRANDFATHER. You brought some one into the room ! . . . THE FATHER. But I tell you no one has come in ! THE GRANDFATHER. Is it your sister or a priest? You should not try to de- ceive me. Ursula, who was it that came in? THE DAUGHTER. No one, grandfa- ther. THE GRANDFATHER. You must not try to deceive me; I know what I know. How many of us are there here? THE DAUGHTER. There are six of us round the table, grandfather. THE GRANDFATHER. You are all round the table? THE DAUGHTER. Yes, grandfather. THE GRANDFATHER. You are there, Paul? THE FATHER. Yes. THE GRANDFATHER. You are there, Oliver? THE UNCLE. Yes, of course I am here, in my usual place. That's not alarming, is it? THE GRANDFATHER. You are there, Genevieve? ONE OF THE DAUGHTERS. Yes, grand- father. THE GRANDFATHER. You are there, Gertrude? ANOTHER DAUGHTER. Yes, grand- father. THE GRANDFATHER. You are here, Ursula? THE ELDEST DAUGHTER. Yes, grand- father; next to you. THE GRANDFATHER. And who is that sitting there? THE DAUGHTER. Where do you mean, grandfather? There is no one. THE GRANDFATHER. There, there in the midst of us ! THE DAUGHTER. But there is no one, grandfather ! THE FATHER. We tell you there is no one! THE GRANDFATHER. But you cannot see any of you ! THE UNCLE. Pshaw! You are jok- ing. THE GRANDFATHER. I do not feel in- clined for joking, I can assure you. THE UNCLE. Then believe those who can see. THE INTRUDER 35 THE GRANDFATHER [undecidedly], I thought there was some one ... I be- lieve I shall not live long . . . THE UNCLE. Why should we deceive you? "What use would there be in that? THE FATHER. It would be our duty to tell you the truth . . . THE UNCLE. What would be the good of deceiving each other? THE FATHER. You could not live in error long. THE GRANDFATHER [trying to rise], I should like to pierce this darkness ! . . . THE FATHER. Where do you want to go? THE GRANDFATHER. Over there . . . THE FATHER. Don't be so anxious. THE UNCLE. You are strange this evening. THE GRANDFATHER. It is all of you who seem to me to be strange ! THE FATHER. Do you want anything? THE GRANDFATHER. I do not know what ails me. THE ELDEST DAUGHTER. Grandfather ! grandfather ! What do you want, grand- father? THE GRANDFATHER. Give me your lit- tle hands, my children. THE THREE DAUGHTERS. Yes, grand- father. THE GRANDFATHER. Why are you all three trembling, girls? THE ELDEST DAUGHTER. We are scarcely trembling at all, grandfather. THE GRANDFATHER. I fancy you are all three pale. THE ELDEST DAUGHTER. It is late, grandfather, and we are tired. THE FATHER. You must go to bed, and grandfather himself would do well to take a little rest. THE GRANDFATHER. I could not sleep to-night ! THE UNCLE. We will wait for the doctor. THE GRANDFATHER. Prepare for the truth. THE UNCLE. But there is no truth! THE GRANDFATHER. Then I do not know what there is ! THE UNCLE. I tell you there is noth- ing at all ! THE GRANDFATHER. I wish I could see my poor daughter ! THE FATHER. But you know quite well it is impossible; she must not be awakened unnecessarily. THE UNCLE. You will see her to-mor- row. THE GRANDFATHER. There is no sound in her room. THE UNCLE. I should be uneasy if I heard any sound. THE GRANDFATHER. It is a very long time since I saw my daughter! ... I took her hands yesterday evening, but I could not see her! ... I do not know what has become of her ... I do not know how she is ... I do not know what her face is like now . . . She must have changed these weeks ! . . . I felt the lit- tle bones of her cheeks under my hands . . . There is nothing but the darkness between her and me, and the rest of you ! ... I cannot go on living like this . . . this is not living . . . You sit there, all of you, looking with open eyes at my dead eyes, and not one of you has pity on me! . . . I do not know what ails me . . . No one tells me what ought to be told me . . . And everything is terrifying when one's dreams dwell upon it ... But why are you not speaking? THE UNCLE. What should be say, since you will not believe us? THE GRANDFATHER. You are afraid of betraying yourselves ! THE FATHER. Come now, be rational! THE GRANDFATHER. You have been hiding something from me for a long time ! . . . Something has happened in the house . . . But I am beginning to understand now . . . You have been de- ceiving me too long ! You fancy that I shall never know anything? There are moments when I am less blind than you, you know !. . . Do you think I have not heard you whispering for days and days as if you were in the house of some one who had been hanged I dare not say what I know this evening . . . But I shall know the truth! ... I shall wait for you to tell me the truth; but I have known it for a long time, in spite of you ! And now, I feel that you are all paler than the dead ! THE THREE DAUGHTERS. Grandfather! grandfather! What is the matter, grandfather? THE GRANDFATHER. It is not you that I am speaking of, girls. No; it is not you that I am speaking of ... I know FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS quite well you would tell me the truth if they were not by! ... And besides, I feel sure that they are deceiving you as well . . . You will see, children you will see ! ... Do not I hear you all sob- bing? THE FATHER. Is my wife really so ill? THE GRANDFATHER. It is no good try- ing to deceive me any longer; it is too late now, and I know the truth better than you ! . . . THE UNCLE. But ice are not blind; we are not. THE FATHER. Would you like to go into your daughter's room? This mis- understanding must be put an end to. Would you? THE GRANDFATHER [becoming suddenly undecided}. No, no, not now not yet. THE UNCLE. You see, you are not reasonable. THE GRANDFATHER. One never knows how much a man has been unable to ex- press in his life! . . . Who made that noise? THE ELDEST DAUGHTER. It is the lamp flickering, grandfather. THE GRANDFATHER. It seems to me to be very unsteady very ! THE DAUGHTER. It is the cold wind troubling it ... THE UNCLE. There is no cold wind, the windows are shut. THE DAUGHTER. I think it is going out. THE FATHER. There is no more oil. THE DAUGHTER. It has gone right out. THE FATHER. We cannot stay like this in the dark. THE UNCLE. Why not? I am quite accustomed to it. THE FATHER. There is a light in my wife's room. THE UNCLE. We will take it from there presently, when the doctor has been. THE FATHER. Well, we can see enough here; there is the light from out- side. THE GRANDFATHER. Is it light out- side? THE FATHER. Lighter than here. THE UNCLE. For my part, I would as soon talk in the dark. THE FATHER. So would I. [Silence.] THE GRANDFATHER. It seems to me the clock makes a great deal of noise . . . THE ELDEST DAUGHTER. That is be- cause we are not talking any more, grandfather. THE GRANDFATHER. But why are you all silent? THE UNCLE. What do you want us to talk about? You are really very pe- culiar to-night. THE GRANDFATHER. Is it very dark in this room? THE UNCLE. There is not much light. [Silence.] THE GRANDFATHER. I do not feel well, Ursula; open the window a little. THE FATHER. Yes, child; open the window a little. I begin to feel the want of air myself. [The girl opens the win- dow.] THE UNCLE. I really believe we have stayed shut up too long. THE GRANDFATHER. Is the window open? THE DAUGHTER. Yes, grandfather; it is wide open. THE GRANDFATHER. One would not have thought it was open; there was not a sound outside. THE DAUGHTE*. No, grandfather; there is not the slightest sound. THE FATHER. The silence is extraor- dinary! THE DAUGHTER. One could hear an angel tread! THE UNCLE. That is why I do not like the country. THE GRANDFATHER. I wish I could hear some sound. What o'clock is it, Ursula? THE DAUGHTER. It will soon be mid- night, grandfather. [Here the Uncle be- gins to pace up and down the room.] THE GRANDFATHER. Who is that walk- ing round us like that? THE UNCLE. Only I ! only I ! Do not be frightened ! I want to walk about a little. [Silence.] But I am going to sit down again ; I cannot see where I am going. [Silence.] THE GRANDFATHER. I wish I were out of this place. THE DAUGHTER. Where would you like to go, grandfather? THE GRANDFATHER. I do not know where into another room, no matter where! no matter where! THE INTRUDER 37 THE FATHER. Where could we go? THE UNCLE. It is too late to go any- where else. [Silence. They are sitting, motionless, round the table.} THE GRANDFATHER. What is that I hear, Ursula? THE DAUGHTER. Nothing, grand- father; it is the leaves falling. Yes, it is the leaves falling on the terrace. THE GRANDFATHER. Go and shut the window, Ursula. THE DAUGHTER. Yes, grandfather. [She shuts the window, comes back, and sits down.] THE GRANDFATHER. I am cold. [Si- lence. The Three Sisters kiss each other.] What is that I hear now? THE FATHER. It is the three sisters kissing each other. THE UNCLE. It seems to me they are very pale this evening. [Silence.] THE GRANDFATHER. What is that I hear now, Ursula? THE DAUGHTER. Nothing, grand- father; it is the clasping of my hands. [Silence.] THE GRANDFATHER. And that? . . . THE DAUGHTER. I do not know, grandfather . . . perhaps my sisters are trembling a little? . . . THE GRANDFATHER. I am afraid, too, my children. [Here a ray of moonliyht penetrates through a corner of the stained glass, and throws strange gleams here and there in the room. A clock strikes midnight; at the last stroke there is a very vague sound, as of some one rising in haste.] THE GRANDFATHER [shuddering with peculiar horror]. Who is that who got up? THE UNCLE. No one got up ! THE FATHER. I did not get up ! THE THREE DAUGHTERS. Nor I ! Nor I! Nor I! THE GRANDFATHER. Some one got up from the table ! THE UNCLE. Light the lamp ! . . . [Cries of terror are suddenly heard from the child's room, an the right; these cries continue, with gradations of horror, until the end of the scene.] THE FATHER. Listen to the child! THE UNCLE. He has never cried be- fore! THE FATHER. Let us go and see him! THE UNCLE. The light! The light! [At this moment, quick and heavy steps are heard in the room on the left. Then a deathly silence. They listen in mute terror, until the door of the room opens slowly; the light from it is cast into the room where they are sitting, and the Sis- ter of Mercy appears on the threshold, in her black garments, and bows as she makes the sign of the cross, to announce the death of the wife. They understand, and, after a moment of hesitation and fright, silently enter the chamber of death, while the Uncle politely steps aside on the threshold to let the three girls pass. The blind man, left alone, gets up, agitated, and feels his way round the table in the darkness.] THE GRANDFATHER. Where are you going? Where are you going? The girls have left me all alone! [Curtain.] INTERLUDE BY FEDERICO MORE TRANSLATED FROM THE SPANISH BY AUDREY ALDEN. Copyright, 1920, by Stewart & Kidd Company. All rights reserved. PERSONS THE MARQUISE. THE POET. Application for permission to produce INTERLUDE must be addressed to Pierre Loving, in caxe of Messrs. Stewart & Kidd Co., Cincinnati, Ohio. INTERLUDE BY FEDEEICO MORE Scene: A Salon. MARQUISE [entering}. It is chic yet full of peril to be a marquise, betrothed And on the brim of nineteen, with two whole years' Devotion at the convent behind her. Well may the man I am to marry place his faith in me. And yet, I am obsessed with the sweet indecision Of having met a poet who will shrive me in verse, Drape my life with the vigor of his youth Yet never kiss me. POET [entering}. I was looking for you, madame. MARQUISE. Well, here I am. POET. Does the dance tire you or the music displease ? MARQUISE. It has never before displeased me, and yet now POET. In a life Happy as yours, joy is reborn, Your moods are versatile, and charm- ing, marquise . . . Bad humor de luxe . . . perhaps mere caprice. . . . MARQUISE. Perhaps mere caprice . . . perhaps; but I am prey To something more profound, some- thing warmer. . . . POET. Have I not told you That in happy lives such as your high- placed life There is nothing of ennui, nothing to lead astray, Nothing to spur you on, nothing to unfold, Nor any dim wraith stalking by your side? MARQUISE. Ah, you have uttered my thought. I feel as though a ghost walked with me. POET. And I could almost swear You do not feel your grief molded as the phantom wills. MARQUISE. I do feel it. There is a spell, An echo from afar. POET. Nerves . . . the dance . . fatigue! Too many perfumes . . . too many mirrors. . . . MARQUISE. And the lack of a voice I love. POET. Oh do not be romantic. Don't distort life. Romance has always proved an evil scourge. MARQUISE. But you, a poet . . . are not you ro- mantic? POET. I ? Never. MARQUISE. Then how do you write your verse? POET. I make poems The way your seamstresses make your dresses. MARQUISE. With a pattern and a measure? POET. With a pattern and a measure. MARQUISE. Impossible! Poets give tongue to truth sublime. 42 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS POET. Pardon, marquise, but it is folly To think that poems are something more than needles On which to thread the truth. MARQUISE. Truly, are they no more than that? POET. Ephemeral and vain, in this age Poetry is woven of agile thought. MARQUISE. What of the sort that weeps and yearns most woe-begone? Poignancy that is the ending of a poem? POET. All that Is reached with the noble aid of a consonant As great love is reached with a kiss. MARQUISE. And what of the void in which my soul is lost x Since no one, poet ... no one cries his need for me. . . . POET. Do not say that, marquise. I can as- sure you . . . MARQUISE. That I am a motif for a handful of consonants? POET. Nonsense! 1 swear it by your clear eyes. . . . MARQUISE. Comparable, I suppose, in verse to two clear diamonds. . . . POET. You scoff, but love is very serious. . . . MARQUISE. Love serious, poet? A betrothal, it may be, is serious, Arranged by grave-faced parents with stately rites; Yawns are serious and so is reple- tion. POET. But tell me, whence comes this deep cynicism? MARQUISE. Oh, do not take it ill. I say it but in jest, Merely because I like to laugh at the abyss, What do you think, poet? POET. Well, marquise, I must confess That I am capable of feeling various loves. MARQUISE. Then you were born for various women. POET. No, I was born for various sorrows. MARQUISE. Or, by the same token, for various pleasures. POET. Sheer vanity ! Women always presume That their mere earthly presence gives men pleasure. MARQUISE. You are clear-witted And a pattern of such good common- sense. Who would believe That a poet, dabbler in every sort of folly, May turn discreet when mysterious love beckons? POET. Mysterious love? Marquise, that is not so. ... Love has abandons Irrestrainable. MABQUISE. And shame restrains them. POET. But what has shame to do with poetry? It has no worth, it is a social value, Value of a marquise, par excellence. MARQUISE. None the less, shame is a resigned and subtle justice, The justice of women, poet. POET. Which is no justice at all. MARQUISE. Poet, the stones you throw In your defeat, will fall upon your head. POET. That is my destiny. Your rising sun Can never know the splendor of my sun that sets. MARQUISE. The fault is nowise mine. . . . POET. True. ... I am insane And a madman is insane, marquise, al- though he reason. MARQUISE. Oh, reason, poet. I would convince you That even a marquise may be sin- cere. INTERLUDE 43 POET. And I, my lady, I would fain believe it. MABQUISE. Believe it then, I beg of you. POET. But there is this: A marquise might also lose her head. MABQUISE. True she might lose her head . . . but for a rhyme? POET. Which, no matter how true, will always be a lie. [Pause.] MARQUISE. But why did you protest against my skepticism? POET. I riddled your words, but protested for myself. MARQUISE. So vain a reason, and so selfish? POET. A prideful reason ... I stand aghast before the abyss. MAEQUISE. I see that all your love has been in verse. POET. No, marquise, but life Cradles crude truths which the poet disdains. MARQUISE. And amiable truths which passion passes by. POET. But about which the dreamer's world revolves. MARQUISE. I do not dream, I wish . . . POET. I know well what I wish . . . MARQUISE. Well then, we wish that it should not be merely a consonant. POET. No, rather that it should be poetry. MARQUISE. Suppose that it were so, would it con- tent you? POET. It is enough for me, and yet I fear That this pale poetry, untried, unlived, Can have no driving urge. MARQUISE. Why then should we refuse to live it"? POET. I shall tell you. It is not in high-born taste To trifle with a heart. The love of a marquise is the prob- lematic Love of elegance and froth, And like other love a sort of mathe- matic Love of addition, subtraction and di- vision. It is not rude passion, fierce, em- phatic, Song and orchestral counterpoint of life. It is what the world would name platonic, Love without fire, without virility, With nothing of creation, nothing tonic, One-step love, love of society. And I will have none of this love sar- donic, None of its desperate futility. MARQUISE. I do not fear you though you are a poet, And I say things to you, no other ears would endure. You were not born, poor anchorite, To say to a woman : " Be mine." And such is your secret vanity, You are a servile vassal of your own Utopia. You pretend to transform women Into laurel branches meaningless, And with your cynic's blare You thread upon the needle of your pride Dregs from the utter depths of the abyss. POET. Marquise, a poet's love has led you astray. MARQUISE. Oh, don't be vain and fanciful. I swear That in my placid life, happiness brings no joy. What I longed for was a love, pro- found and mature, The profound love of a poet come to being, And not the incongruities of adoles- cence in verse. . . . The radiant synthesis of a pungent ex- istence 44 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS And not the disloyalties of a dispersed dream. What woman has not dreamed of lov- ing a poet Who would be conqueror and con- quered all in one? What woman has not wished to be humble and forgiving With the man who sings the great pas- sions he has known? We need you poets. . . . We are tor- mented by the desire Of a harmonious life, filled with deep sound, With the vigor and strength of wine poured out Into bowls of truths, deep with the depth of death. We crave no water, lymphatic, pure, In glasses of wind, frail as life. Better the vintage of the rich Served in vile glasses of gold. And if the mind be coarse, Perchance the hands will glitter with many stones. And if I may not have a fragrant and well-ordered nest Filled with clear rhythm and little blond heads, Then let me have my palace where luxurious pleasure Lends to love of earth, grief and deep dismay. Why do you not love living, poets? Why is it, The dullard who nor loves nor lives poaches your kisses? POET. I do not comprehend, marquise. Why love living, If that is to live loving? We know that life and love Are wings forever fledging out In a bird neither swan nor hawk. I am resigned to my unequal destiny, for I know That my two eyes cannot perceive the same color. For even when there is calm, anxiety arises And then, I am not master, not even of my pain. I would be your friend, but there are obstacles, Captious dynamics, that put a check upon my words. I yield to the dumb pride of my huge torment, The song without woHs, the sonorous silence, And I do not desire any one to pene- trate The garden wherein flowers the mys- tery I adore. MARQUISE. Conserve your mysteries, poet; they will have no heirs. POET. Death is the heir of everything im- penetrable. MARQUISE. But only during life do the words of the sphinx Possess a meaning for our ears. POET. I am terror-stricken by the sphinx. MARQUISE. Coward! The sun blinds him who cannot hearken to the sphinx. [Sounds of music in the distance.] POET. Does not the music tempt you? MARQUISE. It does, and I feel sure My lover must be waiting. Will you come with me? POET. No, thanks. I shall remain and think of what has died. MARQUISE. May you have the protection of my defunct illusion. [She goes out.} [Curtain.] MONSIEUR LAMBLIN A COMEDY BY GEORGE ANCEY TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH BY BARRETT H. CLAEK. CHARACTERS LAMBLIN. MARTHE. MADAME BAIL. MADAME COGE. SERVANT. First published in the Stratford Journal, March, 1917. Reprinted by permission of Mr. Barrett H. Clark. A COMEDY BY GEORGE ANCEY Translated from the French by Barrett H. Clark. [A stylish drawing-room. There are doors at the back, and on each side. Down-stage to the right is a window; near it, but protected by a screen, is a large arm-chair near a sewing-table. Down-stage opposite is a fire-place, on each side of which, facing it, are a sofa and another large arm-chair; next the sofa is a small table, and next to it, in turn, a stool and two chairs. This part of the stage should be so arranged as to make a little cozy-corner. The set is completed by various and sundry lamps, vases with flowers, and the like. As the curtain rises, the servant en- ters to Lamblin, Marthe and Madame Bail, bringing coffee and cigarettes, which he lays on the small table.] LAMBLIN [settling comfortably into his chair]. Ah, how comfortable it is! Mm ! [To Marthe.] Serve us our coffee, my child, serve us our coffee. MARTHE [sadly]. Yes, yes. LAMBLIN [aside]. Always something going round and round in that little head of hers ! Needn't worry about it noth- ing serious. Well, Mother-in-law, what do you say to the laces, eh? MADAME BAIL. Delicious! It must have cost a small fortune ! You have twenty yards there ! LAMBLIN. Five thousand francs ! Five thousand francs! [To Marthe.] Yes, madame, your husband was particularly generous. He insists upon making his wife the most beautiful of women and giving her everything her heart desires. Has he succeeded? MARTHE. Thank you. I've really never seen such lovely malines. Madame Per- tuis ordered some lately and they're not nearly so beautiful as these. LAMBLIN. I'm glad to hear it. Well, aren't you going to kiss your husband for his trouble? [She kisses him.] Good! There, now. MADAME BAIL [to Lamblin]. You spoil her ! LAMBLIN [to Marthe]. Do I spoil you? MARTHE. Yes, yes, of course. LABMI.IN. That's right. Everybody happy? That's all we can ask, isn't that so, Mamma Bail? Take care, I warn you ! If you continue to look at me that way I'm likely to become dangerous ! MADAME BAIL. Silly man. LAMBLIN. Ha! MADAME BAIL [to Marthe]. Laugh, why don't you? MARTHE. I do. LAMBLIN [bringing his wife to him and putting her upon his knee]. No, no, but you don't laugh enough, little one. Now, to punish you, I'm going to give you an- other kiss. [He kisses her.] MARTHE. Oh ! Your beard pricks so ! Now, take your coffee, or it'll get cold, and then you'll scold Julie again. [A pause.] LAMBLIN. It looks like pleasant weather to-morrow! MADAME BAIL. What made you think of that? LAMBLIN. The particles of sugar have all collected at the bottom of my cup. [He drinks his coffee.] MADAME BAIL. As a matter of fact, I hope the weather will be nice. LAMBLIN. Do you have to go out? MADAME BAIL. I must go to Argen- tuil. LAMBLIN. Now, my dear mother-in- law, what are you going to do at Argen- tuil? I have an idea that there must be some old general there ? MADAME BAIL [ironically]. Exactly! How would you like it if ? LAMBLIN. Don't joke about such things ! 47 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS MADAME BAIL. You needn't worry! Catch me marrying again ! I.AMiuiN [timidly]. There is a great deal to be said for the happiness of mar- ried life. MADAME BAIL. For the men! LAMBI.IN. For every one. Is not the hearth a refuge, a sacred spot, where both man and woman find sweet rest after a day's work? Deny it, Mother. Here we are, the three of us, each doing what he likes to do, in our comfortable little home, talking together happily. The mind is at rest, and the heart quiet. Six years of family life have brought us security in our affection, and rendered us kind and indulgent toward one an- other. It is ineffably sweet, and brings tears to the eyes. [He starts to take a sip of cognac.} MARTHE [preventing him]. Especially when one is a little lit up ! MADAME BAIL. Marthe, that's not at all nice of you ! LAMBLIN [to Madame Bail], Ah, you're the only one who understands me, Mother ! Now, little one, you're going to give me a cigar, one of those on the table. MARTHE [giving him a cigar}. Lazy! He can't even stretch his arm out! LAMBLIN. You see, I prefer to have my little wife serve me and be nice to me. MADAME BAIL [looking at them both], Shall I go? LAMBLIN. Why should you? MADAME BAIL. Well because LAMBLIN [understanding]. Oh! No, no, stay with us and tell us stories. The little one is moody and severe, I don't dare risk putting my arm around her. Her religion forbids her expanding ! MADAME BAIL. Then you don't think I'll be in the way? LAMBLIN. You, Mother! I tell you, the day I took it into my head to bring you here to live with us, I was an ex- tremely clever man. It's most conven- ient to have you here. Men of business like me haven't the time to spend all their leisure moments with their wives. Very often, after a day's work at the office, I'm not at liberty to spend the eve- ning at home: I must return to the of- fice, you know. MARTHE. As you did yesterday! LAMBLIN. As I did yesterday. And when I take it into my head to stroll along the boulevard MADAME BAIL. Or elsewhere ! LAMBLIN. You insist on your little joke, Mother. If, I say, I take it into my head to go out, there's the little one all alone. You came here to live with us, and now my conscious is easy: I leave my little wife in good hands. I need not worry. There were a thousand liberties I never indulged in before you came. Now I take them without the slightest scruple. MADAME BAIL. How kind of you ! LAMBLIN. Don't you think so, little one? MARTHE. I believe that Mamma did exactly the right thing. LAMBLIN. You see, I want people to be happy. It is not enough that I should be: every one must be who is about me. I can't abide selfish people. MADAME BAIL. You're right ! LAMBLIN. And it's so easy not to be! [A pause.] There is only one thing worrying me now: I brought a whole package of papers with me from the of- fice, which I must sign. MARTHE. How is business now? LAMBLIN. Not very good. MARTHE. Did M. Pacot reimburse you? MADAME BAIL. Yes, did he? LAMBLIN. It's been pretty hard these past three days, but I am reimbursed, and that's all I ask. Now I'm going to sign my papers. It won't take me more than a quarter of an hour. I'll find you here when I come back, shan't I? [To Marthe.] And the little one will leave me my cognac, eh? See you soon. MADAME BAIL. Yes, see you soon. LAMBLIN [to Marthe]. You'll let me have my cognac? MARTHE. No ! It's ridiculous ! It'll make you ill. [Lamblin goes out.] MADAME BAIL. There's a good boy! MAHTHE. You always stand up for him. The world is full of " good boys " of his sort. " Good boys " ! They're all selfish ! MADAME BAIL. Don't get so excited ! MARTHE. I'm not in the least excited. I'm as calm now as I was excited a year ago when I learned of Alfred's affair. MADAME BAIL. I understand, MONSIEUR LAMBLIN 49 MARTHE. No, you don't understand. MADAME BAIL. You didn't behave at all reasonably, as you ought to have done long since. You still have absurd ro- mantic ideas. You're not at all reason- able. MARTHE [very much put out]. Well, if I still have those absurd ideas, if I rebel at times, if, as you say, I'm unrea- sonable, whom does it harm but me alone? What do you expect? The bare idea of sharing him is repulsive to me. Think of it a moment how perfectly abominable it all is! Why, we are prac- tically accomplices ! I thought we were goina: to discuss it with him just now! It will happen, I know ! MADAME BAIL. What do you intend to do about it? You keep on saying the same thing. I'm an experienced woman. Why don't you take my word, and be a philosopher, the way all women are, the way I've had to be more than once? If you think for one moment that your own father ! Well, we won't say anything about him. MARTHE. Philosopher, philosopher ! A nice way to put it ! In what way is that Mathilde Coge, who is his mistress, bet- ter than I? I'd like to know that! MADAME BAIL. In any event, he might have done much worse. She is a widow, a woman of the world, and she isn't ruin- insr him. I know her slightly; I've seen her at Madame Parent's. She just seems a little mad, and not in the least spiteful ! MARTHE [raying]. Ah! MADAME BAIL. But what are you go- ing to do about it? MARTHE. It would be best to separate. MADAME BAIL. Why didn't you think of that sooner? You know very well you'd be sorry the moment you'd done it. MAHTHE. Don't you think that would be best for us all*? What am I doing here? What hopes have I for the fu- ture? Merely to complete the happiness of Monsieur, who deigns to see in me an agreeable nurse, who occasionally likes to rest by mv side after his escapades elsewhere! Thank you so much! I mijrht just as well go! MADAME BAIL. That would be mad- ness. You wouldn't be so foolish as to do it. MARTHE. Yes I know society would blame me ! MADAME BAIL. That's the first point. We should submit to everything rather than do as some others do and fly in the face of convention. We belong to so- ciety. MAHTHE. In that case I should at least have peace. MADAME BAIL. Peace ! Nothing of the sort, my dear. You know very well, you would have regrets. MARTHE [ironically]. What regrets? MADAME BAIL. God knows! Perhaps, though you don't know it, you still love him, in some hidden corner of your heart. You may pity him. You can go a long way with that feeling. Perhaps you have same vague hope [Marthe is about to speak.] Well, we won't say any more about that. And then you are religious, you have a big forgiving soul. Aren't these sufficient reasons for waiting? You may regret it. Believe me, my dear child. [Marthe stands silent, and Ma- dame Bail changes her attitude and tone of voice.] Now, you must admit, you haven't so much to complain of. Your husband is far from the worst; indeed, he's one of the best. What would you do if you were in Madame Ponceau's position? Her husband spends all their money and stays away for two and three months at a time. He goes away, is not seen anywhere, and when he returns, he has the most terrible scenes with poor Marie, and even beats her ! Now, Al- fred is very good to you, pays you all sorts of attentions, he comes home three evenings a week, gives you all sorts of presents. And these laces! He never bothers you or abuses you. See how nice he was just a few minutes ago, simple and natural! He was lovely, and said the pleasantest imaginable things. MAHTHE [bitterly]. He flattered you! MADAME BAIL. That isn't the reason! MARTHE. That you say nice things about him? Nonsense! He pleases and amuses you. You don't want me to ap- ply for a separation because you want him near you, and because you are afraid of what people will say. Be frank and admit it. MADAME BAIL. Marthe, that's not at all nice of you. MARTHE. It's the truth. MADAME BAIL. No, no, nothing of the sort. FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS MARTHE. Another thing that grates on me in this life we are leading is to see the way my mother takes her son-in- law's part against me. You find excuses for him on every occasion; and your one fear seems to 'be that he should hear some random word that will wound him; and the proof is that he never interrupts one of our conversations which are al- ways on the same subject but that you don't fail to make desperate signs to me to keep still! MADAME BAIL. What an idea! [Marlhe ia about to reply, when Ma- dame Ball perceives Lamblin reenter- ing, and nans to Martha to say nothing more.] It's he! [Marthe shrugs her shoulders.] [Enter Lamblin.] LAMBLIN [joyfully]. There, that's done. One hundred and two signatures. Kiss me, little one. In less than an hour I've earned a thousand francs for us. Isn't that splendid? [Knter a semant.] SERVANT. Monsieur? LAMBLIN. What is it? SERVANT [embarrassed]. Some one from the office who wishes to speak with Monsieur. LAMBLIN. From the office? At this time? SERVANT. Yes, Monsieur. LAMBLIN. Say that I am with my family, and that I am not receiving any one. SERVANT. That is what I said, but the person insists. LAMBI.IN. How annoying! MADAME BAIL. See him, dear, Marthe and I will go out and you may see him here. No one will disturb you. MARTHE. Yes, It's best to see him ! [They make ready to go out; pick up their work, and so on.] LAMBLIN [to the servant]. Tell him to come in. [The servant goes out.] MABTHE [to Madame Bail, as she points after the servant]. Did you no- tice? Adolphe was very embarrassed! MADAME BAIL. Now what are you go- ing to worry about? MABTHE. I tell you, I saw it! [The women go out.} LAMBLIN. This is too much! Not a moment of peace ! [Enter Madame Coge".] You? MADAME COGE. What do you think of my trick? LAMBLIN. Detestable as well as dan- gerous. MADAME COGE. Come, come. I wanted to go to the Bouffes, and I wanted you to go with me. It's nine o'clock, but we'll be in time for the principal play. LAMBLIN. No, no, no, impossible. And what do you mean by falling upon me this way without warning! My dear Mathilde, what were you thinking about? MADAME COGE. I decided this morn- ing. You were so nice yesterday ! LAMBLIN. You must go at once! What if some one found you here? MADAME COGE. Your wife? Quick, then, we must be going. Take your hat, say good-by. I'll wait for you down- stairs. I have a cab. [A pause.] LAMBLIN. I tell you, it's out of the question. Go alone. I have a headache I've smoked too much. MADAME COGE. You refuse? And I was looking forward so ! LAMBLIN. Now, listen to me, my dear: I have told you once for all, I'm not a rounder. I like everything well regu- luted. I have my own little habits, and I don't like something to come along and upset everything. I'm very much of a family man, I've often impressed that fact upon you, and I'm astonished, per- fectly astonished, that you don't take that into account. MADAME COGE fin a high voice]. You make me tired. So there. LAMBLIN. Don't scream so! I tell you, I wouldn't go out to-night for any- thing under the sun. Yesterday, Heaven knows, I was only too happy to be with you: we enjoyed ourselves; it was most pleasant. As for this evening no: to- morrow. We decided on Mondays, Wednesday, Fridays, and a Sunday from time to time. I have no wish to alter that schedule. I'm regulated like a cuckoo clock. You don't seem to be- lieve that. I strike when I'm intended to strike. MADAME COGE. That is as much as to say that you like me three days a week, and the rest of the time I mean as little to you as the Grand Turk! That's a queer kind of love! LAMBLIN. Not at all. I think of you MONSIEUR LAMBLIN very often, and if you were to disap- pear, I should miss you a great deal. Only it's a long way between that and disturbing my equilibrium. MADAME COGE. And I suppose you love your wife? LAMBLIX. Are you jealous? MADAME COGE. I am, and I have rea- son to be be. . . . LAMBLIN. How childish of you! You know very well that you are the only woman, only MADAME COGE. Ah, there is an only " ! LAMBLIN. Yes, only, just because I love you is no reason why I should feel no affection for her, and that you should treat her as you do ! She is so de- voted ! MADAME COGE. What is there so ex- traordinary about her? LAMBLIN [becoming excited]. She does for me what others would not do you for instance! She has a steady affection for me; I keep it for my bad moments; her action doesn't turn in every wind. You should see her, so resigned, so anxious to do everything for my comfort and convenience ! She's worried when I have a headache, she runs for my slip- pers when I come home in wet weather from your house! [Deeply moved.} You see that cognac there? That was the second glass I poured out for myself this evening; the moment I started to drink it her little hand stretched forth and took it from me, because she said I would make myself ill! [He starts to weep.] You know, I poured it out just in order that she should prevent my drinking it. These things stir the heart! [A pause.] Now you must go. MADAME COGE. No, no. I love you, and I LAMBLIN. You are selfish. And you know I can't stand selfish people. You want to deprive me of a quiet evening in the bosom of my family. MADAME COGE. I want you to love me, and me alone. I want you to leave your home if need be. LAMBLIN. Yes, and if I were to fall sick which might happen, though I have a strong constitution, thank God ! I know you. You're the best woman in the world, but that doesn't prevent your being a little superficial! MADAME COGE. Superficial! LAMBLIN. Yes, you are, and you can't deny it! Your dropping in on me, like a bolt from the blue, proves it conclu- sively. And when you once begin chat- tering about yourself, about your dresses, oh, my! You never stop. You can't be serious, your conversation is not the sort that pleases a man, flatters and amuses him. MADAME COGE. Oh ! LAMBLIN. You never talk about him! One night I remember, I was a little sick and you sent me home. There they made tea for me. The cook was already in bed, and Marthe didn't hesitate an instant to go to the kitchen and soil her hands ! MADAME COGE. When was that? When was that? LAMBLIN. For God's sake, don't scream so! Not more than two weeks ago. MADAME COGE. You didn't say what was the matter with you, that's all. LAMBLIN. I complained enough, Heaven knows. [A pause.] MADAME COGE. Then you won't come? LAMBLIN. No. MADAME COGE [resolutely]. Very well, then, farewell. LAMBLIN. Now, you mustn't get angry. [He puts his arm round her waist]. You know I can't do without you. You are always my dear little Ma- thilde, my darling little girl. Aren't you? Do you remember yesterday, eh? You know I love you deeply? MADAME COGE. On Mondays, Wednes- days, Fridays, and from time to time on Sundays. Thanks! [She starts to go,] LAMBLIN. Mathilde! MADAME COGE. Good evening. [Re- turning to him.] Do you want me to tell you something? Though I may be super- ficial, you are a selfish egotist, and you find your happiness in the tears and suf- fering of those who love you ! Good-by ! [She starts to go again.] LAMBLIN. Mathilde, Mathilde, dear! To-morrow? MADAME COGE [returning]. Do you want me to tell you something else? When a man is married and wants to have a mistress, he would do much better and act more uprightly to leave his wife! LAMBLIN [simply]. Why? MADAME COGE. Why? Good even- ing! [She goes out.] FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS LAMBLIN. Mathilde, Mathilde! Did I make her angry? Oh, she'll forget it all in a quarter of an hour. My, what a headache! [Catching sight of Marthe, who enters from the right.] Marthe! She looks furious! She saw Mathilde go out! What luck! MAHTHE [furioutly]. Who was that who just left? LAMBLIN. Why MARTHE. Who was that who just left? Answer me! I . \MUI.I N . It was MARTHE. Madame Coge^ wasn't it? Don't lie, I saw her! What can you be thinking of? To bring your mistress here ! I don't know what's prevented my going away before, and leaving you to your debauchery! This is the end un- derstand? I've had enough. You're going to live alone from now on. [He starts to speak.] Alone. Good-by, mon- sieur! LAMBLIN [moved], Marthe! [She dashes out. Lamblin goes to the door through which Marthe has gone.] Mar- the, Marthe, little one! Tell me that you forgive me. [Coming down-stage.] It's all up! Good Lord! [Enter Madame Bail] LAMBLIN [goes to her, nearly in tears]. Oh, Mother, all is lost! MADAME BAIL. No, no, you great child ! I know everything, and I prom- ise it will be all right. LAMBLIN. No, no, I tell you. Marthe told me she wanted to leave me. MADAME BAIL. Now, don't carry on that way. I don't want to see you cry. LAMBLIH. But how can I be calm when my whole future is ruined? MADAME BAIL. Nothing of the sort. Don't you think I know my own daugh- ter? She is too well educated, she has too much common sense, to leave you. LAMBLIN [a little consoled]. You think so? Oh, if that were only true! MADAME BAIL. But it is true! She's crying now; her tears will ease her, and make her change her mind. LAMBLIN. Yes, yes, let her cry, let her cry all she wants to! MADAME BAIL. I tell you she is yours; she loves you. LAMBLIN [brightening]. Is that true? [Madame Bail nods.] How happy I am! [A pause. His attitude changes.] But there's one thing that troubles me. MADAME BAIL. What 9 LAMBLIN [embarrassed]. No, nothing. MADAME BAIL. Confide in me. Tell me. [A pause.] LAMBLIN. Well, that lady who came here this evening I'm afraid I was a little short with her. I think I offended her. I practically showed her the door. MADAME BAIL. Don't worry about that. Perhaps you weren't so rude as you thought you were. LAMBLIN. No, I'm sure. I know very well that MADAME BAIL. You mustn't worry and get all excited LAMBLIN. Do you know anything about it? MADAME BAIL. No, nothing, only as I rather suspected what was going on in here and was afraid of a quarrel I met her as she was going out, and I spoke to her. LAMBLIN [taking her hands joy- fully], I thank you! [They are both embarrassed for a moment, then sit down.] Ah, good. Well, and Marthe? MADAME BAIL [pointing to Marthe who enters]. There she is. What did I tell you? [Marthe enters without saying a word. She brings her work, Madame Bail takes up hers, and sits next her. A pause. Madame Bail speaks to Marthe.] What a pretty design! W 7 here did you find the pattern? MARTHE. I just picked it up at the store. MADAME BAIL. It's charming. I must get one like it. LAMBLIN [i/{ at eate]. May I see it, little one? [Marthe unrolls the embroid- ery for him and shows it.] Oh, it's per- fectly lovely ! We men would be hard put to it to make anything half as beau- tiful! [He laughs awkwardly, and pours out some cognac, in full sight of Marthe.] MAHTHE [quickly]. That's ridiculous, Alfred. [Then she says slowly, as she lowers her eyes.] You'll make yourself ill! LAMBLIN [in perfect contentment], How charming she is! [Curtain.] FRANCOISE' LUCK A COMEDY BY GEORGES DE PORTO-RICHE (La Chance de Franchise.) TRANSLATED BY BAKaETT H. CLAHK. Copyright, 1917, by Stewart & Kidd Company. All rights reserved. PERSONS REPRESENTED MARCEL DESROCHES. GUERIN. JEAN. FRANCHISE. MADELEINE. SCENE: Auteuil, TIME: Present. Presented for the first time December 10, 1888, in Paris, at the Theatre Libre. FRANCOISE' LUCK is reprinted from " Four Plays of the Free Theatre," translated by Barrett H. Clark by permission of Messrs. Stewart & Kidd Company, Cincinnati, Ohio. FRANQOISE' LUCK A COMEDY [A studio. At the back is a door open- ing upon a garden; doors to the right and left; likewise a small inconspicuous door to the left. There are a few pictures on easels. The table is Uttered with papers, books, weapons, bric-a-brac. Chairs and sofas. It is eleven o'clock in the morn- ing.] FRANCOTSE [a small, frail woman, with a melancholy look, at times rather mock- ing. As the curtain rises she is alone. She raises and lowers the window-blind from time to time}. A little more! There! Oh, the sunlight! How blind- ing! [Glancing at the studio with satis- faction.] How neat everything is! [In attempting to take something from the table, she knocks some papers to the floor.] Well! [Seeing a letter, among the papers she is picking up.] A letter! From Monsieur Guerin [Reading.] " My dear friend, why do you persist in keeping silence? You say very little of the imprudent woman who has dared to become the companion of the handsome Marcel! Do you recompense her for her confidence in you, for her courage? You are not at all like other men: your friv- olity, if you will permit the term, your " [Interrupting herself.] He writes the word! [Continuing.] "Your cynicism makes me tremble for you. Ab- sent for a year ! How much friendship gone to waste ! Why were we thrust apart the moment you were married? Why did my wife's health make sunlight an absolute necessity for her? We are now leaving Rome; in a month I'll drop in on you at Auteuil " [Interrupting herself again.] Very soon! [Marcel appears at the back.] " I am very impatient to see you, and very anxious to see Madame Desroches. I wonder whether she will take to me? 55 BY GEORGES DE PORTO-RICHE I hope she will. Take care, you villain, I shall cross-question her carefully, and if I find the slightest shadow upon her happiness, her friend-to-be will be an angry man." [She stops reading and says to herself, sadly.] A friend I should like that! MARCEL [carelessly dressed. He is of the type that appeals to women]. Ah, inquisitive, you read my letters? FRANCOISE. Oh, it's an old one MARCEL [chaffing her]. From Gue>Sn? FHANCOISE. I found it there, when I was putting the studio in order. MARCEL [tenderly]. The little roman- tic child is looking for a friend? FHANCOISE. I have so much to tell, so much about my recent happiness ! MARCEL. Am I not that friend? FRANCOISE. You are the man I love. Should I consult with you, where your happiness is concerned? MARCEL. Too deep for me! [Yawn- ing.] Oh, I'm tired ! FRANCHISE. Did you come in late last night ? MARCEL. Three o'clock. FRANCHISE. You were very quiet, you naughty man ! MARCEL. Were you jealous? FRANCOISE. The idea! I am morally certain that you love no one except your wife. MARCEL [sadly]. It's true, I love no one except my wife. FRANCOISE [chaffing him in turn]. Poor Marcel! MARCEL. I was bored to death at that supper; I can't imagine why. They all tell me I'm getting stout. FRANCOISE. That's no reason why you shouldn't please. MARCEL. God is very unjust. FHANCOISE. So they say! MARCEL [stretching out on a sofa]. FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS Excuse my appearance, won't you, Fran- 9oise [Making himself comfortable.} I can't keep my eyes open any longer nowadays. The days of my youth Why, I was [He stops.] FHAX?OISE. You were just the right age for marriage. MARCEL [as if to banish the idea]. Oh! [A pause.] I'm sure you will get along well with Guerin. Yours are kindred spirits you're alike not in looks, how- ever. FRANCHISE. Morally, you mean? MARCEL. Yes. The comparison flat- ters him. FRANCOISE. He's like this, then; senti- mental, a good friend, and a man of honor. Yes, I think I shall get along nicely with him. MARCEL. What a sympathetic nature you have ! You've never seen him, and you know him already. FRANCOISE. How long has he been married? MARCEL. He was born married! FRANCOISE. Tell me. MARCEL. Ten years, I think. FRANCOISE. He's happy. MARCEL. Very. FRAN901SE. What sort of woman is she? MARCEL. Lively. FRANCOISE. Though virtuous? MARCEL. So they say. FRANCOISE. Then Madame Guerin and the handsome M artel eh? MARCEL. A friend's wife? FRAX9OISE. It's very tempting [Marcel seems to take this tcith ill- humor; he is about to put on his hat.] Are you going out? MARCEL. I lunch at the club. FRAN9OISE. Very well. MARCEL. I'm a little nervous ; I need a breath of air. FRAN9OISE. Paris air ! MARCEL. Precisely. FRAN9OISE. And your work? MARCEL. I'm not in the mood. FRAN90ISE. It's only ten days before the Salon: you'll never be ready. MARCEL. What chance have I, with my talent? FRAN90ISE. You have a great deal of talent it's recognized everywhere. MARCEL. I did have. [A pause.] FHAN90ISE. Will you be home for din- ner? MARCEL [tenderly]. Of course! And don't allow any black suspicion to get the better of you: I'm not lunching with anybody ! FRAN90ISE. I suspect you! MARCEL [gratefully]. 'Til later, then! [A pause. Frankly.} Of course, I don't always go where I tell you I'm going. Why should I worry you? But if you think I do what I ought not to do, you are mistaken. I'm no longer a bachelor, you know. FRAN90ISE. Just a trifle, aren't you? MARCEL. No jealousy, dear! The clay of adventures is dead and buried. Thirty- five mortal years, a scarcity of hair, a noticeable rotundity and married! Opportunities are fewer now ! FAN9oisE [playfully]. Don't lose courage, your luck may return. A min- ute would suffice. MARCEL [mournfully]. I don't dare hope. FHAK90ISE. Married! It was never your destiny to be a proprietor, you are doomed to be a tenant. MARCEL [as he is about to leave, sees a letter on the table]. Oh, a letter, and you said nothing to me about it ! FHAN90ISE. I didn't see it. Jean must have brought it while you were asleep. MARCEL. From Passy! I know that hand! [Aside, irifh surprise.] Madame Guerin Madeleine! W T ell! [Reading.] "My dear friend. I lunch to-day with my aunt Madame de Monglat, at La Muette as I used to. Come and see me before noon, I have serious things to discuss with you." [He stops reading; aside, much pleased.] A rendezvous! And after three years! Poor Guerin! No! It wouldn't be decent now! No! FRAN90ISE [aside]. He seems to be waking up ! MARCEL [aside]. They must have re- turned! Fran9oise was right a minute would suffice! The dear girl! FHAX90I8E. No bad news? MARCEL [in tpite of himself]. On the contrary ! FRANCOISE. Oh! MARCEL [embarrassed]. It's from that American woman who saw my picture the other day at Goupil's, you remem- ber? She insists that I give it to her for FRANCOISE' LUCK 57 ten thousand francs. I really think I'll let her have it. Nowadays you never can tell FRANCOISE. I think you would be very wise to sell. MARC-EL [handing her the letter]. Dbn't you believe me? FRANCOISE. Absolutely. [Marcel puts the letter in hts pocket. A pause.} MARCEL [hesitatintj before he leaves; aside.}. She's a darling; a perfect little darling. FRANCOISE. Then you're not going out? MARCEL [surprised]. Do you want to send me away? FRANCOISE. If you're going out to lunch, you had better hurry the train leaves in a few minutes. MARCEL [suddenly affectionate}. How can I hurry when you, are so charming? You're adorable this morning! FRANCOISE D'you think so? [A pause.] MARCEL [aside]. Curious^ but every time I have a rendezvous, she is like that! FRANCOISE. Good-by, then; I've had enough of you! If you stay you'll upset all my plans. I'd quite made up my mind to be melancholy and lonely. It s impossible to be either gay or sad with you! Run along! MARCEL [takiny off his hat, which he had put on some moments before}. I tell you this is my house, and this my studio. Your house is there by the gar- den. FRANCOISE. Yes, it's only there that you arc my husband. MARCEL. Oh! [Reproachfully, and with tenderness.] Tell me, Franeoise, why don't you ever want to go out with me? FRANCOISE. You know I don't like so- ciety. MARCEL. I'm seen so much alone ! FRANCOISE. So much the better for you; you will be taken for a bachelor ! MARCEL. One might think the way you talk, that husband and wife ought never to live together. FRANCOISE. Perhaps I'd see you oftener if we weren't married ! MARCEL. Isn't it a pleasure to you, Madame, to be in the arms of your hus- band? FHANCOISE. Isn't it likewise a pleasure to be able to say, " He is free, I am not his wife, he is not my husband; I am not his duty, a millstone around his neck; I am his avocation, his love? If he leaves me, I know he is tired of me, but if he comes back, then I know he loves me"? MARCEL. Francoise, you are an ex- tremist ! FRANCOISE. You think so? MARCEL. You are. FRANCOISE. Well? MARCEL. I know your philosophy is nothing: but love. [A pause.] You* cry sometimes, don't you? When I'm no't here? FRANCOISE. Just a little. MARCEL. I make you very unhappy ! When you are sad, don't conceal it from me, Francoise; one of your tears would make me do anything in the world for you. FRANCOISE. One, yes! But, many? MARCEL. Don't make fun of me: I am serious. If I told you that my affection for you is as great as yours, I FRANfoisE. You would be lying. MARCEL. Perhaps! But I think I adore you ! Every time I leave you, I feel so lonely; I wander about like" a lost soul ! I think something must be hap- pening to you. And when I come home at midnight, and open the door, I feel an exquisite sensation Is that love? You ought to know you are an adept ! FRANCHISE. Perhaps. MARCEL [unthinkinyly]. You know, Francoise, one can never be sure of one's self. FHANCOISE. Of course ! MARCEL. No one can say, " I love to- day, and I shall love to-morrow." You or any one else. FRANCOISE [offended]. I? MARCEL. How can you tell, whether in fifteen years ? FRANCOISE. Oh, I'm a little child I'm different from the others: I shall always love the same man all his life. But go on, you were saying? MARCEL. Nothing. I want you to be lappy, in spite of everything, no matter what may happen no matter what I nay do. FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE- ACT PLAYS FRANCOISE. Even if you should deceive me? MARCEL [tenderly]. Deceive you? Never! I care nothing about other women! You are my happiness not a mere pastime. FRAXCOISE. Alas! MARCEL. Why alas? FRANCOISE. Because it is easier to do without happiness than pleasure. MARCEL [tenderly]. Oh, you are all that is highest and best in my life. I prefer you to everything else! Let a woman come between us, and she shall have me to deal with ! Call it selfishness, if you will, or egotism but your peace of mind is an absolute necessity to me ! FRAXCOISE. You need not prepare me for the future, you bad boy: I resigned myself to " possibilities " some time ago. I'm inexperienced and young in years, but I'm older than you. MARCEL. Shall I tell you something? I never deserved you ! FRAVCOISE. That's true. MARCEL. When I think how happy you might have made some good and worthy man, and that FRAX90ISE. Who then would have made me happy? MARCEL. You are not happy now. FHANCOISE. I didn't marry for happi- ness; I married in order to have you. MARCEL. I'm a fool ! It would be nice, wouldn't it, if I were an unfaithful husband ! FRANCOISE. I'm sure you will never be that. MARCEL. Do you really think so? FRAXCOISE. I am positive. What would be the use in deceiving me? I should be so unhappy, and you wouldn't be a bit happier. MARCEL. You are right. FRAXCOISE. No, you will not deceive me. To begin with, I have great luck. MARCEL [gayly]. Of course, you have; you don't know how much! FHANCOISE [coquettishly]. Tell me! MARCEL. What a child you are! MARCEL. I should think so! Some- times I imagine that my happiness does not lie altogether in those sparkling eyes of yours, and I try to fall in love with another woman; I fall in deeper and deeper for a week or two, and think I am terribly infatuated. But just as I am about to take the fatal leap, I fail: Francoise' luck, you see! At bottom, I'm a commencer; I can't imagine what it is that saves me and you. Some- times she has done something to displease me, sometimes a divine word from your lips and a mere nothing, something quite insignificant! For instance, Wed- nesday, I missed the train, and came back and had dinner with you. You see, Francoise' luck ! FRAXCOISE. Then you're not going out to-day, are you? MARCEL. Nor to-morrow; the whole day is yours. We'll close the door. FRAXCOISE. Aren't you happy? MARCEL [kissing her behind the ear], Hurry up, you lazy child ! FHAXCOISE. I'm not pretty, but I have my good points. MARCEL. Not pretty? FRANCOISE. No, but I deserve to be. {Madeleine appears at the back.] MADELEINE. I beg your pardon ! [Francoise gives an exclamation of surprise and escapes through the door to the right without looking again at the visitor.] MARCEL [surprised]. Madeleine! [A pause.] MADELEINE [stylishly dressed. With an air of bravura]. So this is the way you deceive me ! MARCEL [gayly]. My dear, if you think that during these three years MADELEINE. I beg your pardon for in- terrupting your little* tete-a-tete, Marcel, but your door was open, and there was no servant to announce me. MARCEL. You know you are always welcome here. MADELEINE. Your wife is very attrac- tive. MARCEL. Isn't she? Shall I introduce you? MADELEINE. Later I've come to see you. MARCEL. I must confess your visit is a little surprising. MADELEINE. Especially after my send- ing that note this morning. I thought I should prefer not to trouble you. MARCEL [uncertain]. Ah! MADELEIXE. Yes. MARCEL. Well? MADELEINE. Well, no! MARCEL. I'm sorry. [Kissing her FRANCOISE' LUCK 59 hand.] Glad to see you, at any rate. MADELEINE. Same studio as always, eh? MARCEL. You are still as charming as ever. MADELEINE. You are as handsome as ever. MARCEL. I can say no less for you. MADELEINE. I'm only twenty-eight. MARCEL. But your husband is fifty: that keeps you young. How long have you been back? MADELEINE. A week. MARCEL. And I haven't seen Guerin yet! MADELEINE. There's no hurry. MARCEL. What's the matter? MADELEINE. He's a bit worried: you know how jealous he is! Well, yester- day, when I was out, he went through all my private papers MARCEL. Naturally he came across some letters. MADELEINE. The letters, my dear ! MARCEL. Mine? MADELEINE. Yes. [Gesture from Mar- cel.} Old letters. MARCEL. You kept them? MADELEINE. From a celebrity? Of course ! MARCEL. The devil! MADELEINE. Ungrateful! MARCEL. I beg your pardon. MADELEINE. You can imagine my ex- planation following the discovery. My dear Marcel, there's going to be a di- vorce. MARCEL. A ! A divorce? MADELEINE. Don't feel too sorry for me. After all, I shall be free and almost happy. MARCEL. Wliat resignation! MADELEINE. Only MARCEL. Only what? MADELEINE. He is going to send you his seconds. MARCEL [gayly]. A duel? To-day? You're not serious? MADELEINE. I think he wants to kill you. MARCEL. But that affair was three years ago! W/hy, to begin with, he hasn't the right! MADELEINE. Because it was so long ago? MARCEL. Three years is three years. MADELEINE. You're right: now you are not in love with his wife: you love your own. Time has changed everything. Now your own happiness is all-sufficient. I can easily understand your indignation against my husband. MARCEL. Oh, I MADELEINE. My husband is slow, but he's sure, isn't be? MARCEL. You're cruel, Madeleine. MADELEINE. If it's ancient history for you, it's only too recent for him! MARCEL. Let's not speak about him ! MADELEINE. But he ought to be a very interesting topic of conversation just now! MARCEL. I hadn't foreseen his feeling so keenly. MADELEINE. You must tell him how sorry you are when you see him. MARCEL. At the duel? MADELEINE. Elsewhere ! MARCEL. Where? Here, in my house? MADELEINE. My dear, he may want to tell you how he feels. [A pause.] MARCEL [aside, troubled]. The devil! And Francoise? [Another , pause.] Oh, a duel! Well, I ought to risk my life for you; you have done the same thing for me many times. MADELEINE. Oh, I was not so careful as you were then. MARCEL. You are not telling me every- thing, Madeleine. Wh it put it into your husband's head to look through your papers? MADELEINE. Ah! MARCEL. Well, evidently 7 couldn't have excited his jealousy. For a long time he has had no reason to suspect me! Were they my letters he was look- ing for? MADELEINE. That is my affair ! MARCEL. Then I am expiating for some one else? MADELEINE. I'm afraid so. MARCEL. Perfect ! MADELEINE. Forgive me! MARCEL [reproachfully]. So you are deceiving him? MADELEINE. You are a perfect friend to-day ! MARCEL. Then you really have a lover? MADELEINE. A second lover ! That would be disgraceful, wouldn't it? MARCEL. The first step always brings the worst consequences. 6o FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS MADELEIXE. What are you smiling at? MARCEL. Oh, the happiness of others! Well, let's have no bitterness. MADELEINE. No, you might feel re- morse ! MARCEL. Oh, Madeleine, why am I not the guilty one this time? You are al- ways so beautiful ! SIADELEIXE. Your f ault ! You should have kept what you had ! MARCEL. I thought you were tired of me. MADELEIXE. You will never know what I suffered; I cried like an abandoned shopgirl ! MARCEL. Not for long, though? MADELEIXE. Three months. When I think I once loved you so much, and here I am before you so calm and indifferent ! You look like anybody else now. How funny, how disgusting life is! You meet some one, do no end of foolish and wicked and mean things in order to be- long to him, and the day comes when you don't know one another. Each takes his turn! I think it would have been better [Gesture from Marcel.] Yes I ought to try to forget everything. MARCEL. That's all buried in the past! Wasn't it worth the trouble, and the suf- fering we have to undergo now? MADELEIXE. You, too! You have to recall ! MARCEL. I'm sorry, but I didn't begin this conversation. MADELEIXE. Never mind ! It's all over, let's say no more about it!- MARCEL. No, please! Let's curse me, Madeleine say anything you like about me: I deserve it all! MADELEINE. Stop! Behave yourself, married man! What if your wife heard you! MARCEL. She? Dear child! She is much too afraid of what I might say to listen. MADELEIXE. Dear child! You cynic! I'll wager you have not been a model husband since your marriage! MARCEL. You are mistaken this time, my dear. MADELEIXE. You are lying! MARCEL. Seriously; and I'm more sur- prised than you at the fact but it's true. MADELEIXE. Poor Marcel! MARCEL. I do suffer! MADELEINE. Then you are a faithful husband? MARCEL. I am frivolous and com- promising that is all. MADELEIXE. It's rather funny: you seem somehow to be ready to belong to some one! MARCEL. Madeleine, you are the first who has come near tempting me. MADELEIXE. Is it possible? MARCEL. I feel myself weakening. MADELEIXE. Thank you so much for thinking of me, dear; I appreciate it, but for the time being, I'll consider. MARCEL. Have you made up your mind? MADELEIXE. We shall see later; I'll think it over perhaps! Yet, I rather doubt if . You haven't been nice to me to-day, your open honest face hasn't pleased me at all. You're so carelessly dressed! I don't think you're interesting any more. No, I hardly think so! MARCEL. But, Madeleine MADELEIXE. Don't call he Madeleine. MARCEL. Madame Guerin! Madame Gue>in ! if I told you how much your note meant to me ! How excited I was ! I trembled when I read it ! MADELEINE. I'll warrant you read it before your wife? MARCEL. It was so charming of you ! MADELEIXE. How depraved you are ! MARCEL. How well you know me ! MADELEINE. Fool ! MARCEL. I adore you ! MADELEIXE. That's merely a notion of yours! You imagine, since you haven't seen me for so long I've j ust come back from a long trip ! MARCEL. Don't shake my faith in you ! MADELEIXE. Think of your duties, my dear; don't forget MARCEL. My children? I have none. MADELEIXE. Your wife. MARCEL [in desperation]. You always speak of her! MADELEIXE. Love her, my friend, and if my husband doesn't kill you to-mor- row, continue to love her in peace and quiet. You are made for a virtuous life now any one can see that. I flatter you when I consider you a libertine. You've been spoiled by too much happi- ness, that's the trouble with you ! MARCEL [/ riling to kiss her]. Made- leine, if you only ! FRANCOISE' LUCK 61 MADELEINE [evading him]. Are you out of your wits? MARCEL. Forgive me: I haven't quite forgotten! Well, if I am killed it will be for a good reason. MADELEINE. Poor dear ! MARCEL. It will! This duel is going to compromise you fearfully. Come now, every one will accuse you to-mor- row; what difference does it make to you? MADELEINE. I'm not in the mood! MARCEL. Now you are lying! MADELEINE. I don't love you. MARCEL. Nonsense! You're sulking! MADELEINE. How childish! Don't touch me! You want me to be unfaith- ful to everybody! Never! [Changing.] Yet ! No; it would be too foolish! Good-by. MARCEL [kissing her as she tries to pass him]. Not before MADELEINE. Oh, you've mussed my hat; how awkward of you! [Trying to escape from Marcel's embrace.] Let me go! MARCEL [jokingly]. Let you go? In a few days ! MADELEINE. Good-by. My husband may come any moment. MARCEL. Are you afraid? MADELEINE. Yes, I'm afraid he might forgive me ! MARCEL. One minute more ! MADELEINE. No! I have just time. I'm going away this evening MARCEL. Going away? MADELEINE. To London. MARCEL. With him, the other? MADELEINE. I hope so. MARCEL. Who knows? He may be waiting for you this moment at Madame de Montglat's, your aunt's MADELEINE. They are playing cards together. MARCEL. The way we are! What a family ! MADELEINE. Impudent! MARCEL. That's why you came. MADELEINE [about to leave]. Shall I go out through the models' door, as I used to? MARCEL. If I were still a bachelor you wouldn't leave me this way ! You would miss your train this evening, I'll tell you that! MADELEINE. You may very well look at that long sofa ! No, no, my dear: not to- day, thanks! MARCEL. In an hour, then, at Madame de Montglat's! MADELEINE. Take care, or I'll make you meet your successor ! MARCEL. Then I can see whether you are still a woman of taste. MADELEINE. Ah, men are very I'll say the word after I leave. [She goes out through the little door.] MARCEL [alone]. "Men are very !" If we were, the women would have a very stupid time of it ! [He is about to follow Madeleine.] [Enter Franqoise.] FRANCHISE. Who was that stylish look- ing woman who just left, Marcel? MARCEL [embarrassed], Madame Jackson, my American friend. FRANCOISE. Well? MARCEL. My picture? Sold! FRANCOISE. Ten thousand? Splendid! Don't you think so? You don't seem very happy! MARCEL. The idea ! [He picks up his hat.] FRANCOISE [jealously]. Are you going to leave me? MARCEL. I am just going to Goupil's and tell him. FRANCOISE. Then I'll have to lunch all by myself! [Marcel stops an in- stant before (he mirror.] You look lovely. MARCEL [turning round], I FHANCOISE. Oh, you'll succeed! [A pause.] MARCEL [enchanted, in spite of him- self]. What can you be thinking of! [Aside.] What if she were after all my happiness? [Reproachfully.] Now, Francoise FRANCOISE. I was only joking. MABCEL [ready to leave]. No moping, remember? I can't have that! FRANCOISE. I know! MARCEL [tenderly. He stands at the threshold. Aside], Poor child! Well I may fail ! [He goes out, left.] FRANCOISE [sadly]. \Vhere is he go- ing? Probably to a rendezvous. Oh, if he is! Will my luck fail me to-day? Soon he'll come back again, so well satis- fied with himself! I talk to him so much about my resignation, I wonder 62 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS whether he believes in it? Why must I be tormented this way forever? [Enter Jean, with a visiting-card.] JEAN. Is Monsieur here? FRANgoisE. Let me see ! [She takes the card.] JEAN. The gentleman is waiting, Ma- dame. FRAxgoisE. Ask him to come in. Quick, now ! [Jean goes out.] [Enter Guerin, at the back. As he sees Fran^oise he hesitates before coming to her.} FRANCHISE [cordially]. Come in, Mon- sieur. I have never seen you, but I al- ready know you very well. GUERIX [a large, strong man, with grayish hair}. Thank you, Madame. I thought I should find Monsieur Des- roches at home. If you will excuse me FRAXCOTSE. I beg you! GUERIX. I fear I am intruding: it's so early. FRAxgoisE. You intruding in Marcel's home ? GUERIX. Madame FHAXCOISE. My husband will return soon, Monsieur. GUERIX [brightening]. Good! FRAX^OISE. Will you wait for him here in the studio? GUERIX [advancing}. Really, Madame, it would be most ungrateful of me to refuse your kindness. FRAKCOISE. Here are magazines and newspapers I shall ask to be excused. [As she is about to leave.] It was rather difficult to make you stay! GUERIX. Forgive me, Madame. [A. side ironically.] Too bad! She's de- cidedly charming ! [Having gone up-stage, Franqoise suddenly returns.} FRAXCOISE. It seems a little strange to you, Monsieur doesn't it? to see a woman in this bachelor studio quite at home? GUERIX. Why, Madame FRAX90ISE. Before leaving you which I shall do in a moment you must know that there is one woman who is very glad to know you have returned to Paris ! GUEHIX. We just arrived this week. FRAXCOISE. Good ! GUERIX [ironically]. It's so long since I've seen Marcel. FRAN90ISE. Three years. GtERix. So many things have hap- pened since ! FRAxgoiSE. You find him a married man, for one thing GUEHIX. Happily married! FHAXCOISE. Yes, happily ! GUERIX. Dear old Marcel! I'll be so glad to see him! FRAXCOISE. I see you haven't forgot- ten my husband, Monsieur. Thank you ! GUEHIX. How can I help admiring so stout and loyal a heart as his ! FRAXCOTSE. You'll have to like me, too! GUERIX. I already do. FRAXCOISE. Really? Then you believe everything you write? GUEHIX. Yes, Madame. FRAXCOISE. Take care! This morning I was re-reading one of your letters, in which you promised me your heartiest support. [Offering him her hand.] Then we're friends, are we not? GUERIX [after hesitating, takes her hand]. Good friends, Madame! FRAXCOISE. Word of honor? GUERIX. Word of honor ! FRAX90ISE [sitting]. Then I'll stay. Sit down, and let's talk. [Guerin is un- certain.] We have so much to say to each other ! Let's talk about you first. GUERIX [forced to sit down]. About me? But I FRAXCOISE. Yes, about you. GUERIX [quickJy], No, about your happiness, your welfare. FRAXCOISE. About my great happi- ness ! GUERIX [ironically]. Let us speak about your existence with which you are so content. I must know all the happiness of this house! FRAXCOISE. Happy people never have anything to say. GUERIX. You never have troubles, I presume? FRAXCOISE. None, so far. GUERIX. But what might happen? To-day you are living peacefully with Marcel, a man whose marriage was, it seems, strongly opposed. Life owes you no more than it has already given you. FRAX9O1SE. My happiness is com- plete. I had never imagined that a man's goodness could make a woman so happy ! Gt'ERiN. Goodness? FRAMBOISE. Of course ! GUERIN. Love, you mean Madame ! FRANCOISE. Oh, Marcel's love for me ! GUEHIN. Something lacking? FRANCOISE. No ! GUERIN [interested]. Tell me. Am I not your friend? FRANCOISE. Seriously, Monsieur, you know him very well: how could he be in love with me? Is it even possible? He allows one to love him, and I ask nothing more. GUERIN. Nothing? FRAN^OISE. Only to be allowed to con- tinue. [Gesture from Gufrin.] I am not like other women. I don't ask for rights; but I do demand tenderness, and consideration. He is free, I am not I'll admit that. But I don't mind, I only hope that we may continue as we are ! GUERIN. Have you some presenti- ment, Madame? FRANCOISE. I am afraid, Monsieur. My happiness is not of the proud, de- monstrative variety, it is a kind of hap- piness that is continually trembling for its safety. If I told you GUERIN. Do tell me! FRANCOISE. Later! .How I pity any one who loves and has to suffer for it! GUERIN [surprised]. You- ! FRANCOISE. I am not on the side of the jealous, of the betrayed GUEHIN [aside, sympathetically]. Poor little woman! [With great sincerity.] Then you are not sure of him? FRANCOISE [more and more excited]. He is Marcel! Admit for a moment that he loves me to-day I want so to believe it! To-morrow will he love me? Does he himself know whether he will love me then? Isn't he at the mercy of a whim, a passing fancy of the weather, or the appearance of the first woman he hap- pens to meet? I am only twenty, and I am not always as careful as I might be. Happiness is so difficult! GUERIN. Yes, it is. [To himself.] It is! [To Franqoise.] Perhaps you are conscientious, too sincere? FRANCOISE. I feel that; yes, I think I am, but every time I try to hide my affection from him, he becomes indiffer- ent, almost mean as if he were glad to be relieved of a duty of being good ! GUERIN. So it's come to that! FRANOISE. You see, Marcel can't get used to the idea that his other life is over, dead and buried, that he's married for good that he must do as others do. I do my best and tell him, but my very presence only reminds him of his duties as a husband. For instance [interrupt- ing herself]. Here I am telling you all this GUERIN. Oh ! Please. FRANCOISE [bitterly]. He likes to go out alone at night, without me. He knows me well enough to understand that his being away makes me very unhappy, and as a matter of form, of common courtesy, he asks me to go with him. I try to reason and convince myself that he doesn't mean what he says, but I can'l help feeling sincerely happy when once in a while I do accept his invitation. But the moment we leave the house I realize my mistake. Then he pretends to be in high spirits, but I know all the time he is acting a part; and when we come home again he lets drop without fail some hint about having lost his lib- erty; he says he took me out in a mo- ment of weakness, that he really wanted to be alone. GUERIN [interrupting]. And when he does go out alone? FRANCHISE. Then I am most unhappy; I'm in torment for hours and hours. I wonder where he can be, and then I'm afraid he won't come back at all. When the door opens, when I hear him come in, I'm so happy I pay no attention to what he tells me. But I made a solemn vow never to show the least sign of jeal- ousy. My face is always tranquil, and what I say to him never betrays what I feel. I never knowingly betray myself, but his taking way, his tenderness, soon make me confess every fear; then he turns round and, using my own confes- sion as a weapon, shows me how wrong I am to be afraid and suspicious. And when sometimes I say nothing to him, even when he tries to make me confess, he punishes me most severely by telling me stories of his affairs, narrow escapes, and all his temptations. He once told me about an old mistress of his, whom FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS he had just seen, a very clever woman, who was never jealous! Or else he comes in so late that I must be glad, for if he came in later, it would have been all night ! He tells me he had some splendid opportunity, and had to give it up ! A thousand things like that! He seems to delight in making me suspect and doubt him! GUERIX. Poor little woman ! FRANCOISE. That's my life; as for my happiness, it exists from day to day. [With determination.] If I only had the right to be unhappy! But I must al- ways smile, I must be happy, not only in his presence, but to the very depths of my soul! So that he may deceive me without the least remorse! It is his pleasure! [She bursts into tears.] GUERIX [rising]. The selfish brute! FHAXCOISE. Isn't my suffering a re- proach to him? GUEHIX. I pity you, Madame, and I think I understand you better than any one else. I have trouble not unlike your own; perhaps greater, troubles for which there is no consolation. FRAX90ISE. If you understand me, Monsieur, advise me ! I need you ! GUERIX [startled back into reality]. Me, help you? I? [Aside.] No! FRANCHISE. You spoke of your friend- ship. The time has come, prove that it is genuine ! GUERIX. Madame, why did I ever see you? Why did I listen to you? FRAXCOISE. What have you to re- gret? GUERIX. Nothing, Madame, nothing. FHAXCOISE. Explain yourself, Mon- sieur. You you make me afraid ! GUEHIX [trying to calm her suspi- cions]. Don't cry like that! There is no reason why you should behave that way ! Your husband doesn't love you as he ought, but he does love you. You are jealous, that's what's troubling you. But for that matter, why should he deceive you? That would be too unjust. FRAXCOISE [excited]. Too unjust! You are right, Monsieur ! No matter how cynical, how blase a man may be, isn't it his duty, his sacred duty, to say to himself, " I have found a good and true woman in this world of deceptions; she is a woman who adores me, who is only too ready to invent any excuse for me! She bears my name and honors it; no matter what I do, she is always true, of that I am positive. I am always fore- I most in her thoughts, and I shall be her j only love." When a man can say all I that, Monsieur, isn't that real, true hap- ' piness? GUERIX [sobbing]. Yes that is hap- piness ! FRAXCOISE. You are crying! [A pause.] GUERIX. My wife deceived me ! FRAXCOISE. Oh! [A pause.] Marcel GUERIX. Your happiness is in no dan- ger ! Yesterday I found some old letters, in a desk old letters that was all ! You weren't his wife at the time. It's ancient history. FRAX9O1SE [aside]. Who knows? GUERIX. Forgive me, Madame; your troubles remind me of my own. When you told of the happiness you still have to give, I couldn't help thinking of what I had lost! FRAXCOISE. So you have come to fight a duel with my husband? GUERIX. Madame FRAXCOISE. You are going to fight him? Answer me. GUERIX. My life is a wreck now I must FRAXCOISE. I don't ask you to forget; Monsieur GUERIX. Don't you think I have a right? FRAXCOISE. Stop ! GUERIX. I shall not try to kill him. You love him too much ! I couldn't do it now. In striking him I should be in- juring you, and you don't deserve to suffer; you have betrayed no one. The happiness you have just taught me to know is as sacred and inviolable as my honor, my unhappiness. I shall not seek" revenge. FRAXCOISE [gratefully]. Oh, Monsieur. GUERIN. I am willing he should live, because he is so dear, so necessary to you. Keep him. If he wants to spoil your happiness, his be the blame ! I shall not do it. It would be sacrilege. Good-by, Madame, good-by. [Gujrin goes out, back, Franqoise falls into a chair, sobbing.] [Enter Marcel by the little door.] FRANCOISE' LUCK MARCEL [aside, with a melancholy air]. Refused to see me! FRAXCOISE [distinctly]. Oh, it's you! MARCEL [good-humoredly]. Yes, it's I. [A pause. He goes toward her.] You have been crying! Have you seen Guerin? He's been here! FRAXCOISE. Marcel! MARCEL. Did he dare tell you! FRAXCOISE. You won't see any more of him. MARCEL [astounded]. He's not going to fight? FRANCOISE. He refuses. MARCEL. Thank you ! FRAXCOISE. I took good care of your dignity, you may be sure of that. Here we were together; I told him the story of my life during the last year how I loved you and then he broke down. When I teamed the truth, he said he would go away for my happiness' sake. MARCEL. I was a coward to deceive that man ! Is this a final sentence that you pass on me? FRAXCOISE. Marcel! MARCEL. Both of you are big! You have big hearts. I admire you both more than I can say. FRAXCOISE [incredulously]. Where are you going? To get him to fight with you? MARCEL [returning to her; angrily]. How can I, now? After what you have done, it would be absurd. Why the devil did you have to mix yourself up in some- thing that doesn't concern you? I was only looking for a chance to fight that duel! FRAXCOISE. Looking for a chance? MARCEL. Oh, I FRAXCOISE. Why? MARCEL [between his teeth]. That's my affair ! Everybody has his enemies his insults to avenge. It was a very good thing that gentleman didn't happen across my path ! FRAXCOISE. How dare you recall what he has been generous enough to for- get? MARCEL. How do you know that I haven't a special reason for fighting this duel? A legitimate reason, that must be concealed from you? FRAXCOISE. You are mistaken, dear: I guess that reason perfectly. MAHCEL. Really? FRAXCOISE. I know it. MARCEL [bursting forth]. Oh! Good! You haven't always been so frightfully profound. FRAXCOISE. Yes, I have, and your irony only proves that I have not been so much mistaken in what I felt by intuition. MARCEL. Ah, marriage. FHAX90ISE. Ah, duty! MARCEL. I love Madame Gue>in, don't I? FHANCOISE. I don't say that. MARCEL. You think it. FHAXCOISE. And if I do? Would it be a crime to think it? You once loved her perhaps you have seen her again, recently? Do I know where you go? You never tell me. MARCEL. I tell you too much ! FRAXCOISE. I think you do. MARCEL. You're jealous! FRAXCOISE. Common, if you like. Come, you must admit, Marcel, Madame Guerin is in some way responsible for your excitement now? MARCEL. Very well then, I love her, I adore her! Are you satisfied? FRAXCOISE. You should have told me that first, my dear; I should never have tried to keep you away from her. [She breaks into tears.] MARCEL. She's crying! Good, there's liberty for you ! FRAXCOISE [bitterly]. Liberty? I did not suffer when I promised you your lib- erty. MARCEL. That was your " resigna- tion." FRANCOISE. You knew life, I did not. You ought never to have accepted it! MARCEL. You're like all the rest! FRANCOISE [more excited]. Doesn't un- happiness level us all? MARCEL. I see it does ! FRANCOISE. What can you ask for, then? So long as you have no great hap- piness like mine you are ready enough to make any sacrifice, but when once you have it, you never resign yourself to los- ing it. MARCEL. That's just the difficulty. FRAN9OISE. Be a little patient, dear: I have not yet reached that state of cyni- cism and subtlety which you seem to want in your wife I thought I came near to your ideal once ! Perhaps there's some hope for me yet: I have promised 66 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS myself to do my best to satisfy your ideal. MARCEL [moved]. 1 don't ask that. FnAN9oisE. You are right, I am very foolish to try to struggle. What is the good? It will suffice when I have lost the dearest creature on earth through my foolishness, my blunders! MARCEL. The dearest creature? FRANCOISE. I can't help it if he seems so to me ! MARCEL [disarmed] . You you're try- ing to appeal to my vanity ! FRAN9OISE. I am hardly in the mood for joking. MARCEL [tenderly, as he kneels at her feet]. But you make me say things like that I don't now what! I am not bad really bad ! No, I have not deceived you ! I love you, and only you ! You ! You know that, Francoise ! Ask ask any woman ! All women ! [A pause.} FRANCOISE [smiling through her tears}. Best of husbands ! You're not going out then? You'll stay? MARCEL [in. Framboise's arms]. Can I go now, now that I'm here? You are so pretty that I FRAN90ISE. Not when I'm in trouble. MARCEL. Don't cry ! FRANCOISE. I forgive you! MARCEL. Wait, I haven't confessed everything. FRANCOISE. Not another word! MARCEL. I want to be sincere. FRAN9OISE. I prefer you to lie to me! MARCEL. First, read this note the one I received this morning. FRAN9OISE [surprised]. From Madame Gue"rin? MARCEL. You saw her not long ago. Yes, she calmly told me FRAN90ISE. That her husband had found some letters! MARCEL. And that she was about to leave for England with her lover. FRAN9OISE. Then she is quite consoled? MARCEL. Perfectly. FRAN9OISE. Poor Marcel! And you want to see her and try to prevent her going away with him? MARCEL. My foolishness was well pun- ished. She wouldn't receive me. FRANCOISE. Then I am the only one left who loves you? How happy I am! MARCEL. I'll kill that love some day with my ridiculous philandering! FRANCOISE [gravely], I defy you! MARCEL [playfully]. Then I no longer have the right to provoke Monsieur Guerin? Now? FRAN9OISE [gayty]. You are growing old, Lovelace, his wife has deceived you ! MARCEL [lovingly]. Frangoise' luck! [Sadly.] Married! [Curtain.] ALTRUISM A SATIRE BY KARL ETTLINGER TRANSLATED BY BEXJAMIX F. GLAZER. Copyright, 1920, by Benjamin F. Glazer. All rights reserved. The first performance of ALTRUISM was given by The Stage Society of Philadelphia at the Little Theatre, Philadelphia, on January 28, 1916, with the following cast: A BEGGAR Henry C. Sheppard A WAITER E. Ryland Carter A YOUNG MAX William II . McClure A COCOTTE Sylvia Loeb. A PARISIAN Edward B. Latimer His WIFE Florence Bernstein THEIR CHILD Jean Massey AN ARTIST Theron J. Bamberger AN AMERICAN William J. Holt A GENTLEMAN Caspar W. Briggs ANOTHER GENTLEMAN N orris W. Corey A PICKPOCKET Walter E. Endy A GENDARME William II. Russell ANOTHER GENDARME Frederick Cowperthwaite A WORKINGMAN Walter D. Dalsimer A FLOWER GIRL Katherine Kennedy A PASSING LADY C. Warren Briggs A BYSTANDER Charles E. Sommer AN OLD LADY Paulyne Brinkman A GRISETTE Florence M. Lyman [TIME: The present. PLACE: A Parisian Caf by the Seine.] Produced under the direction of Benjamin F. Glazer. Scene designed by H. Devitt Welsh. Costumes designed by Martha G. Speiser. CHARACTERS A BEGGAR A COCOTTE A TOWNSMAN A WAITER A TOWNSVVOMAN A WORKINGMAN THEIR SEVEN-YEAR-OLD SON A YOUNG MAN AN ARTIST Two OFFICERS AN AMERICAN THE CROWD PLACE: Paris. TIME: Present. On the banks of the Seine. The play was later produced by the Washington Square Players, at the Comedy Theatre, Xcw York City. The professional and amateur stage' rights are reserved by the translator, Mr. Benjamin F. Glazer, Editorial Department, The Press, Phila- delphia, Pa., to whom all requests for permission to produce the play should be made. ALTRUISM A SATIRE [7n the background the end of a pier. On a post hangs a rope and a life buoy. Close by the Beggar is sitting on the floor. At right a street cafe; two tables stand under the open sky on the street. At one of the tables sits the Waiter, read- ing a newspaper. At the other sits the Cocotte and the blond Young Man. At left on a public bench sits the Artist. He has a sketch book and pencil with which he is drawing the Cocotte, who has no- ticed it and is flirting with him.] [Lady xes from Left to Right.] [Man xes from Right to Left.] BEGGAR Kind sir, have pity while you can, Remember the old beggar man^ The poor beggar man. WAITER [sitting at table, R. C., looks up from his newspaper]. Shut up! BEGGAR. Don't get fresh! I was once a head waiter ! WAITER. That must have been a fine place. BEGGAR. It was too. I traveled all around the world as a waiter. I saw better days before I became a beggar. YOUXG MAX [at table Left, fondly to the Cocotte]. Indeed if I were a mil- lionaire my word of honor I would buy you an automobile. Nothing would be too dear for you. COCOTTE [at table Left]. My darling Kangaroo. How liberal you are. I am sure I am your first love. YOUNG MAN. Yes you are that is if I don't count the cook who has been at our house for five years yes, on my word of honor. [He finishes in pantomime.] BEGGAR [to Waiter] : Yes, yes, one goes down. Life is a tight rope dance before you look around you've lost your balance, and are lying in the dirt. WAITER [laying aside the paper]. You BY KARL ETTLINGER ought to go to work. That would do you more good than talking. BEGGAR. I've tried working too. But work for our kind is the surest way to remain poor. And, do you know, beg- ging is no pleasure either. To get the money centime by centime and no rest from the police well, well, if I'm born into this world again I will become a government official. [A man passes. Enter lady from Left. Stops lady Center. Sings and holds out his hat.] The rich man in his banquet hall, Has everything I long for ! The poor man gets the scraps that fall; That's what I sing this song for. Kind sir, have pity while you can [Man exit Left.] Do you see? he doesn't give me any- thing! (Social enlightenment ends with the lower classes. That is where need is greatest and the police are thickest.) YOUXG MAX [to the COCOTTE]. I would buy you a flying machine too, but you shouldn't fly alone in it Ah, to soar with you a thousand meters above the earth and far and wide nothing only you and our love COCOTTE. What a wonderful boy you are. [She flirts with the Artist.] BEGGAR. How often have I wanted to commit suicide. But why should I grat- ify my fellow man by doing that? sui- cide is the one sin I can see nothing funny in. I always say to myself, so long as there's a jail one can never starve. WAITER. You have no dignity. BEGGAR. No. My dignity was taken away from me ten years ago by the law. But I'm not so sure I want it back. WAITER [in disgust], I ought to call the cops and have them drive you away from here. BEGGAR [confidentially]. You wouldn't FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS do that. Only yesterday I paid my col- leagues 20 " francs for this place. [Searches in his pockets.] Here is a re- ceipt. I won't go away from here un- less the police carry me away in their arms. The police seem to be the only people who make a fuss over me these days. [Lauyhs.] WAITER. Disgusting old beggar. Why on earth such people [The rent is lost in his teeth.] [The Townsman, the Townswoman, and their child enter. The Towns- man carries the child on his shoul- der and is perspiring from the exertion.] [Waiter X to Right of Table. Bey- gar goes up stage Center.] TOWNSWOMAN [center Left with boy; sighs]. That is all I have to say, just let me come to that. Just let me come to it. On the spot I'll get a divorce. TOWNSMAN [following her], -Give me your word of honor on it. TOWNSWOMAN. Now I know what they mean when they say that all men were polygamists. TOWNSMAN. Calm yourself, old woman. It's all theoretical that married women are good cooks and married men are polygamists. BEGGAR. The rich man in his banquet hall Has everything I long for ! The poor . . . TOWNSMAN. Let him banquet in peace. [They sit at the table from which the Waiter has just risen.] CHILD. I want to give the poor man something. Papa! Money! Papa! Money! TOWNSWOMAN [kisses child]. A heart of gold has my little Phillip. A disposi- tion like butter. He gets that from me. TOWNSMAN. What? Asking for money or the oleo margerine disposition? CHILD. When I give the poor man something he makes a funny face and I have to laugh. Papa, money ! TOWNSMAN. Since I've been married I make all kinds of faces, but no one gives me anything. [Searches in his pocket book.] Too bad, I've nothing- smaller than a centime piece. TOWNSWOMAN. Of course, you'd rather bring up our Phillip to have a heart of stone. Children should be taught to love people. They must be brought up in that way to have regard and respect for the most unfortunate fellow beings How that woman is perfumed. Women like that shouldn't be permitted in the city. YOUNG MAN [to the Cocotle], I would buy you two beautiful air ships, a half moon for week days and a star for Sun- days. All my millions I would lay at your feet. [Raising his hand.] Waiter another glass of water, please. COCOTTE. I'd like to kiss you, my little wild horse. [Waiter dusts table, Right Center. Flirts with the Artist.] [Child, Man and Wife sit at table Right Center.] WAITKR [to the Townsman]. What can I bring you? TOWNSWOMAN. For the child, a glass of milk, but be sure it's well cooked. [To the Child.] A little glass of good ninni for my darling, a glass of ninni from the big moo cow. TOWNSMAN [mocking her]. And for me a glass of red wine a little glass of good red wine for the big moo-ox. TOWNSWOMAN [a?iyry]. That's just like you. Begrudge a glass of milk to your own child naturally so long as you have your cigar and your wine TOWNSMAN. My dear, I hereby give little Phillip permission to drink three cows dry. And of my next week's wages, you may buy him a whole herd of cows. CHILD. I want chocolate! Chocolate, mama ! TOWNSMAN. You shall have it. As much as you want; Wouldn't you per- haps like to have a glass of champagne, little Phillip and a Henry Clay cigar and a salad made of a big moo-chicken? YOUNG MAN [getting up, x to Center. Jumps up and runs to the Artist]. Sir! Sir! This is unheard of. You've been drawing this lady all the time. She is a respectable lady, do you understand? For all you know she may be my wife. ARTIST [phlegmaticalli/]. More than that for all I know she may be your mother. YOUNG MAN [stammering]. My dear sir I must call you to account what do you mean by ARTIST. Why are you so excited? Isn't it a good likeness? ALTRUISM YOUNG MAX [confused]. Of course, it's a good likeness, that is I ask you, sir, how dare you to draw a picture of my bride? TOWNSWOMAN. These young people are quarreling. You always bring me to places like this. We can never go out together but there's a scandal. COCOTTE [who has drawn near and is examining the drawing}. I like that. I'd like to own the drawing. ARTIST. My dear lady, if it would give you any pleasure . . . COCOTTE. I couldn't think of taking it. [To the boy.] Buy me the picture. Sweetheart, will you buy it for me? YOUNG MAN. I don't think much of it. You are far, far prettier. CocorrE. You won't refuse me this one little request. How much do you ask for the picture? ARTIST. I hadn't thought of selling it but because it is such a good likeness of you, ten francs. But you must prom- ise that in return you will sit for me again [With emphasis.] perhaps at my studio. To-morrow at noon? COCOTTE. Gladly! Very gladly! [The young man pays for the sketch.] Would you care to sit down and have something with us? ARTIST. If your fianc6 doesn't object? YOUNG MAN [coldly]. Charmed! [The three sit.] THE CHILD. The chocolate is no good. I want some moo milk. TOWNSMAN. In a minute, I'll take my moo stick and tan your moo hide. AMERICAN. [Enters leading a dog on a leash.] [From Left x Center.] BEGGAR [sinys], The rich man his banquet hall Has everything I long for, The poor man gets the crumbs that fall, That's what I sing this song for. Kind sir, have pity while you can, Remember the old beggar man, The poor beggar man. AMERICAN. [Has listened to the entire song impassively.] Are you through? Waiter, put a muzzle on this man. [x to Table Right.] TOWNSWOMAN. That is what I call an elegant man. I have always wanted you to have a suit made like that. Ask him where he got it and what it cost. TOWNSMAN. I couldn't ask an utter stranger what his clothes cost. TOWNSWOMAN. Of course not, but if it was a woman you would have been over there long ago. CHILD. Mama, the bow-wow dog is biting me. TOWNSWOMAN. My dear sir, your dog is biting my son. AMERICAN. You're mistaken, madame. My dog has been carefully trained to eat none other than boiled meat. ARTIST [to the Young Man]. Pardon me for asking but is the lady your wife or your fiance 1 ? AMERICAN [sits, puts his legs on the two extra chairs]. Waiter! Gar?on! Bring me a quart of Cliquot, and bring my dog a menu card. [At the word "Cliquot" the Cocotte looks up and begins to flirt with the American.] CHILD. The bow-wow dog is making faces at me. TOWNSWOMAN. Look here, sir, your dog is certainly about to bite my child. AMERICAN [lights his pipe]. How much does your child cost? TOWNSWOMAN. Cost! My child! Did you ever hear of such a thing? I want you to understand that my child p AMERICAN. Waiter ! Tell this woman not to shout so! How much does your child cost? TOWNSWOMAN. My child costs noth- ing! Do you understand? AMERICAN. Well, your child costs nothing my dog costs eight dollars. Think that over is your son a thor- oughbred? My dog is of the purest breed think that over if your son hurts my dog I'll hold you responsible. Think that over. [Fills his glass.] COCOTTE. What do you think that man to be, little mouse? YOUNG MAN. A full blooded Ameri- can. ARTIST. I should say he's a German who has spent two weeks in New York. TOWNSWOMAN. Aristide, are you go- ing to sit there and permit your defense- less wife to be insulted like that? TOWNSMAN. As long as you have your tongue, my dear, you are not defense- less. TOWNSWOMAN. It is your business to talk to him. [Kisses the Child.] My 72 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS poor little Phillip! Your father is no man. TOWNSMAN. I was before I got mar- ried. [Crosses to the American.] Sir, my name Is Aristide Beaurepard. AMERICAN. Is that my fault? TOWNSMAN. I am the father of a fam- ily- AMERICAN. I am very sorry for you, indeed. TOWNSMAN. I have a wife and chil- dren AMERICAN. You have only yourself to blame. TOWNSMAN. Your dog AMERICAN. I have no desire to dis- cuss dogs with you. I don't believe you know anything about thoroughbred dogs. Waiter, sit this man down in his place. TOWNSMAN. This is I must say, this is- WAITER. Monsieur, you must not make a racket around you. This is a first class establishment. A real prince once dined here, I would have you understand. Come on now, if you please. [Leads Townsman back to his seat.] TOWNSMAN [sits unwillingly]. Not a centime tip will that fellow get from me. Not a centime. AMERICAN. Waiter, Waiter, bring my dog a portion of liver, and not too fat. And a roast potato. BEGGAR. [Coming down C.] [Jumps up, cries out widly.] I can't stand any more. For eight days I have not had a warm morsel of food in my stom- ach. I am not a human being any more. I'll kill myself. [Runs to the edye of the dock and jumps overboard.] [The splash of the water is heard. The Townswoman and the Waiter call " help, help!" Whereupon, from every side a crowd collects so that the entire back- ground is filled with people staring into the water.] TOWNSWOMAN. For God's sake he has thrown himself into the Seine. Oh, God ! Oh, God ! OMNES. He's in the river! AMERICAN. [At table Right.] Wliat a noisy place this is. [Townsman at center throws off his coat and is unbuttoning his vest when his wife seizes him.] TOWNSWOMAN. [Center.] [Whimper- ing.] Aristide, remember you have a wife and children. TOWNSMAN. That is why I want to do it. TOWXSWOMAN. Aristide, I'll jump in after you as true as I live I'll jump in after you. TOWNSMAN. [Slowly puts his coat on again.] Then I won't do it. [Goes with her into the crowd.] A VOICE. Get the life buoy. [Willing hands try to unloosen the life buoy, but it sticks.] ANOTHER VOICE. Let that life buoy alone. Don't you see the sign " Do not touch"? A MAN. The buoy is no good. It will not work. ANOTHER MAN. Of course not. It's city property. COCOTTE [shuddering]. I can't look at it. [Comes back to her table.] A WOMAN. Look ! He's come up ! Over there ! CHILD. I can't see. TOWNSWOMAN. My little heart of gold [to her husband]. Why don't you lift him up? Don't you hear that the child can't see? [Townsman takes the child on his shoulder.] YOUNG MAN [coming back to table]. These people are utterly heartless. It is revolting. AMERICAN [loudly]. I'll bet twenty- dollars he drowns. Who'll take the bet? Twenty dollars. YOUNG MAN. Are you a man or a beast? AMERICAN. Young man, better shut your mouth. [Fills his glass.] YOUNG MAN. Does no one hear know the meaning of Altruism? ARTIST. Altruism! Ha, ha! [Laughs scornfully.] Love of one's neighbor. God preserve mankind from Altruism ! COCOTTE. What do you mean? You are not in earnest? ARTIST. In dead earnest. [Some one in the crowd brings a boat hook and reaches down into the river.] AMERICAN. I'll bet twenty-five dollars that he doesn't drown thirty dollars! [Disgustedly, seeing that no one takes him up.] Tightwads ! ARTIST. Life is like that. One man's success is another man's failure. He who sacrifices himself for an idea is a ALTRUISM 73 hero. He who sacrifices himself for a fellow man is a fool. YOUNG MAN [theatrically]. No, it is the highest, the noblest of instincts. That is why my heart bleeds when I see all these people stand indifferently by while a fellow man is drowning. No one jumps in after him AMERICAN. Jump in yourself, young man, jump in yourself. YOUNG MAN [center]. It is differ- ent with me, I am with a lady it wouldn't be right. AMERICAN. Nobody will bet. This is a hell of a bunch. They ought to see one of our nigger lynchings. [Strokes the dog.] Poor Molly! She is so nerv- ous. Things like this get her all excited. [Two Policemen enter.] FIRST POLICEMAN. Look at the mob. Something is liable to happen there. SECOND POLICEMAN. Isn't it forbidden for such a mob to gather on the dock? FIRST POLICEMAN. Sure, it's against the law. Why shouldn't it be? SECOND POLICEMAN [shaking their heads]. This is no place for us. [Exit Left.] ARTIST [to the Young Man]. Does it begin to dawn on you that true love of one's neighbor would not only be mo- notonous but unbearable as well. YOUNG MAN. Out there a man is drowning and you stand there moral- izing. ARTIST. Why not? We read a dozen suicides every day. [x to Chair Left.} Yet we go home and eat our dinner with undiminished relish. Why then senti- mentalize over a drowning beggar? I wouldn't rescue a man who had fallen into the water much less one who had jumped in. YOUNG MAN {passionately}. Sir I despise you! [Goes into the crowd.] [A man has succeeded in prying up the life buoy, now he throws it into the water with the warning cry '' Look out."] ARTIST. Love of one's neighbor is a mask. A mask that people wear to hide from themselves their real faces. AMERICAN [x to Artist Left]. No, I don't agree with you. I am strong for love of one's neighbor. Indeed, the Bible tells us to love our neighbor as ourselves. Oh, I am very strong for it. I go to Church on Sundays in the U. S. A. I never touch a drop in the U. S. A. VOICE. The life buoy is sinking. ANOTHER VOICE. That's why they call it a life buoy. [Laughter.] COCOTTE [sympathetically]. How in- terestingly you talk. I love Americans. AMERICAN. We have two kinds of neighborly love back home. Neighborly love that makes for entertaining and dancing, and neighborly love that you read about next day in the news- papers. OMNES [ Workingman who has just entered.] [Right.] What's the matter here? [Elbows his way through the crowd.] Make way there! Let me through! [Throws of coat, tightens his belt, spits in his hand and jumps into the water.] [Great excitement.] YOUNG MAN [center]. [Ecstatical- ly.] A hero! A hero! AMERICAN [loudly but indifferently]. I'll bet sixty dollars that both of them drown ! Seventy ! Seventy-five ! [Con- temptuously.] I can't get a bet around here. I'm going back to America. [The Artist goes into the crowd.] COCOTTE [at table Left, alone with American]. Going back so soon? AMERICAN. As soon as I have seen Paris. Wouldn't you like to show me the town? I'll meet you to-morrow at four in front of the Opera House. COCOTTE. I'll be there. I like Americans. THE MOB [cheering]. He's got him! Hurrah! [The pole is outstretched.] AMERICAN. I'd like to know how much longer that waiter means to keep my dog waiting for her order of liver, [a; to table Right.] YOUNG MAN [comes down to table, joy- fully]. He is saved; thank God he is saved. Weren't you sorry at all when that poor wretch jumped into the river? AMERICAN. Young man, is it my river? THE MOB [cheering again]. Hurrah! [Great excitement.] [The Workingman and the Beggar are dragged dripping out of the water. They help the Beggar to a chair.] WORKINGMAN [center]. [Shaking him- self.] That was no easy job. A WOMAN [left, center]. Take care what you are doing. You are wetting my whole dress. 74 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS BEGGAR. [Left.] [Whimpering.] Oh! Oh ! Oh ! YOUNG MAN [left]. [Shaking the Working-man's hand.} You are a noble fellow. I saw how brave you were. WORKING-MAN [business like]. Did you? Then give me your name and ad- dress. YOUNG MAN [{fives him a card]. Jules Leboeof, Rue a'Hautevillc. WORKINGMAN. Who else saw it? BEGGAR. Oh! Oh! Oh! WORKINGMAN. Shut your mouth. Your turn comes next. Who else saw me save him? TOWNSMAN. [R. C.] Aristide Beaure- pard, Rue de Lagny, a!4. TOWNSWOMAN. Must you mix in every- thing? This is nothing to you. Do you want to get in trouble? You didn't see a thing. Why you just want to get in trouble? You didn't see a thing. Why you just this moment came. What do you want the address for, eh? WORKINGMAN. Do you think I am taking cold baths for my health? I want to get a medal for life saving. A MAN. You have a chance to get an award from the Carnegie fund for life . saving. WORKINGMAN. Don't I know it. I read all about it in "Humanitie" yester- day. Do you think I'd have jumped in the water otherwise? [A crowd has collected around the Beggar.] BEGGAR. O God! O God! I'm soak- ing wet. AMERICAN [cold bloodedly.] Isn't that surprising? BEGGAR. I am freezing. I am freezing to death. COCOTTE. Waiter, bring him a glass of brandy and charge it to me. [Waiter exit Right.] CHILD [whimpering]. I am freezing too, Mama, I'm cold. TOWNSWOMAN. My poor little Phillip. [To her husband.] You never think of bringing a coat for the child. There, my darling, you shall have a cup of hot cof- fee right away. CHILD. Coffee is pfui. I want brandy ! TOWNSMAN [sternly]. Brandy is not for children. You'll drink coffee. TOWNSWOMAN. Who says brandy is not for children? You get the most fool- ish ideas in your head. Hush, hush, my baby, you shall have some brandy. AMERICAN. They ought to offer a medal for the murder of certain kinds of wives. BEGGAR. Oh! [Whimpering.] Oh, what a life I lead! What a life! A MAN [feeding sugar to the dog]. BEGGAR. I wish I were dead. Why did they pull me out? I want to die. What does life mean to me? What joy is there in life for me? ARTIST. There will be less joy for you in death. [Laughter.} BEGGAR. If I were only young. If I only had my two strong arms again. I never dreamed I would come to this. I never would have believed it Forty years ago I was a workingman, yes, forty years until an accident WORKINGMAN. Were you a Union man, brother? BEGGAR. Certainly certainly. [Guardedly.] That is, I wasn't exactly a Union man but WOBKINGMAN. WJiat ! Not a Union man. [Rushes at him.] TOWNSMAN. What do you want to do to that poor man? WORKINGMAN. Throw him back in the river. [He is held back.] BEGGAR. Forty years I worked at the machine and now I have nothing to show for it but diseased lungs. TOWNSWOMAN [decisively]. Aristide, we are going home. Tuberculosis is con- tagious. WORKINGMAN. That's capital for you. The capitalist sucks the workingman dry and then turns him out on the streets to starve. But we, the people, shall have our day. When first the uprising of the masses AMERICAN. Oh, don't make a speech. BEGGAR [whining]. And my military medal is gone. I must have lost it in the water. You can still see the saber wound on my arm. YOUNG MAN. Thus the Fatherland re- pays its valiant sons. BEGGAR. Nobody knows what I suffered for France. Twenty years I served in the foreign legion. AMERICAN. This fellow ought to be celebrating his two hundredth birthday soon. ALTRUISM 75 BEGGAR. O God my poor wife my poor children the youngest is just four months old COCOTTE. Poor soul, here are two francs for you. [Other people take out thrir purses.] BEGGAR. God bless you mademoiselle. [Holds out his hat for the other alms.] [During the excitement the Beggar passes through the crowd begging and singing.} BEGGAR. The rich man in his banquet hall, Has everything I long for. The poor man gets the crumbs that fall, That's what I sing this song for. Help a poor man, sir. AMERICAN [cries out in sudden alarm.] My dog! My Molly! She has jumped into the river! [The crowd is tlil I and listening to him.] She will drown! [Run-s to the edge of the dock.] There she is swimming. Oh, my Molly ! She . cost me eighty dollars. [Desperately.} A hundred dollars to the man that saves my dog. A hundred dol- lars. A MAN. Do you mean that? AMERICAN [deaf to everything but his anxiety]. A hundred dollars. Here, I'll put it up with the Waiter a hundred dollars for my poor dog. VOICES IN THE CROWD. A hundred dollars! Five hundred francs! [The Crowd moves, pushing and ges- ticulating to the water's edge. One by one they jump into the Seine with a great splashing. Only the American, the Young Man, the Cocotte and the Beggar remain. AMERICAN. My poor Molly! She loved me like a son! Where is that pole? [Gets pole and thrusts with it in the water.] A VOICE. Hey! Oh! My head! AMERICAN [beside himself]. There over there the poor dog never had a swimming lesson. [Sees the Young Man.] What are you standing there for? You with your precious neighborly love! A hundred and fifty dollars for my dog! Jump in! Here is a deposit. [Pushes money in his hand.] YOUNG MAN [make* ready to jump, but stops at the edge and turns around]. No! For a dog? Never! AMERICAN. It was a thoroughbred dog. Jump! I'll give you two hundred I'll take you back to the U. S. A. with me I'll pay for your musical education anything if you save my dog. YOUNG MAN. Will you really pay for my musical education if I save your dog? AMERICAN [ore knees by wall]. Every instrument there is piano, piccolo, cornet, bass drum only jump! jump! YOUNG MAN [upon wall throws a fare- well kiss to the Cocotte, takes a heroic posture]. With God! [Makes a perfect dive into the river.] AMERICAN [at the end of the dock, brokenly]. Poor Molly! [Dries his eyes with handkerchief.} I'll endow a home for poor Parisians if she is brought back to me alive. [To the Cocotte.] Oh, dear lady, I don't know whether I shall be able to meet you to-morrow at the Ave- nue de 1'Opera. I have had a bereave- ment. [Comes down to the pavement.] I must telephone to the lifeguard station. [Exits into the cafe.] Poor Molly! All the insurance I carried on her is three thousand dollars. [Exit with Artist into caff, Right.} [There is a brief pause.] BEGGAR [angrily]. Damn his heart; the dog tender ! I hope he drowns him- self. Just as I was doing the best busi- ness in weeks that damn dog had to spoil everything. The scabby beast. COCOTTE. How often have I asked you not to use those vulgar expressions. BEGGAR. What ! Is that how a daugh- ter should speak to her father? You shameless wench ! I'll teach you. I'll be lame again hereafter. For when I am lame I carry a stick and a stick is a good thing to have in your hand to teach a daughter respect. Ten francs; you know for the picture. [ While he speaks he is taking off his coat and vest, show- ing a cork life belt beneath.] That sui- cide trick is getting played out anyhow hardly 50 francs and I had to pay 20 for the place. Come my daughter, we will go home. [ Calls. ] Waiter Waiter ! COCOTTE. He doesn't hear you, papa W r aiter if you don't come at once we shall go without paying. [The Waiter enters icith hat wet.] 7 6 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS BEGGAR [slips him a gold piece}. Waiter, call a taxicab. [The Waiter takes the coin with a respectful bow, blows his taxi whistle. As the answering whistle of the taxicab and the honk of the horn are heard the Beggar and Cocotte exit ceremoniously and the curtain falls. [Curtain.] THE TENOR A COMEDY BY FRANK WEDEKIND TRANSLATED BY ANDRE TRIDOK. Copyright, 1913, by Andr6 Tridon. All rights reserved. CHARACTERS GEBABDO [Wagnerian tenor, thirty-fix years old]. HELEN MAROVA [a beautiful dark-haired woman of twenty- five]. PROFESSOR DUHRING [sixty, the typical " misunderstood genius"]. Miss ISABEL CCEURNE [a blonde English girl of sixteen]. MULLER [hotel manayer]. A VALET. A BELL BOY. AN UNKNOWN WOMAN. TIME: The present. PLACE: A city in Austria. THE TENOR was first produced in America by the Washington Square Players. Applications for permission to perform THE TENOR must be addressed to Andr6 Tridon, 121 Madison Avenue, New York. THE TENOR A COMEDY [SCENE: A large hotel room. There are doors at the right and in the center, and at the left a window with heavy portieres. Behind a grand piano at the right stands a Japanese screen which conceals the fireplace. There are several large trunks, open; bunches of flowers are all over the room; many bouquets are piled up on the piano.] VALET [entering from the adjoining room carrying an armful of clothes which he proceeds to pack in one of the trunks. There is a knock at the door]. Come in. BELL BOY. There is a lady who wants to know if the Maestro is in. VALET. He isn't in. [Exit Bell Boy. The Valet goes into the adjoining room and returns with another armful of clothes. There is another knock at the door. He puts the clothes on a chair and goes to the door.] What's this again? [He opens the door and some one hands him several large bunches of flowers, which he places carefully on the piano; then he goes back to his packing. There is another knock. He opens the door and takes a handful of letters. He glances at the addresses and reads aloud: "Mister Gerardo. Monsieur Gerardo. Gerardo Esquire. Signor Gerardo." [He drops the letters on a tray and resumes his packing.] [Enter Gerardo.} GERARDO. Haven't you finished pack- ing yet? How much longer will it take you? VALET. I'll be through in a minute, sir. GERARDO. Hurry! I still have things to do. Let me see. [He reaches for something in a trunk.] God Almighty ! Don't you know how to fold a pair of trousers? (Taking the trousers out.] This is what you call packing ! Look here! You still have something to learn BY FRANK WEDEKIND from me, after all. You take the trous- ers like this. . . . You lock this up here. . . . Then you take hold of these buttons. Watch these buttons here, that's the im- portant thing. Then you pull them straight. . . . There. . . . There. . . . Then you fold them here. . . . See. . . . Now these trousers would keep their shape for a hundred years. VALET [respectfully, with downcast eyes]. You must have been a tailor once, sir. GERARDO. What! Well, not exactly. . . . [He gives the trousers to the Valet.] Pack those up, but be quick about it. Now about that train. You are sure this is the last one we can take? VALET. It is the only one that gets you there in time, sir. The next train does not reach Brussels until ten o'clock. GERARDO. Well, then, we must catch this one. I will just have time to go over the second act. Unless I go over that. . . . Now don't let anybody ... I am out to everybody. VALET. All right, sir. There are some letters for you, sir. GERARDO. I have seen them. VALET. And flowers! GEHARDO. Yes_ all right. [He takes the letters from the tray and throws them on a chair before the piano. Then he opens the letters, glances over them with beaming eyes, crumples them up and throws them under the chair.] Re- member ! I am out to everybody. VALET. I know, sir. [He locks the trunks.] GERARDO. To everybody. VALET. You needn't worry, sir. [Giv- ing him the trunk keys.] Here are the keys, sir. GEHAHDO [pocketing the keys]. To everybody ! VALET. The trunks will be taken down at once. [He goes out.] 8o FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE- ACT PLAYS GERARDO [looking at his watch]. Forty minutes. [He pulls the score of " Tris- tan" from underneath the flowers on the piano and walks up and down hum- ming.} "Isolde! Oeliebte! Bist du mein? Hab' ich dich wieder? Darf ich dich fassen?" [He clears his throat, strikes a chord on the piano and starts again.] "Isolde! Oeliebte! Bist du mein? Hab' ich dich wieder? . . ." [He clears his throat.] The air is dead here. [He sings.] "Isolde! Oeliebte. . . ." It's oppressive here. Let's have a little fresh air. [He goes to the window at the left and fumbles for the curtain cord.] Where is the thing? On the other side! Here! [fie pulls the cord and throws his head back with an annoyed expression when he sees Miss Coeurne.] Miss CCEURNF. [in three-quarter length skirt, her blonde hair down her back, holding a bunch of red roses; she speaks with an English accent and looks straight at Oerardo]. Oh, please don't send me away. GERARDO. What else can I do? God knows, I haven't asked you to come here. Do not take it badly, dear young lady, but I have to sing to-morrow night in Brussels. I must confess, I hoped I would have this half-hour to myself. I had just given positive orders not to let any one, whoever it might be, come up to my rooms. Miss CCECRXE [coming down stage], Don't send me away. I heard you yes- terday in "Tannhauser," and I was just bringing you these roses, and GEHAROO. And and what? Miss CCEURNE. And myself. ... I don't know whether you understand me. GERAHDO [holding the back of a chair; he hesitates, then shakes his head]. Who are you? Miss CCEURXE. My name is Miss Coeurne. GERARDO. Yes. . . . Well? Miss CCEURNE. I am very silly. GERARDO. I know. Come here, my dear girl. [He sits down in an armchair and she stands before him.] Let's have a good earnest talk, such as you have never had in your life and seem to need. An artist like myself don't mis- understand me; you are how old are you? Miss CCEXTRXE. Twenty-two, GERARDO. You are sixteen or per- haps seventeen. You make yourself a little older so as to appear more tempting. Well? Yes, you are very silly. It is really none of my business, as an artist, to cure you of your silliness. . . . Don't take this badly. . . . Now then ! Why are you staring away like this? Miss CCKURXE. I said I was very silly, because I thought you Germans liked that in a young girl. GEHARDO. I am not a German, but just the same . . . Miss OEURNE. What! I am not as silly as all that. GERARDO. Now look here, my dear girl you have your tennis court, your skat- ing club; you have your riding class, your dances; you have all a young girl can wish for. What on earth made you come to me? Miss CCEURNE. Because all those things are awful, and they bore me to death. GERAHDO. I will not dispute that. Personally, I must tell you, I know life from an entirely different side. But, my child, I am a man; I am thirty-six. The time will come when you, too, will claim a fuller existence. Wait another two years and there will be some one for you, and then you won't need to hide your- self behind curtains, in my room, in the room of a man who never asked you, and whom you don't know any better than the whole continent of Europe knows him in order to look at life from his wonderful point of view. [Miss Coeurne sighs deeply.] Now then . . . Many thanks from the bottom of my heart for your roses. [He presses her hand.] Will this do for to-day? Miss CCEURXE. I had never in all my life thought of a man, until I saw you on the stage last night in " Tannhauser." And I promise you GERARDO. Oh, don't promise me any- thing, my child. What good could your promise do me? The burden of it would all fall upon you. You see, I am talking to you as lovingly as the most loving father could. Be 'thankful to God that with your recklessness you haven't fallen into the hands of another artist. [He presses her hand again.] Let this be a lesson to you and never try it again, THE TENOR 81 Miss QEURNE [holding her handker- chief to her face but shedding no tears.] Am I so homely? GERARDO. Homely ! Not homely, but young and indiscreet. [He rises nerv- ously, goes to the right, comes back, puts his arm around her waist and takes her hand.} Listen to me, child. You are not homely because I have to be a singer, because I have to be an artist. Don't misunderstand me, but I can't see why I should simply, because I am an artist, have to assure you that I appreciate your youthful freshness and beauty. It is a question of time. Two hundred, maybe three hundred, nice, lovely girls of your age saw me last night in the role of Tannhauser. Now if every one of those girls made the same demands upon me which you are making what would become of my singing? What would be- come of my voice? What would become of my art? [Miss Caeurne sinks into a seat, cov- ers her face and weeps.] GERARDO [leaning over the back of her chair, in a friendly tone]. It is a crime for you, child, to weep over the fact that you are still so young. Your whole life is ahead of you. Is it my fault if you fell in love with me? They all do. That is what I am for. Now won't you be a good girl and let me, for the few minutes I have left, prepare myself for to-morrow's appearance? Miss CCEURNE [rising and drying her tears]. I can't believe that any other girl would have acted the way I have. GERARDO [leading her to the door]. No, dear child. Miss CCKURNE [with sobs in her voice]. At least, not if GERABDO. If my valet had stood be- fore the door. Miss CCEURNE. If GERAHDO. If the girl had been as beau- tiful and youthfully fresh as you. Miss CCEURNE. If GERARDO. If she had heard me only once in " Tannhauser." Miss CCEURNE [indignant]. If she were as respectable as I am ! GERARUO [pointing to the piano]. Be- fore saying good-by to me, child, have a look at all those flowers. May this be a warning to you in case you feel tempted again to faU in love with a singer. See how fresh they all are. And I have to let them wither, dry up, or I give them to the porter. And look at those letters. [He takes a handful of them from a tray.] I don't know any of those women. Don't worry; I leave them all to their fate. What else could I do? But I'll wager with you that every one of your lovely young friends sent in her little note. Miss CCEURNE. Well, I promise not to do it again, not to hide myself be- hind your curtains. But don't "send me away. GERAHDO. My time, my time, dear child. If I were not on the point of taking a train ! I have already told you, I am very sorry for you. But my train leaves in twenty-five minutes. What do you expect? Miss CCEURNE. A kiss. GERAHDO [stiffening up]. From me? Miss CIEURNE. Yes. GERARDO [holding her around the waist and looking very serious]. You rob Art of its dignity, my child. I do not wish to appear an unfeeling brute, and I am going to give you my picture. Give me your word tjiat after that you will leave me. Miss CCEURNE. Yes. GERARDO. Good. [He sits at the table and autographs one of his pictures.] You should try to become interested in the operas themselves instead of the men who sing them. You would probably de- rive much greater enjoyment. Miss CCEURNE [to herself]. I am too young yet. GERARDO. Sacrifice yourself to music. [He comes down stage and gives her the picture.] Don't see in me a famous tenor but a mere tool in the hands of a noble master. Look at all the married women among your acquaintances. All Wagncrians. Study Wagner's works; learn to understand his leit motifs. That will save you from further foolishness. Miss COEUHNE. I thank you. [Gerardo leads her out and rings the bell. He takes up his piano score again. There is a knock at the door.] VALET [coming in out of breath]. Yes, sir. GERARDO. Are you standing at the door? FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS VALET. Not just now, sir. GEHARDO. Of course not! Be sure not to let anybody come up here. VALET. There were three ladies who asked for you, sir. GERARDO. Don't you dare to let any one of them come up, whatever she may tell you. VALET. And then here are some more letters. GERARDO. Oh, all right. [The Valet places the letters on a tray.] And don't you dare to let any one come up. VALET [at the door]. No, sir. GEAHDO. Even if she offers to settle a fortune upon you. VALET. No, sir. [He goes out.} GERARDO [sinf/inc/]. "Isolde! Geliebte! Bist (lu . . /' Well, if women don't get tired of me Only the world is so full of them; and I am only one man. Every one has his burden to carry. [He strikes a chord on the piano.] [Prof. Duhring, dressed all in black, with a long white beard, a red hooked nose, gold spectacles, Prince Albert coat and silk hat, an opera score under his arm, enters without knocking.] GERARDO. What do you want? DUHRIKO. Maestro I I have an opera. GERARDO. How did you get in? DUHRIXG. I have been watching for two hours for a chance to run up the stairs unnoticed. GERARDO. But, my dear good man, I have no time. DUHRIXG. Oh, I will not play the whole opera for you. GERARDO. I haven't the time. My train leaves in forty minutes. DUHRIXG. You haven't the time ! What should I say? You are thirty and successful. You have your whole life to live yet. Just listen to your part in my opera. You promised to listen to it when you came to this city. GERARDO. What is the use? I am not a free agent DUHRIXG. Please! Please! Please! Maestro! I stand before you an old man, ready to fall on my knees before you; an old man who h;\s never cared for anything in the world but his art. For fifty years I have been a willing victim to the tyranny of art GERARDO [interrupting him]. Yes, I understand; I understand, but DUHRIXG [excitedly]. No, you don't understand. You could not understand. How could you, the favorite of fortune, you understand what fifty years of boot- less work means? But I will try to make you understand it. You see, I am too old to take my own life. People who do that do it at twenty-five, and I let the time pass by. I must now drag along to the end of my days. Please, sir, please don't let these moments pass in vain for me, even if you have to lose a day thereby, a week even. This is in your own interest. A week ago, when you first came for your special appearances, you promised to let me play my opera for you. I have come here every day since; either you had a rehearsal or a woman caller. And now you are on the point of going away. You have only to say one word: I will sing the part of Hermann and they will produce my opera. You will then thank God for my insistance. ... Of course you sing Sieg- fried, you sing Florestan but you have no role like Hermann in your repertoire, no role better suited to your middle reg- ister. [Oerardo leans against the mantel- piece; while drumming on the top with his right hand, he discovers something behind the screen; he suddenly stretches out his arm and pulls out a woman in a grai/ goirn, whom he leads out of the room through the middle door; after closing the door, he turns to Duhr- ing.] GEBARDO. Oh, are you still there? DUHRIXG [undisturbed]. This opera is good; it is dramatic; it is a financial success. I can show you letters from Liszt, from Wagner from Rubinstein, in which they consider me as a superior man. And why hasn't any opera ever been produced? Because I am not cry- ing wares on the market-place. And then you know our directors: they will revive ten dead men before they give a live man a chance. Their walls are well guarded. At thirty you are in. At sixty I am still out. One word from you and I shall be in, too. This is why I have come, and [raising his voice] if you are not an un- feeling brute, if success has not killed in THE TENOR you the last spark of artistic sympathy, you will not refuse to hear my work. GERARDO. I will give you an answer in a week. I will go over your opera. Let me have it. DUHRIXG. No, I am too old, Maestro. In a week, in what you call a week, I shall be dead and buried. In a week that is what they all say; and then they keep it for years. GERARDO. I am very sorry but DUHRIXG. To-morrow perhaps you will be on your knees before me; you will boast of knowing me ... and to- day, in your sordid lust for gold, you cannot even spare the half-hour which would mean the breaking of my fetters. GERARDO. No, really, I have only thir- ty-five minutes left, and unless I go over a few passages . . . You know I sing Tristan in Brussels to-morrow night. [He pulls out his watch.] I haven't even half an hour . . . DUHRIXG. Half an hour . . . Oh, then, let me play to you your big aria at the end of the first act. [He attempts to sit f/orc'tt on the piano bench. Oerardo restrains him.] GKRARDO. Now, frankly, my dear sir ... I am a singer; I am not a critic. If you wish to have your opera pro- duced, address yourself to those gentle- men who are paid to know what is good and what is not. People scorn and ig- nore my opinions in such matters as completely as they appreciate and ad- mire my singing. DUHRIXG. My dear Maestro, you may take it from me that I myself attach no importance whatever to your judgment. What do I care about your opinions? I know you tenors; I would like to play my score for you so that you could say: " I would like to sing the role of Her- mann." GERARDO. If you only knew how many things I would like to do and which I have to renounce, and how many things I must do for which I do not care in the least ! Half a million a year does not repay me for the many joys of life which I must sacrifice for the sake of my pro- fession. I am not a free man. But you were a free man all your life. Why didn't you go to the market-place and cry your wares? DUIIKIXG. Oh, the vulgarity of it ... I have tried it a hundred times. I am a composer, Maestro, and nothing more. GERARDO. By which you mean that you have exhausted all your strength in the writing of your operas and kept none of it to secure their production. DUHRIXG. That is true. GERARDO. The composers I know re- verse the process. They get their operas written somehow and then spend all their strength in an effort to get them pro- duced. DUHRIXG. That is the type of artist I despise. GERARDO. Well, I despise the type of man that wastes his life in useless en- deavor. What have you done in those fifty years of struggle, for yourself or for the world? Fifty years of useless struggle ! That should convince-the worst blockhead of the impracticability of his dreams. What have you done with your life? You have wasted it shamefully. If I had wasted my life as you have wasted yours of course I am only speaking for myself I don't think I should have the courage to look any one in the face. DUHHIXG. I am not doing it for my- self; I am doing it for my art. GERARDO [scornfully}. Art, my dear man! Let me tell you that art is quite different from what the papers tell us it is. DUHRIXG. To me it is the highest thing in the world. GERARDO. You may believe that, but nobody else does. We artists are merely a luxury for the use of the bourgeoisie. When I stand there on the stage I feel absolutely certain that not one solitary human being in the audience takes the slightest interest in what we, the artists, are doing. If they did, how could they listen to "Die Walkiire," for instance? Why, it is an indecent story which could not be mentioned anywhere in polite so- ciety. And yet, when I sing Siegmund, the most puritanical mothers bring their fourteen-year-old daughters to hear me. This, you see, is the meaning of whatever you call art. This is what you have sac- rificed fifty years of your life to. Find out how many people came to hear me sing and how many came to gape at me as they would at the Emperor of China if he 'should turn up here to-morrow. FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS Do you know what the artistic wants of the public consist in? To applaud, to send flowers, to have a subject for con- versation, to see and be seen. They pay me half a million, but then I make busi- ness for hundreds of cabbies, writers, dressmakers, restaurant keepers. It keeps money circulating; it keeps blood running. It gets girls engaged, spinsters married, wives tempted, old cronies sup- plied with gossip; a woman loses her pocketbook in the crowd, a fellow be- comes insane during the performance. Doctors, lawyers made . . . [He coughs.] And with this I must sing Tristan in Brussels to-morrow night! I tell you all this, not out of vanity, but to cure yon of your delusions. The measure of a man's worth is the world's opinion of him, not the inner belief which one finally adopts after brooding over it for years. Don't imagine that you are a misunder- stood genius. There are no misunder- stood geniuses. DUHRING. Let me just play to you the first scene of the second act. A park landscape as in the painting, " Embarka- tion for the Isle of Cythera." GEKARDO. I repeat to you I have no time. And furthermore, since Wagner's death the need for new operas has never been felt by any one. If you come with new music, you set against yourself all the music schools, the artists, the public. If you want to succeed just steal enough out of Wagner's works to make up a whole opera. Why should I cudgel my brains with your new music when I have cudgeled them cruelly with the old? DriHUNG [holding out his trembling hand]. I am afraid I am too old to learn how to steal. Unless one begins very young, one can never learn it. GERABDO. Don't feel hurt. My dear sir if I could . . . The thought of how you have to struggle ... I happen to have received some five hundred marks more than my fee . . . DUIIRIXG [turning to the door]. Don't! Please don't ! Do not say that. I did not try to show you my opera in order to work a touch. No, I think too much of this child of my brain . . . No, Maes- tro. [He goes out through the center door.] GERARDO [following him to the door]. I beg your pardon. . . . Pleased to have met you. [He closes the door and sinks into an armchair. A voice is heard out- side: "I will not let that man step in my way." Helen rushes into the room followed by the Valet. She is an unusually beautiful young woman in street dress.] HELEN. That man stood there to pre- vent me from seeing you ! GERAHDO. Helen ! HELEN. You knew that I would come to see you. VAI.ET [rubbing his cheek]. I did all I could, sir, but this lady actually HELEN. Yes, I slapped his face. GERARDO. Helen ! HELEN. Should I have let him insult me? GERARDO [to the Valet]. Please leave us. [The Valet goes out.} HELEN [placing her muff on a chair], I can no longer live without you. Either you take me with you or I will kill my- self. GERARDO. Helen ! HELEN-. Yes, kill myself. A day like yesterday, without even seeing you no, I could not live through that again. I am not strong enough. I beseech you, Oscar, take me with you. GERAHDO. I couldn't. HELEN. You could if you wanted to. You can't leave me without killing me. These are not mere words. This isn't a threat. It is a fact: I will die if I can no longer have you. You must take me with you it is your duty if only for a short time. GERARDO. I give you my word of honor, Helen, I can't I give you my word. HELEN. You must, Oscar. Whether you can or not, you must bear the con- sequences of your acts. I love life, but to me life and you are one and the same thing. Take me with you, Oscar, if you don't want to have my blood on your hands. GERAHDO. Do you remember what I said to you the first day we were to- gether here? HELEN. I remember, but what good does that do me? THE TENOR GERAHDO. I said that there couldn't be any question of love between us. HELEN. I can't help that. I didn't know you then. I never knew what a man could be to me until I met you. You know very well that it would come to this, otherwise you wouldn't have obliged me to promise not to make you a parting scene. GEUARUO. I simply cannot take you with me. HELEN. Oh, God! I knew you would say that! I knew it when I came here. That's what you say to every woman. And I am just one of a hundred. I know it. But, Oscar, I am lovesick; I am dying of love. This is your work, and you can save me without any sacri- fice on your part, without assuming any burden. Why can't you do it? GEHARDO [very slowly]. Because my contract forbids me to marry or to travel in the company of a woman. HELEN [disturbed]. What can pre- vent you? GERARDO. My contract. HELEN. You cannot . . . GERARDO. I cannot marry until my contract expires. HELEN. And you cannot . . . GERAHDO. I cannot travel in the com- pany of a woman. HELEN. That is incredible. And whom in the world should it concern? GERARDO. My manager. HELEN. Your manager ! What busi- ness is it of his? GERARDO. It is precisely his business. HELEN. Is it perhaps because it might affect your voice? GERARDO. Yes. HELEN. That is preposterous. Does it affect your voice? [Oerardo chuckles.] HELEN. Does your manager believe that nonsense? GERARDO. No, he doesn't. HELEN. This is beyond me. I can't understand how a decent man could sign such a contract. GERARDO. I am an artist first and a. man next. HELEN. Yes, that's what you are a great artist an eminent artist. Can't you understand how much I must love you? You are the first man whose supe- riority I have felt and whom I desired to please, and you despise me for it. I have bitten my lips many a time not to let you suspect how much you meant to me; I was so afraid I might bore you. Yesterday, however, put me in a state of mind which no woman can endure. If I didn't love you so insanely, Oscar, you would think more of me. That is the terrible thing about you that you must scorn a woman who thinks the world of you. GERARDO. Helen ! HELEN. Your contract! Don't use your contract as a weapon to murder me with. Let me go with you, Oscar. You will see if your manager ever mentions a breach of contract. He would not do such a thing. I know men. And if he says a word, it will be time then for me to die. GERARDO. We have no right to do that, Helen. You are just as little free to fol- low me, as I am to shoulder such a re- sponsibility. I don't belong to myself; I belong to my art. HELEN. Oh, leave your art alone. What do I care about your art? Has God created a man like you to make a puppet of himself every night? You should be ashamed of it instead of boast- ing of it. You see, I overlooked the fact that you were merely an artist. What wouldn't I overlook for a god like you? Even if you were a convict, Oscar, my feelings would be the same. I would lie in the dust at your feet and beg for your pity. I would face death as I am facing it now. GERARDO [laughing]. Facing death, Helen! Women who are endowed with your gifts for enjoying life don't make away with themselves. You know even better than I do the value of life. HELEN [dreamily]. Oscar, I didn't say that I would shoot myself. When did I say that? Where would I find the courage to do that? I only said that I will die, if you don't take me with you. I will die as I would of an illness, for I only live when I am with you. I can live without my home, without my children, but not without you, Oscar. I cannot live without you. GERARUO. Helen, if you don't calm yourself . . . You put me in an awful position. ... I have only ten minutes left ... I can't explain in court that 86 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS your excitement made me break my con- tract ... I can only give you ten min- utes. ... If you don't calm yourself in that time ... I can't leave you alone in this condition. Think all you have at stake ! HELEN. As though I had anything else at stake! GERARDO. You can lose your position in society. HELEN. I can lose you ! GERARDO. And your family? HELEN. I care for no one but you. GERARDO. But I cannot be yours. HELEN. Then I have nothing to lose but my life. GEHARDO. Your children! HELEN. Who has taken me from them, Oscar? Who has taken me from my chil- dren? GERARDO. Did I make any advances to you? HELEN [passionately}. No, no. I have thrown myself at you, and would throw myself at you again. Neither my hus- band nor my children could keep me back. When I die, at least I will have lived; thanks to you, Oscar! I thank you, Oscar, for revealing me to myself. I thank you for that. GEHARDO. Helen, calm yourself and listen to me. HELEN. Yes, yes, for ten minutes. GERARDO. Listen to me. [Both sit down on the divan.] HELEN [stariny at him]. Yes, I thank you for it. GERARDO. Helen ! HELEN. I don't even ask you to love me. Let me only breathe the air you breathe. GERARDO [tri/in;/ to be calm], Helen a man of my type cannot be swayed by any of the bourgeois ideas. I have known society women in every country of the world. Some made parting scenes to me, but at least they all knew what they owed to their position. This is the first time in my life that I have witnessed such an outburst of passion. . . . Helen, the temptation comes to me daily to step with some woman into an idyllic Arcadia. But every human being has his duties; you have your duties as I have mine, and the call of duty is the highest thing in the world . . HEI.EK. I know better than you do what the highest duty is. GERAHDO. What, then? Your love for me? That's what they all say. What- ever a woman has set her heart on win- ning is to her good; whatever crosses her plans is evil. It is the fault of our play- wrights. To draw full houses they set the world upside down, and when a woman abandons her children and her family to follow her instincts they call that oh, broad-mindedness. I person- ally wouldn't mind living the way turtle doves live. But since I am a part of this world I must obey rny duty first. Then whenever the opportunity arises I quaff of the cup of joy. Whoever refuses to do his duty has no right to make any de- mands upon another fellow being. HELEN [staring absent-mindedly]. That does not bring the dead back to life. GERARDO [nervously}. Helen, I will give you back your life. I will give you back what you have sacrificed for me. For God's sake take it. What does it come to, after all? Helen, how can a woman lower herself to that point? Where is your pride? What am I in the eyes of the world? A man who makes a puppet of himself every night ! Helen, are you going to kill yourself for a man whom hundreds of women loved before you, whom hundreds of women will love after you without letting their feelings disturb their life one second? Will you, by shedding your warm red blood, make yourself ridiculous before God and the world ? HELEN [looking away from him]. I know I am asking a good deal, but what else can I do? GERARDO. Helen, you said I should bear the consequences of my acts. Will you reproach for not refusing to receive you when you first came here, ostensibly to ask me to try your voice? What can a man do in such a case? You are the beauty of this town. Either I would be known as the bear among artists who denies himself to all women callers, or I might have received you and pretended that I didn't understand what you meant and then pass for a fool. Or the very first day I might have talked to you as frankly as I am talking now. Danger- ous business. You would have called me THE TENOR 87 a conceited idiot. Tell me, Helen what else could I do? HELEN [staring at him with imploring eyes, shuddering and making an effort to speak}. O God! O God! Oscar, what would you say if to-morrow I should go and be as happy with another man as I have been with you? Oscar what would you say? GERARDO [after a silence]. Nothing. [He looks at his watch.} Helen HELEN. Oscar! [She kneels before him.] For the last time, I implore you. . . . You don't know what you are doing. ... It isn't your fault but don't let me die. . . . Save me save me ! GERARDO [raising her tip.} Helen, I am not such a wonderful man. How many men have you known? The more men you come to know, the lower all men will fall in your estimation. When you know men better you will not take your life for any one of them. You will not think any more of them than I do of women. HELEN. I am not like you in that re- spect. GERARDO. I speak earnestly, Helen. We don't fall in love with one person or another; we fall in love with our type, which we find everywhere in the world if we only look sharply enough. HELEN. And when we meet our type, are we sure then of being loved again? GERARDO [angrily]. You have no right to complain of your husband. Was any girl ever compelled to marry against her will? That is all rot. It' is only the women who have sold themselves for cer- tain material advantages and then try to dodge their obligations who try to make us believe that nonsense. HELEN [smiling]. They break their contracts. GERARDO [pounding his chest]. When I sell myself, at least I am honest about it. HELEN. Isn't love honest? GERARDO. No ! Love is a beastly bourgeois virtue. Love is the last refuge of the mollycoddle, of the coward. In my world every man has his actual value, and when two human beings make up a pact they know exactly what to expect from each other. Love has nothing to do with it, either. HELEN. Won't you lead me into your world, then? GERAHDO. Helen, will you compromise the happiness of your life and the hap- piness of your dear ones for just a ~few days' pleasure? HELEN. No. GERARDO [much relieved]. Will you promise me to go home quietly now? HELEN. Yes. GERARDO. And will you promise me that you will not die . . . HELEN. Yes. GERARDO. You promise me that? HELEN. Yes. GERARDO. And you promise me to ful- fill your duties as mother and as wife? HELEN. Yes. GERARDO. Helen! HELEN. Yes. What else do you want? I will promise anything. GERAHUO. And now may I go away in peace? HELEN [rising]. Yes. GERARDO. A last kiss? HELEN. Yes, yes, yes. [They kiss passionately.] GEHAUDO. In a year I am booked again to sing here, Helen. HELEN In a year! Oh, I am glad! GERARDO [tenderly], Helen! [Helen presses his hand, takes a re- volver out of her muff', shoots her- self and falls.] GERARDO. Helen! [He totters and col- lapses in an armchair.] BELL BOY [rushing in]. My God! Mr. Gerardo! [Gerardo remains motion- less; the Bell Boy rushes toward Helen.] GERARDO [jumping up, running to the door and colliding with the manager of the hotel]. Send for the police! I must be arrested! If I went away now I should be a brute, and if I stay I break my contract. I still have [looking al his watch] one minute and ten seconds. MANAGER. Fred, run and get a police- man. BELL BOY. All right, sir. MANAGER. Be quick about it. [To Gerardo.] Don't take it too hard, sir. Those things happen once in a while. GERARDO [kneeling before Helen's bodi/ and taking her hand], Helen! . . . She still lives she still lives! If I am ar- rested I am not wilfully breaking my 88 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS contract. . . . And my trunks? Is the carriage at the door? MANAGER. It has been waiting twenty minutes, Mr. Gerardo. [He opens the door for the porter, who takes down one of the trunks.] GERARDO [bending over her]. Helen! [To himself.] Well, after all ... [To Muller.] Have you called a doctor? MANAGER. Yes, we had the doctor called at once. He will be here at any minute. GKRARDO [holding her under the arms]. Helen! Don't you know me any more? Helen ! The doctor will be here right away, Helen. This is your Oscar. BELL BOY [appearing in the door at the center]. Can't find any policeman, sir. GERAROO [letting Helen's body drop back]. Well, if I can't get arrested, that settles it. I must catch that train and sing in Brussels to-morrow night. [He takes up his score and runs out through the center door, bumping against several chairs.] [Curtain.] A GOOD WOMAN A FARCE BY ARNOLD BENNETT CHARACTERS JAMES BRETT [o Clerk in the War Office, 33] GERALD O'MARA [o Civil Engineer, J]. ROSAMUND FIFE [a Spinster and a Lecturer on Cookery, Reprinted from " Polite Farces," published by George H. Doran Company, by special arrangement with Mr. Arnold Bennett. A GOOD WOMAN A FARCE [SCENE: Rosamund's Flat; the draw- ing-room. The apartment is plainly fur- nished. There is a screen in the corner of the room furthest from the door. It is 9 A. M. Rosamund is seated alone at a table. She wears a neat travelling-dress, with a plain straw hat. Her gloves lie on a chair. A small portable desk full of papers is open before her. She gazes straight in front of her, smiling vaguely. With a start she recovers from her day- dreams, and rushing to the looking-glass, inspects her features therein. Then she looks at her watch.] ROSAMUND. Three hours yet! I'm a fool [vith decision. She sits down again, and id Iff picks up a paper out of the desk. The door opens, unceremoniously but quietly, and James enters. The two stare at each other, James wearing a con- ciliatory smile]. ROSAMUND. You appalling creature! JAMES. I couldn't help it, I simply couldn't help it. ROSAMUND. Do you know this is the very height and summit of indelicacy? JAMES. I was obliged to come. ROSAMUND. If I had any relations JAMES Which you haven't. ROSAMUND. I say if I had any rela- tions JAMES. I say which you haven't. ROSAMUND. Never mind, it is a safe rule for unattached women always, to be- have as if they had relations, especially female relations whether they have any or not. My remark is, that if I had any relations they would be absolutely scan- dalized by this atrocious conduct of yours. JAMES. What have I done? ROSAMUND. Can you ask? Here are yor, and here am I. We are to be mar- ried to-day at twelve o'clock. The cere- BY ARNOLD BENNETT mony has not taken place, and yet you are found on my premises. You must surely be aware that on the day of the wedding the parties yes, the "parties," that is the word should on no account see each other till they see each other in church. JAMES. But since we are to be mar- ried at a registry office, does the rule apply? ROSAMUND. Undoubtedly. JAMES. Then I must apologize. My excuse is that I am not up in these minute details of circumspection; you see I have been married so seldom. ROSAMUND. Evidently. [A pause, dur- ing which James at last ventures to ap- proach the middle of the room.] Now you must go back home, and we'll pre- tend we haven't seen each other. JAMES. Never, Rosamund ! That would be acting a lie. And I couldn't dream of getting married with a lie on my lips. It would be so unusual. No; we have sinned, or rather I have sinned, on this occasion. I will continue to sin openly, brazenly. Come here, my dove. A bird in the hand is worth two under a bushel. [fie assumes an attitude of entreaty, and, leaving hef chair, Rosamund goes towards him. They exchange an ardent kis.} ROSAMUND [quietly submissive}. I'm awfully busy, you know, Jim. JAMES. I will assist you in your little duties, dearest, and then I will accom- pany you to the sacred ed to the regis- try office. Now, what were you doing? [She sits down, and he puts a chair for himself close beside her.] ROSAMUND. You are singularly unlike yourself this morning, dearest. JAMES. Nervous tension, my angel. I should have deemed it impossible that an employe of the War Office could expe- rience the marvelous and exquisite sen- sations now agitating my heart. But FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS tell me, what are you doing with these papers? ROSAMUND. Well, I was just going to look through them and see if they con- tained anything of a remarkable or val- uable nature. You see, I hadn't any- thing to occupy myself with. JAMES. Was 'oo bored, waiting for the timey-pimey to come? ROSAMUND [hands caressing]. 'Iss, little pet was bored, she was. Was Mr. Pet lonely this morning? Couldn't he keep away from his little cooky-lecturer? He should see his little cooky-lecturer. JAMES. And that reminds me, hadn't we better lunch in the train instead of at Willis's? That will give us more time? ROSAMUND. Horrid greedy piggy- wiggy! Perhaps he will be satisfied if Mrs.'Pet agrees to lunch both at Willis's and in the train? JAMES. Yes. Only piggywiggy doesn't want to trespass on Mrs. Pet's good nature. Let piggywiggy look at the pa- pers. [He takes up a paper from the desk.] ROSAMUND [a little seriously]. No, Jimmy. I don't think we'll go through them. Perhaps it wouldn't be wise. Just let's destroy them. [Takes papers from his hand and drops them in desk.] JAMES [sternly]. When you have been the wife of a War Office clerk for a week you will know that papers ought never to be destroyed. Now I come to think, it is not only my right but my duty to examine this secret- dossier. Who knows [Takes up at random another docu- ment, which proves to be a postcard. Reads.] " Shall come to-morrow night. Thine, Gerald." ROSAMUND [after a startled shriek of consternation]. There! There! You've done it, first time ! [She beams to think, with knitted brows.] JAMES. Does this highly suspicious postcard point to some some episode in your past of which you have deemed it advisable to keep me in ignorance? If so, I seek not to inquire. I forgive you I take you, Rosamund, as you are! ROSAMUND [reflective, not heeding his remark], I had absolutely forgotten the whole affair, absolutely. [Smiles a little. Aside.] Suppose he should come! [To James.] Jim, I think I had better tell you all about Gerald. It will interest you. Besides, there is no knowing what may happen. JAMES. As I have said, I seek not to inquire. [Stiffly.] Nor do I imagine that this matter, probably some childish entanglement, would interest me. ROSAMUND. Oh, wouldn't it! Jim, don't be absurd. You know perfectly well you are dying to hear. JAMES. Very well, save my life, then, at the least expense of words. To begin with, who is this Gerald " thine," thine own Gerald? ROSAMUND. Don't you remember Ger- ald O'Mara? You met him at the Stokes's, I feel sure. You know the young engineer. JAMES. Oh! That ass! ROSAMUND. He isn't an ass. He's a very clever boy. JAMES. For the sake of argument and dispatch, agreed! Went out to Cyprus or somewhere, didn't he, to build a bridge, or make a dock, or dig a well, or some- thing of that kind? ROSAMUND [nodding]. Now, listen, I'll tell you all about it. [Settles herself for a long narration.] Four years ago poor, dear Gerald was madly in love with me. He was twenty and I was twenty- four. Keep calm I felt like his aunt. Don't forget I was awfully pretty in those days. Well, he was so tremen- dously in love that in order to keep him from destroying himself of course, I knew he was going out to Cyprus I sort of pretended to be sympathetic. I simply had to; Irishmen are so passion- ate. And he was very nice. And I barely knew you then. Well, the time approached for him to leave for Cyprus, and two days before the ship sailed he sent me that very postcard that by pure chance you picked up. JAMES. He should have written a let- ter. ROSAMUND. Oh ! I expect he couldn't wait. He was so impulsive. Well, on the night before he left England he came here and proposed to me. I remember I was awfully tired and queer. I had been giving a lecture in the afternoon on " How to Pickle Pork," and the practical demonstration had been rather smelly. However, the proposal braced me up. It was the first I had had that year. Well, I was so sorrv for him that I A GOOD WOMAN couldn't say " No " outright. It would have been too brutal. He might have killed himself on the spot, and spoilt this carpet, which, by the way, was new then. So I said, " Look here, Gerald " JAMES. You called him "Gerald"? ROSAMUND. Rather! " Look here, Ger- ald," I said; "you are going to Cyprus for four years. If your feeling towards me is what you think it is come back to me at the end of those four years, and I will then give you an answer." Of course I felt absolutely sure that in the intervening period he would fall in and out of love half a dozen times at least. JAMES. Of course, half a dozen times at least; probably seven. What did he say in reply? ROSAMUND. He agreed with all the seriousness in the world. " On this day four years hence," he said, standing just there [pointing], "I will return for your answer. And in the meantime I will live only for you." That was what he said his very words. JAMES. And a most touching speech, too! And then? ROSAMUND. We shook hands, and he tore himself away, stifling a sob. Don't forget, he was a boy. JAMES. Have the four years expired? ROSAMUND. What is the date of that postcard? Let me see it. [Snatches it, and smiles at the handwriting pensively.] July 4th four years ago. JAMES. Then it's over. He's not com- ing. To-day is July 5th. ROSAMUND. But yesterday was Sun- day. He wouldn't come on Sunday. He was always very particular and nice. JAMES. Do you mean to imply that you think he will come to-day and de- mand from you an affirmative? A mo- ment ago you gave me to understand that in your opinion he would have er other affairs to attend to. ROSAMUND. Yes. I did think so at the time. But now now I have a kind of idea that he may come, that after all he may have remained faithful. You know I was maddeningly pretty then, and he had my photograph. JAMES. Tell me, have you corre- sponded ? ROSAMUND. No, I expressly forbade it. J AMI:S. Ah! ROSAMUND. But still, I have a pre- monition he may come. JAMES [assuming a pugnacious pose], If he does, I will attend to him. ROSAMUND. Gerald was a terrible fighter. [A resounding knock is heard at the door. Both start violently, and look at each other in silence, Rosamund goes to the door and opens it.] ROSAMUND [with an unsteady laugh of relief]. Only the postman with a letter. [She returns to her seat.] No, I don't expect he will come, really. [Puts letter idly on table. Another knock still louder. Renewed start.] ROSAMUND. Now that is he, I'm posi- tive. He always knocked like that. Just fancy. After four years! Jim, just take the chair behind that screen for a bit. I must hide you. JAMES. No, thanks ! The screen dodge is a trifle too frayed at the edges. ROSAM.UND. Only for a minute. It would be such fun. JAMES. No, thanks. [Another knock.] ROSAMUND [with forced sweetness]. Oh, very well, then. . . . JAMES. Oh, well, of course, if you take it in that way [He proceeds to a chair behind screen, which does not, how- ever, hide him from the audience.] ROSAMUND [smiles his reward]. I'll explain it all right. [Loudly.] Come in! [Enter Gerald O'Mara.] - GERALD. So you are in! [Hastens across room to shake hands.] ROSAMUND. Oh, yes, I am in. Gerald, how are you? I must say you look toler- ably well. [They sit dozen.] GERALD. Oh, I'm pretty fit, thanks. Had the most amazing time in spite of the climate. And you? Rosie, you haven't changed a little bit. How's "the cookery trade getting along? Are you still showing people how to concoct French dinners out of old bones and a sardine tin? ROSAMUND. Certainly. Only I can do it without the bones now. You see, the science has progressed while you've been stagnating in Cyprus. GERALD. Stagnating is the word. You wouldn't believe that climate ! ROSAMUND. What! Not had nice weather? What a shame! I thought it was tremendously sunshiny in Cyprus. GERALD. Yes, that's just what it is, 97 94 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS in the shade when it doesn't happen to be pouring with malarial rain. We started a little golf club at Nicosia, and laid out a nine-hole course. But the balls used to melt. So we had to alter the rules, keep the balls in an ice-box, and take a fresh one at every hole. Think of that! ROSAMUND. My poor boy ! But I sup- pose there were compensations? You re- ferred to " an amazing time." GERALD. Yes, there were compensa- tions. And that reminds me, I want you to come out and lunch with me at the Savoy. I've got something awfully im- portant to ask you. In fact, that's what I've come for. ROSAMUND. Sorry I can't, Gerald. The fact is, I've got something awfully important myself just about lunch time. GERALD. Oh, yours can wait. Look here, I've ordered the lunch. I made sure you'd come. [Rosamund shakes her head.] Why can't you? It's not cook- ing, is it? ROSAMUND. Only a goose. GERALD. What goose? ROSAMUND. Well my own, and some- body else's. Listen, Gerald. Had you not better ask me this awfully important question now? No time like the present. GERALD. I can always talk easier, es- pecially on delicate topics, with a pint of something handy. But if you positively won't come, I'll get it off my chest now. The fact is, Rosie, I'm in love. ROSAMUND. With whom? GERALD. Ah ! That's just what I want you to tell me. ROSAMUND [suddenly starting]. Ger- ald ! what is that dreadful thing sticking out of your pocket, and pointing right at me? GERALD. That? That's my revolver. Always carry them in Cyprus, you know. Plenty of sport there. ROSAMUND [breathing again]. Kindly take it out of your pocket and put it on the table. Then if it does go off it will go off into something less valuable than a cookery-lecturer. GERALD [laughingly obeying her], There. If anything happens it will hap- pen to the screen. Now, Rosie, I'm in love, and I desire that you should tell me whom I'm in love with. There's a magnificent girl in Cyprus, daughter of the Superintendent of Police ROSAMUND. Name? GERALD. Evelyn. Age nineteen. I tell you I was absolutely gone on her. ROSAMUND. Symptoms? GERALD. Well er whenever her name was mentioned I blushed terrific- ally. Of course, that was only one symp- tom. . . . Then I met a girl on the home steamer no father or mother. An or- phan, you know, awfully interesting. ROSAMUND. Name? GRAI.D. Madge. Nice name, isn't it? [Rosamund nous.] I don't mind telling you, I was considerably struck by her still am, in fact. ROSAMUND. Symptoms? GERALD. Oh! . . . Let me see, I never think of her without turning absolutely pale. I suppose it's what they call " pale with passion." Notice it? ROSAMUND [somewhat coldly]. It seems to me the situation amounts to this. There are two girls. One is named Evelyn, and the thought of her makes you blush. The other is named Madge, and the thought of her makes you turn pale. You fancy yourself in love, and you wish me to decide for you whether it is Madge or Evelyn who agitates your breast the more deeply. GERALD. That's not exactly the way to put it, Rosie. You take a fellow up too soon. Of course I must tell you lots more yet. You should hear Evelyn play the " Moonlight Sonata." It's the most marvelous thing. . . . And then Madge's eyes! The way that girl can look at a fellow. . . . I'm telling you all these things, you know, Rosie, because I've al- ways looked up to you as an elder sister. ROSAMUND [after a pause, during which she gazes into his face], I suppose it was in my character of your elder sis- ter, that you put a certain question to me four years ago last night? GERALD [staggered; pulls himself to- gether for a great resolve; after a long pause], Rosie! I never thought after- wards you'd take it seriously. I forgot it all. I was only a boy then. [Speak- ing quicker and quicker.] But I see clearly now. I never could withstand you. It's all rot about Evelyn and Madge. It's you I'm in love with; and I never guessed it ! Rosie ! . . . [Rushes A GOOD WOMAN 95 to her and impetuously flings his arms around her neck.] JAMES [who, during the foregoing scene, has been full of -uneasy gestures; leaping with incredible swiftness from the shelter of the screen]. Sir! ROSAMUND [pushing Oerald quickly away]. Gerald! JAMES. May I inquire, sir, what is the precise significance of this attitudinis- ing? [Gerald has scarcely yet aban- doned his amorous pose, but now does so quickly]. Are we in the middle of a scene from " Romeo and Juliet," or is this 9:30 A. M. in the nineteenth century? If Miss Fife had played the "Moonlight Sonata " to you, or looked at you as Madge does, there might perhaps huve been some shadow of an excuse for your extraordinary and infamous conduct. But since she has performed neither of these feats of skill, I fail to grasp I say I fail to grasp er GERALD [slowly recovering from an amazement which has rendered him mute]. Rosie, a man concealed in your apartment ! But perhaps it is the piano- tuner. I am willing to believe the best. ROSAMUND. Let me introduce Mr. James Brett, my future husband. Jim, this is Gerald. JAMES. I have gathered as much. [The men bow stiffly.] ROSAMUND [dreamily]. Poor, poor Gerald! [Her tone is full of feeling. James is evidently deeply affected by it. He walks calmly and steadily to the table and picks up the revolver.] GERALD. Sir, that tool is mine. JAMES. Sir, the fact remains that it is an engine of destruction, and that I in- tend to use it. Rosamund, the tone in which you uttered those three words, " Poor, poor Gerald ! " convinces me, a keen observer of symptoms, that I no longer possess your love. Without your love, life to me is meaningless. I object to anything meaningless even a word. I shall therefore venture to deprive my- self of life. Good-by! [To Gerald.] Sir, I may see you later. [Raises the revolver to his temples.] ROSAMUND (appealing to Gerald to in- terfere]. Gerald. GERALD. Mr. Brett, I repeat that that revolver is mine. It would be a serious breach of good manners if you used it without my consent, a social solecism of which I believe you, as a friend of Miss Fife's, to be absolutely incapable. Still, as the instrument happens to be in your hand, you may use it but not on your- self. Have the goodness, sir, to aim at me. I could not permit myself to stand in the way of another's happiness, as I should do if I continued to exist. At the same time I have conscientious objec- tions to suicide. You will therefore do me a service by aiming straight. Above all things, don't hit Miss Fife. I merely mention it because I perceive that you are unaccustomed to the use of firearms. [Folds his arms.] JAMES. Rosamund, do you love me? ROSAMUND. My Jim! JAMES [deeply moved]. The posses- sive pronoun convinces me that you do. [Smiling blandly.] Sir, I will grant your most reasonable demand. [Aims at Ger- ald.] ROSAMUND [half shrieking]. I don't love you if you shoot Gerald. JAMES. But, my dear, this is irra- tional. He has asked me to shoot him, and I have as good as promised to do so. ROSAMUND [entreating]. James, in two hours we are to be married . . . Think of the complications. GERALD. Married! To-day! Then I withdraw my request. JAMES. Yes; perhaps it will be as well. [Lowers revolver.] GERALD. I have never yet knowingly asked a friend, even an acquaintance, to shoot me on his wedding-day, and I will not begin now. Moreover, now I come to think of it, the revolver wasn't loaded. Mr. Brett, I inadvertently put you in a ridiculous position. I apologize. JAMES. I accept the apology. [The general tension slackens. Both the men begin to whistle gently, in the effort after unconcern.} ROSAMUND. Jim, will you oblige me by putting that revolver down some- where. I know it isn't loaded; but so many people have been killed by guns that weren't loaded that I should feel safer . . . [He puts it down on the table.] Thank you! JAMES [pit-king up letter]. By the way, here's that letter that came just now. Aren't you going to open it? The FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS writing seems to me to be something like Lottie Dickinson's. ROSAMUND [taking the letter]. It isn't Lottie's; it's her sister's. [Stares at en- velope.] I know what it is. I know what it is. Lottie is ill, or dead, or something, and can't come and be a wit- ness at the wedding. I'm sure it's that. Now, if she's dead we can't be married to-day; it wouldn't be decent. And it's frightfully unlucky to have a wedding postponed. Oh, but there isn't a black border on the envelope, so she can't be dead. And yet perhaps it was so sudden they hadn't time to buy mourning sta- tionery! This is the result of your com- ing here this morning. I felt sure some- thing would happen. Didn't I tell you so? JAMES. No, you didn't, my dear. But why don't you open the letter? ROSAMUND. I am opening it as fast as I can. [Reads it hurriedly.] There! I said so ! Lottie fell off her bicycle last ni"-ht, and broke her ankle won't be able to stir for a fortnight in great pain hopes it won't inconvenience us ! JAMES. Inconvenience ! I must say I regard it as very thoughtless of Lottie to go bicycling the very night before our wedding. Where did she fall off? ROSAMUND. Sloane Street. JAMES. That makes it positively crim- inal. She always falls off in Sloane Street. She makes a regular practice of it. I have noticed it before. ROSAMUND. Perhaps she did it on purpose. JAMES. Not a doubt of it! ROSAMUND. She doesn't want us to get married ! JAMES. I have sometimes suspected th-it she had a certain tenderness for me. [Endeavoring to look meek.] ROSAMUND. The cat! JAMES. By no means. Cats are never sympathetic. She is. Let us be just be- fore we are jealous. ROSAMUND. Jealous! My dear James! Have you noticed how her skirts hang? JAMES. Hang her skirts ! ROSAMUND. You wish to defend her? JAMES. On Ihe contrary; it was I who first accused her. [Gerald, to avoid the approaching storm, seeks the shelter of the screen, sits down, and taking some paper from his pocket begins thought- fully to write.] ROSAMUND. My dear James, let me advise you to keep quite, quite calm. You are a little bit upset. JAMES. I am a perfect cucumber. But I can hear you breathing. ROSAMUND. If you are a cucumber, you are a very indelicate cucumber. I'm not breathing more than is necessary to sustain life. JAMES. Yes, you are; and what's more you'll cry in a minute if you don't take care. You're getting worked up. ROSAMUND. No, I shan't. [Sits down and cries.] JAMES. What did I tell you? Now perhaps you will inform me what we are quarreling about, because I haven't the least idea. ROSAMUND [through her sobs]. I do think it's horried of Lottie. We can't be married with one witness. And I didn't want to be married at a registry office at all. JAMES. My pet, we can easily get an- other witness. As for the registry of- fice, it was yourself who proposed it, as a way out of a difficulty. I'm High and you're Low ROSAMUND. I'm not Low; I'm Broad, or else Evangelical. JAMES [beginning calmly again], I'm High and you're Broad, and there was a serious question about candles and a genuflexion, and so we decided on the registry office, which, after all, is much cheaper. ROSAMUND [drying her tears, and put- ting on a saintly expression}. Well, any- how, James, we will consider our engage- ment at an end. JAMES. This extraordinary tiff has lasted long enough, Rosie. Come and be kissed. Ros \MOND [ivith increased sainfl ; ness]. You mistake me, James. I am not quar- reling. I am not angry. JAMES. Then you have ceased to love me? ROSAMUND. I adore you passionately. But we can never marry. Do you not perceive the warnings against such a course? First of all you come here drawn by some mysterious, sinister im- pulse in breach of all etiquette. That was a Sign. A GOOD WOMAN 97 JAMES. A sign of what? ROSAMUND. Evil. Then you find that postcard, to remind me of a forgotten episode. JAMES. Damn the postcard! I wish I'd never picked it up. ROSAMUND. Hush ! Then comes this letter about Lottie. JAMES. Damn that, too ! ROSAMUND [sighs]. Then Gerald ar- rives. JAMES. Damn him, too! By the way, where is he? GERALD [coming out from behind the screen]. Sir, if you want to influence my future state by means of a blas- phemous expletive, let me beg you to do it when ladies are not present. There are certain prayers which should only be uttered in the smoking-room. [The tzvo men stab each other with their eyes.] JAMES. I respectfully maintain, Mr. O'Mara, that you had no business to call on my future wife within three hours of her wedding, and throw her into such a condition of alarm and unrest that she doesn't know whether she is go- ing to get married or not. GERALD. Sir ! How in the name of Heaven was I to guess ROSAMUND [rising, icith an imperative gesture}. Stop! Sit down, both. James [who hesitates], this is the last request I shall ever make of you. [He sits]. Let me speak. Long ago, from a mis- taken motive of kindness, I gave this poor boy [pointing to Gerald] to under- stand that I loved him; that any rate I should love him in time. Supported by that assurance, he existed for four years through the climatic terrors of a distant isle. I, pampered wjth all the superfluities of civilization, forgot this noble youth in his exile. I fell selfishly in love. I promised to marry . . . while he, with nothing to assuage the rigors JAMES. Pardon me, there was Eve- lyn's " Moonlight Sonata," not to men- tion Madge's eyes. ROSAMUND. You jest, James, but the jest is untimely. Has he not himself said that these doubtless excellent young women were in fact nothing to him, that it was my image which he kept stead- fastly in his heart? GERALD. Ye es, of course, Rosie. ROSAMUND [chiefly to James], The sight of this poor youth fills me with sorrow and compunction and shame. For it reminds me that four years ago I lied to him. GERALD. It was awfully good of you, you know. ROSAMUND. That is beside the point. At an earlier period of this unhappy morning, James, you asseverated that you could not dream of getting married with a lie on your lips. Neither can I. James, I love you to madness. [Takes his inert hand, shakes it, and drops it again.] Good-by, James! Henceforth we shall be strangers. My duty is to- wards Gerald. GERALD. But if you love him? ROSAMUND. With a good woman, con- science comes first, love second. In time I shall learn to love you. I was always quick at lessons. Gerald, take me. It is the only way by which I can purge my lips of the lie uttered four years ago. [Puts her hands on Gerald's shoulders.] JAMES. In about three-quarters of an hour you will regret this, Rosamund Fife. ROSAMUND. One never regrets a good action. GERALD. Oh! well! I say . . . [inar- ticulate with embarrassment]. ROSAMUND [after a pause], James, we are waiting. JAMES. What for? ROSAMUND. For you to go. JAMES. Don't mind me. You forget that I am in the War Office, and accus- tomed to surprising situations. GERALD. Look here, Rosie. It's aw- fully good of you, and you're doing me a frightfully kind turn; but I can't accept it, you know. It wouldn't do. Kindness spoils my character. JAMES. Yes, and think of the shock to the noble youth. GERALD. I couldn't permit such a sacrifice. ROSAMUND. To a good woman life should be one long sacrifice. GERALD. Yes, that's all very well, and I tell you, Rosie, I'm awfully obliged to you. Of course I'm desperately in love with you. That goes without saying. But I also must sacrifice myself. The fact is ... there's Madge . . . ROSAMUND. Well? GERALD. Well, you know what a place a steamer is, especially in calm, warm FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS weather. I'm afraid I've rather led her to expect. . . . The fact is, while you and Mr. Brett were having your little dis- cussion just now, I employed the time in scribbling out a bit of a letter to her, and I rather fancy that I've struck one or two deuced good ideas in the pro- posal line. How's this for a novelty: " My dear Miss Madge, you cannot fail to have noticed from my behavior in your presence that I admire you tre- mendously?" Rather a neat beginning, eh? ROSAMUND. But you said you loved me. GEBALD. Oh, well, so I do. You see I only state that I " admire " her. All the same I feel I'm sort of bound to her, . . . you see how I'm fixed. I should much prefer, of course . . . JAMES. To a good man life should be one long sacrifice. GERALD. Exactly, sir. ROSAMUND [steadying herself and ap- proaching James]. Jim, my sacrifice is over. It was a terrible ordeal, and noth- ing but a strict sense of duty could have supported me through such a trying crisis. I am yours. Lead me to the al- tar. I trust Gerald may be happy with this person named Madge. JAMES. The flame of your love has not faltered? ROSAMUND. Ah, no! JAMES. Well, if my own particular flame hadn't been fairly robust, the re- cent draughts might have knocked it about a bit. You have no more sacrifices in immediate view? . . . [She looks at him in a certain marvelous vai/, and he suddenly swoops down and kisses her.] To the altar! March! Dash; we shall want another witness. GERALD. Couldn't I serve? ROSAMUND. You're sure it wouldn't be too much for your feelings? GERALD. I should enjoy it. ... I mean I shan't mind very much. Let us therefore start. If we're too soon you ! can watch the process at work on others, and learn how to comport yourselves. By the way, honeymoon? JAMES. Paris. Charing Cross 1 :30. Dine at Dover. GERALD. Then you shall eat that lunch I have ordered at the Savoy. ROSAMUND. Er talking of lunch, as I'm hostess here, perhaps I should ask you men if you'd like a drink. JAMES AND GERALD [looking hopefully at each other]. Well, yes. ROSAMUND. I have some beautiful lemonade. JAMES AND GERALD [still looking at each other, but with a different expres- sion]. Oh, that will be delightful! [Lemonade and glasses produced.] GERALD. I drink to the happy pair. ROSAMUND [a little sinister]. And I to Madge. JAMES. And I to a good woman Mrs. Pet [looking at her fixedly]. All men like a good woman, but she shouldn't be too good it's a strain on the system. [General consumption of lemonade, the men bravely swallowing it down. Rosamund rests her head on James's shoulder.] ROSAMUND. It occurs to me, Gerald, you only ordered lunch for two at the Savoy. GERALD. Well, that's right. By that time you and James, if I may call him so, will be one, and me makes two. [Curtain.] THE LITTLE STONE HOUSE A PLAY BY GEORGE CALDERON Copyright, 1913, by Sidgwick & Jackson, Ltd. All rights reserved. THE LITTLE STONE HOUSE is founded on a story by the same author, published anonymously some years ago in Temple Bar. The agents for amateur rights in this play are Messrs. Samuel French, 28 West 38th Street, New York, and Joseph Williams, Ltd., 3J Great Portland Street, London, from whom a license to play it in public must be obtained. It was first performed for the Stage Society at the Aldwych Theatre, London, January 29, 1911, with the following cast: , a lodging-house keeper ..... Mrs. Saba Raleigh VARVARA, her servant .................. Miss Eily Mali/on ASTERYI, a lodger ...................... Mr. Franklin Dyall FOMA, a lodyer ....................... Mr. Stephen T. Ewart (SpiRiodx, a stonemason ................. Mr. Leon M. Lion A STRANCJER .......................... Mr. O. P. Heggie A CORPORAL . . . . ...................... Mr. E. Cresfan Produced by MR. KENELM Foss. SCENE : Small provincial town in Russia. Reprinted by permission of, and special arrangement with, Messrs. Sidgwick and Jackson, Ltd., publishers of the English edition. A PLAY [Praskdvya's sitting-room. Street door in porch and a curtainless window at the back. It is night; the light of an oil-lamp in the street dimly shows snow- covered houses and falling snow. The room is plainly furnished: a bed, a cur- tain on a cord, some books, eikons on a shelf in the corner 'with a wick in a red glass bowl burning before them, paper flowers, and Easter eggs on strings. A photograph of a man of twenty hangs by the eikons. There are doors to kitchen and to the lodgers' rooms. Varvdra is discovered sitting by a lamp darning stockings. There is an atmosphere of silence, solitude, and Russian monotony. The clock ticks. A man is seen passing in the street; his feet make no sound on the snowy ground. There is the sound of a concertina and a man who laughs in the distance out of doors. Then silence again. Enter Asteryi, stout and lazy; gray hair thrown untidily back, a rough beard. He is in slippers and dirty dressing- gown, with a big case full of Russian cigarettes in his pocket.] AST. Is Praskovya Petr6vna not at home ? VAR. [rising]. She is not at home, Asteryi Ivanovitch. She has gone to Vespers at St. Pantaleimon's in the Marsh. It is the festival of the transla- tion of St. Pantaleimon's relics. [Var- vdra sits again. Asteryi walks to and fro smoking a cigarette.] Will you not have your game of patience as usual? AST. Without PraskoVya Petrovna? VAR. She would be sorry if you missed your game because she was late. You can play again when she returns; she likes to watch you. AST. Very well. [Varvdra gets a pack of cards. As- 101 BY GEORGE CALDERON te"ryi sits at a table at one side and plays.] VAH. Shall I prepare the samovar? AST. Not yet; I will wait. How greasy these cards are [laying out a pa- tience]. VAR. No wonder, Asteryi Ivanovitch. It is two years since you bought this pack. A VOICE [without]. Varvdra! Var- vara! There is no water in my jug. AST. There is one of the lodgers call- ing you. VAH. It is the schoolmaster. AST. Better not keep him waiting; he is an angry man. VAR. I will go. Excuse me, please. [Exit Varvdra. The clock ticks again. Asteryi pauses and medi- tates, then murmurs, " Oh, Hos- podi! " as if in surprise at being so terribly bored. The concertina plays a few notes. A knock at the street door.] AST. Who's there? Come in, come in ! [Enter Spiridon, a man with a cring- ing, crafty manner, in a sheepskin coat with snow on it. He stands by the door, facing the eikon, crossing himself with large gestures and bowing very low towards it.] SPIH. [looking round]. Good-day, sir, good-day. [Crossing himself again.] May the holy saints preserve all in this house. AST. Ah! it's you, Spirid6n? SPIR. Yes, sir. It is Spirid6n the stonemason. AST. What brings you here, Spirid6n? SPIR. Is Praskovya Petrovna not at home? AST. No, she has gone to Vespers at St. Pantaleimon's in the Marsh. SPIR. The service is late to-night. AST. Yes. . . . You are a hard man, Spiridon. 102 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS SPIR. Me, sir! AST. And you lose money by your hardness. Praskovya Petr6vna is a poor woman. For years she has been saving up money to build a stone house over the grave of her son in the Tr6itski Cemetery. You say that you will build it for 500 roubles, but you ask too much. By starving herself and pinching in every way she has saved up 400 roubles at last, and if you were a wise man you would accept it. For see, she is old; if she starve herself to save up another 100 roubles she will be dead before she has got it ; her money will be sent back to her village or it will go into the pocket of some official, and you will not have the tomb-house to build at all. SPIR. I have thought of all these things, Asteryi Ivanovitch, since you last spoke to me about it. And I said to my- self: Asteryi Ivanovitch is perhaps right; it is not only Prask6vya Petrovna who is old; I myself am old also, and may die before she has saved up money enough. But it is very hard to work and be underpaid. Good Valdai stone is ex- pensive and hard to cut, and workmen nowadays ask for unholy wages. Still, I said to myself, a tomb-house for her son it is a God-fearing work: and I have resolved to make the sacrifice. I have come to tell her I will consent to build it for 400 roubles. AST. You have done rightly. You are an honest man, and God and St. Nicholas will perhaps save your soul. [Enter Fonid in cap and great-coat from the door to the lodgers' rooms.} FOMA. Good-evening, AsteVyi Ivano- vitch. Is Pravovya not at home? AST. No, she is at Vespers. FOMA. I come in and find my stove smoking. [Taking off his coat.] I wished to ask her permission to sit here awhile to escape a headache. Who is this? Ah, Spirid6n. And by what mir- acle does Asteryi Ivanovitch hope that God and St. Nicholas will save your soul? AST. He has consented to build Pras- kovya Petrovna the tomb-house over Sasha's grave for 400 roubles instead of 500. FOMA. That is good! She will be glad to hear the news, and shake hands on the bargain, and christen the earnest- money with vodka. SPIR. The earnest-money? Ah no, sir, there can be no earnest-money. The whole sum of money must be paid at once. I am a poor man. I must pay the quarryman for the stone; my work- men cannot live on air. AST. If she has the money she will pay you. FOMA. Well, if there is to be no earnest-money, at least we will have the vodka. Vodka is always good. AST. [to Spiridon]. Sit down and wait till she returns. She will not be long. SPIR. No, no; I will come again in an hour. I have to go to my brother-in-law two streets away. [Crossing himself be- fore the eikons.] I will come again as I return. [The tap of drums in the street.] AST. Why are they beating drums? FOMA. It is a patrol passing. SPIR. The soldiers are very watchful to-day. FOMA. It is because the Empress comes this way to-morrow on her jour- ney to Smolensk. SPIR. They have arrested many sus- picious people. All those who have no passports are being sent away to Si- beria. FOMA. Ah! poor creatures! [A pa- trol of soldiers passes the window qui- etly]. SPIH. Why should you say " poor creatures"? If they were honest men they would not be without passports. Good-evening. FOMA. Wait till they have gone. SPIR. We honest men have nothing to fear from them. Good-evening. I will return again in an hour. [Exit Spiri- don.] FOMA. How glad Prask6vya will be. AST. Say nothing of this to any one. We will keep it as a surprise. [Enter Varvdra.] FOMA. Varvdra, my pretty child, fetch the bottle of vodka from my room. VAR. Vodka in here? Praskovya Petr6vna will be angry. FOMA. No, she will not be angry; she will be glad. [Exit Varvdra.] Do you play patience here every night? AST. Every night for more than twenty years. THE LITTLE STONE HOUSE 103 FOMA. What is it called? AST. It is called the Wolf! FOMA. Does it ever come out? AST. It has come out twice. The first time I found a purse in the street which somebody had lost. The second time the man above me at the office died, and I got his place. FOMA. It brings good luck then? AST. To me at least. FOMA. How glad Prask6vya Petr6vna will be! [Enter Varvdra with vodka bottle, which she sets on a table; no one drinks from it yet.] VAR. Do you not want to drink tea? FOMA. Very much, you rogue. VAR. Then I will set the samovar for both of you in here. [She gets out tum- blers, lemon and sugar. ] AST. I did wrong in moving the seven. FOMA. Put it back then. AST. It is too late. Once it has been moved, it must not be put back. [Enter Praskovya from the street hurriedly with a lantern.] PRAS. [crossing herself]. H6spodi Bozhe moy ! VAR. [running to her, frightened], Have you seen him again? PRAS. [agitated]. I do not know. There seemed to be men standing every- where in the shadows. . . . Good-eve- ning, Foma Ilyitch, good-evening, As- teryi Ivanovitch. [Varvdra goes out, and brings in the samovar.] FOMA. I have been making myself at home; my stove smoked. PRAS. Sit down, sit down ! What ceremony! Why should you not be here? And vodka too? What is the vodka for? AST. I will tell you when I have fin- ished my patience. [They all drink tea.] PRAS. So you are playing already. AST. If it comes out, the good luck that it brings shall be for you ! PRAS. For me? [They all watch As- teryi playing.] The knave goes on the queen. [A pause.} FOMA. That is unfortunate. \ R. You should not have moved the ten. [A pause.] AST. That will be better. [A pause.} PRAS. How brightly the eikon lamp burns before the portrait of my boy. VAH. It does indeed. PRAS. It is the new fire from the Candlemas taper. FOMA. It is the new oil that makes it burn brightly. PRAS. [crossing herself]. Nonsense! it is the new fire. FOMA. Did ever one hear such stuff? She put out the lamp at Candlemas, and lighted it anew from the taper which she brought home from the midnight service, from the new fire struck by the priest with flint and steel; and now she thinks that is the reason why it burns so brightly. VAH. Is that not so then, Astdryi Ivanovitch? AST. Oh, Found Ilyitch is a chemist; he can tell you what fire is made of. FOMA. So you have been all the way to St. Pantaldimon's in the Marsh? Oh, piety, thy name is Praskovya Petr6vna! Not a person can hold the most miser- ably little service in the remotest corner of the town but you smell it out and go to it. VAH. It is a Christian deed, Fomd Ilyitch. AST. Now I can get at the ace. VAR. [to Praskovya]. I must get your supper. [She gets a plate of meat from a cupboard.] FOMA. And on All Souls' Day she brought home holy water in a bottle and sprinkled the rooms of all the lodgers. The schoolmaster was very angry. You spotted the cover of his Greek Lexicon. He says it is a pagan custom, come down to us from the ancient Scythians. PHAS. I do not like to hear jokes about sacred things. One may provoke Heaven to anger. AST. Now I get all this row off. FOMA. You are always afraid of of- fending Heaven. PRAS. Of course I am. Think what I have at stake. For you it is only a lit- tle thing. You have a life of your own on earth; I have none. I have been as good as dead for twenty years, and the only thing that I desire is to get safely to heaven to join my son who is there. FOMA. We all wish to get to heaven. PRAS. Not so much as I do. If I were in hell it is not the brimstone that would matter; it would be to know that I should not see my son. [Fomd nods]. AST. I believe it is coming out. 104 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS [They all concentrate their attention eagerly on the patience.] VAR. 'The six and the seven go. Saints preserve us! and the eight. [She takes up a card to move it.] AST. No, not th-tt one; leave that. VAR. Where did it come from? AST. From here. PRAS. No, from there. VAR. It was from here. AST. It is all the same. FIMA. It will go. PHAS. And the knave from off this row. VAR. The Wolf is going out! PRAS. It is seven years since it went out. FOMA. Seven years? AST. It is out! PHAS. It is done! VAR. [clapping her hands]. Hooray! AST. [elated]. Some great good for- tune is going to happen. VAR. What can it he? [A pause.] PRAS. And what is the vodka for? AST. The vodka? PRAS. You promised to tell me when the patience was done. AST. How much money have you saved up for the house on Sasha's tomb? PRAS. Four hundred and six roubles and a few kopecks. AST. And Spirid6n asks for 500 roubles? PHAS. Five hundred roubles. AST. W T hat if he should lower his price? PRAS. He will not lower his price. AST. What if he should say that he would take 450 roubles? PRAS. Why, if I went without food for a year . . . [Laughing at herself.] If one could but live without food ! AST. What if he should say that he would take 420 roubles? PRAS. Asteryi Ivanovitch, you know the proverb the elbow is near, but you cannot bite it. I am old and feeble. I want it now, now, now. Shall I outlive the bitter winter? A shelter to sit in and talk to my son. A monument worthy of such a saint. AST. Spiridon has been here. PRAS. Spiridon has been here? What did he say? Tell rne! AST. He will build it for 400 roubles. VAR. For 400 roubles! AST. He will return soon to strike a bargain. PRAS. Is it true? AST. As true as that I wear the cross. PRAS. Oh, all the holy saints be praised ! Slava Teby H6spodi ! [ Kneel- ing before the eikons.] Oh, my darling Sasha, we will meet in a fine house, you and I, face to face. [She prostrates her- self three times before the eikons.] VAR. Then this is the good luck. AST. No, this cannot be what the cards told us; for this had happened al- ready before the Wolf came out. VAR. Then there is something else to follow? AST. Evidently. VAR. What can it be? AST. To-morrow perhaps we shall know. PRAS. [rising]. And in a month I shall have my tomb-house finished, for which I have been waiting twenty years ! A little stone house safe against the rain. [Smiling and eager.] There will be a tile stove which I can light: in the middle a stone table and two chairs one for me and one for my boy when he comes and sits with me, and . . . VAR. [at the window, shrieking]. Ah! Heaven defend us! PRAS. W T hat is it? VAH. The face! the face! PRAS. The face again? FOMA. What face? VAH. The face looked in at the win- dow! AST. Whose face? VAR. It is the man that we have seen watching us in the cemetery. PRAS. [crossing herself]. Oh, Heaven preserve me from this man! FOMA [opening the street door], There is nobody there. AST. This is a false alarm. FOMA. People who tire their eyes by staring at window-panes at night often see faces looking in through them. PRAS. Oh, H6spodi! AST. Spiridon will be returning soon. Have you the money ready? PRAS. The money? Yes, yes! I will get it ready. It is not here. Come, Varvara. [They put on coats and shawls.] AST. If it is in the bank we must wait till the daytime. THE LITTLE STONE HOUSE 105 PRAS. My money in the bank? I am not so foolish. [She lights the lantern.] Get the spade, Varvdra. [Varv'dra goes out and fetches a spade.] It is buried in the field, in a place that no one knows but myself. AST. Are you not afraid to go out? PRAS. Afraid? No, I am not afraid. FOMA. But your supper you have not eaten your supper. PRAS. How can I think of supper at such a moment? FOMA. No supper? Oh, what a won- derful thing is a mother's love ! PEAS, [to Asteryi and Fomd]. Stay here till we return. VAR. [drawing back], I am afraid, Praskovya Petr6vna. PRAS. Nonsense, there is nothing to fear. FOMA [throwing his coat over his back]. I will go with you to the corner of the street. AST. [shuffling the cards]. I must try one for myself. FOMA [mockingly]. What's the use? It will never come out. AST. [cheerfully]. Oh, it never does to be discouraged. [Exeunt Praskovya, Varvdra, and Fomd. Asteryi plays patience. Everything is silent and monoton- ous again. The clock ticks.] FOMA [reenters, dancifig and singing roguishly to the tune of the Russian folk- song, " Vo sadu li v vogorode "] : In the shade there walked a maid As fair as any flower, Picking posies all of roses For to deck her bower. AST. Don't make such a noise. FOMA. I can't help it. I'm gay. I have a sympathetic soul. I rejoice with Praskovya Petr6vna. I think she is mad, but I rejoice with her. AST. So do I; but I don't disturb others on that account. FOMA. Come, old grumbler, have a mouthful of vodka. [Melodramatically.] A glass of wine with Caesar Borgia! [Singing.] As she went adown the bent She met a merry fellow, He was drest in all his best In red and blue and yellow. So he was a saint, was he, that son of hers? Well, well, of what advantage is that? Saints are not so easy to love as sinners. You and I are not saints, are we, Asteryi Ivanovitch? AST. I do not care to parade my halo in public. FOMA. Oh, as for me, I keep mine in a box under the bed; it only frightens people. Do you think he would have re- mained a saint all this time if he had lived? AST. Who can say? FOMA. Nonsense! He would have be- come like the rest of us. Then why make all this fuss about him? Why go on for twenty years sacrificing her own life to a fantastic image? AST. Why not, if it please her to do so? FOMA. Say what you please, but all the same she is mad; yes, Prask6vya is mad. AST. We call every one mad who is faithful to their ideas. If people think only of food and money and clothing we call them sane, but if they have ideas beyond those things we call them mad. I envy Prask6vya. Praskovya has pre- served in her old age what I myself have lost. I, too, had ideas once, but I have been unfaithful to them; they have evaporated and vanished. FOMA. What ideas were these? AST. Liberty! Political regeneration! FOMA. Ah, yes; you were a sad revo- lutionary once, I have been told. AST. I worshiped Liberty, as Pras- k6vya worships her Sasha. But I have lived my ideals down in the dull routine of my foolish, aimless life as an office hack, a clerk in the District Council, making copies that no one will ever see of documents that no one ever wants to read. . . . Suddenly there comes the Revolution; there is fighting in the streets; men raise the red flag; blood flows. I might go forth and strike a blow for that Liberty which I loved twenty years ago. But no, I have be- come indifferent. I do not care who wins, the Government or the Revolution- aries; it is all the same to me. FOMA. You are afraid. One gets tim- id as one gets older. AST. Afraid? No. What have I to be afraid of? Death is surely not so io6 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE- ACT PLAYS much worse than life? No, it is be- cause my idea is dead and cannot be made to live again, while Prask6vya, whose routine as a lodging-house keeper is a hundred times duller than mine, is still faithful to her old idea. Let us not call her mad; let us rather worship her as something holy, for her fidelity to an idea in this wretched little town where ideas are as rare as white ravens. FOMA. She has no friends to love? AST. She has never had any friends; she needed none. FOMA. She has relatives, I suppose? AST. None. FOMA. AVhat mystery explains this sol- itude? AST. If there is a mystery it is easily guessed. It is an everyday story; the story of a peasant woman betrayed and deserted by a nobleman. She came with her child to this town; and instead of sinking, set herself bravely to work, to win a living for the two of them. She was young and strong then; her work prospered with her. FOMA. And her son was worthy of her love? AST. He was a fine boy handsome and intelligent. By dint of the fiercest economy she got him a nobleman's edu- cation; sent him to the Gymnase, and thence, when he was eighteen, to the Uni- versity of Moscow. Praskovya herself cannot read or write, but her boy . . . the books on that shelf are the prizes which he won. She thought him a pat- tern of all the virtues. FOMA. Aha ! now we're coming to it ! So he was a sinner after all? AST. We are none of us perfect. His friends were ill-chosen. The hard-earned money that Prask6vya thought was spent on University expenses went on many other things on drink, on women, and on gambling. But he did one good thing he hid it all safely from his mother. I helped him in that. Together we kept her idea safe through a difficult period. And before he was twenty it was all over he was dead. FOMA. Yes, he was murdered by some foreigner, I know. AST. By Adamek, a Pole. FOMA. And what was the motive of the crime? AST. It was for money. By inquiries which I made after the trial I ascer- tained that this Adamek was a bad char- acter and an ad-venturer, who used to entice students to his rooms to drink and gamble with him. Sasha had become an intimate friend of his; and it was even said that they were partners in cheating the rest. Anyhow, there is no doubt that at one time or another they had won considerable sums at cards, and disputed as to the ownership of them. The last thing that was heard of them, they bought a sledge with two horses and set out saying they were going to Tula. On the road Adamek murdered the unfor- tunate boy. The facts were all clear and indisputable. There was no need to search into the motives. The murderer fell straight into the hands of the police. The District Inspector, coming silently along the road in his sledge, suddenly saw before him the boy lying dead by the roadside, and the murderer standing over him with the knife in his hand. He arrested him at once; there was no pos- sibility of denying it. FOMA. And it was quite clear that his victim was Sasha? AST. Quite clear. Adamek gave in- timate details about him, such as only a friend of his could have known, which put his identity beyond a doubt. When the trial was over the body was sent in a coffin to Praskovya Petrovna, who buried it here in the Troitski Cemetery. FOMA. And the Pole? AST. He was sent to penal servitude for life to the silver mines of Siberia. FOMA. So Praskovya is even madder than I thought. Her religion is founded on a myth. Her life is an absurd de- ception. AST. No; she has created something out of nothing; that is all. FOMA. In* your place I should have told her the truth. AST. No. FOMA. Anything is better than a lie. AST. There is no lie in it. Praskov- ya's idea and Ssha's life are two inde- pendent things. A statement of fact may be true or false; but an idea need only be clear and definite. That is all that matters. [There is a tapping at the door; the latch is lifted, and the Stranger peeps in.] Come in, come in! THE LITTLE STONE HOUSE 107 [Enter the Stranger, ragged and de- graded. He looks about the room, dazed by the light, and fixes his attention on Asteryi.] Who are you? What do you want? STRANGER. I came to speak to you. AST. To speak to me? FOMA. Take off your cap. Do you not see the eikons? AST. What do you want with me? STRANGER. Only a word, Aste>yi Ivan- ovitch. AST. How have you learnt my name? FOMA. Do you know the man? AST. No. STRANGER. You do not know me? AST. No. STRANGER. Have you forgotten me, Asteryi Ivanovitch? AST. [almost speechless]. Sasha! FOMA. What is it? You look as if you had seen a ghost. AST. A ghost? There are no such things as ghosts. Would that it were a ghost. It is Sasha. FOMA. Sasha? AST. It is Prask6vya's son alive. FOMA. Praskovya's son? SASHA. You remember me now, As- teryi Ivanovitch. AST. How have you risen from the dead? How have you come back from the grave you who were dead and buried these twenty years and more? SASHA. I have not risen from the dead. I have not come back from the grave; but I have come a long, long jour- ney. AST. From where? SASHA. From Siberia. FOMA. From Siberia? SASHA. From Siberia. AST. What were you doing in Siberia? SASHA. Do you not understand, As- teryi Ivanovitch? I am a criminal. AST. Ah ! SASHA. A convict, a felon. I have escaped and come home. AST. Of what crime have you been guilty? SASHA. Do not ask me so many ques- tions, but give me something to eat. AST. But tell me this . . . SASHA. There is food here. I smelt it as I came in. [He eats the meat with his fingers ravenously, like a wild beast.] FOMA. It is your mother's supper. SASHA. I do not care whose supper it is. I am ravenous. I have had nothing to eat all day. FOMA. Can this wild beast be Pras- kovya's son? SASHA. We are all wild beasts if we are kept from food. Ha! and vodka, too! [helping himself]. AST. Are you a convict, a felon, Sasha? You who were dead? Then we have been deceived for many years. SASHA. Have you? AST. Some other man was murdered twenty years ago. The murderer said that it was you. SASHA. Ah, he said that it was me, did he? AST. Why did Addmek say that it was you? SASHA. Can you not guess? Adamek murdered no one. AST. He murdered no one? But he was condemned. SASHA. He was never condemned. AST. Never condemned? Then what became of him? SASHA. He died . . . Do you not un- derstand? It was I who killed Adamek. AST. You ! SASHA. We had quarreled. We were alone in a solitary place. I killed him and stood looking down at him with the knife in my hand dripping scarlet in the snow, frightened at the sudden silence and what I had done. And while I thought I was alone, I turned and saw the police-officer with his revolver leveled at my head. Then amid the confusion and black horror that seized on me, a bright thought shot across my mind. Addmek had no relatives, no friends; he was an outcast. Stained with his flow- ing blood, I exchanged names with him; that's the old heroic custom of blood- brotherhood, you know. I named myself Adamek; I named my victim Sasha, In- genious, wasn't it? I had romantic ideas in those days. Adfimek has been cursed for a murderer, and my memory has been honored. Alexander Petrovitch has been a hero; my mother has wept for me. I have seen her in the graveyard lamenting on my tomb; I have read my name on the cross. I hardly know whether to laugh or to cry. Evidently she loves me still. AST. And you? io8 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS SASHA. Do I love her? No. There is no question of that. She is part of a life that was ended too long ago. I have only myself to think of now. What should I gain by loving her? Under- stand, I am an outlaw, an escaped con- vict; a word can send me back to the mines. I must hide myself, the patrols are everywhere. . . . Even here I am not safe. [Locks the street door.] AST. Why have you returned? Why have you spoilt what you began so well? Having resolved twenty years ago to vanish like a dead man . . . SASHA. Ah! if they had killed me then I would have died willingly. But after twenty years remorse goes, pity goes, everything goes; entombed in the mines, but still alive ... I was worn out. I could bear it no longer. Others were escaping, I escaped with them. AST. This will break her heart. She has made an angel of you. The lamp is always burning. . . . SASHA [going to the eikon corner with a glass of vodka in his hand]. Aha! Alexander Nevski, my patron saint. I drink to you, my friend: but I cannot congratulate you on your work. As a guardian angel you have been something of a failure. And what is this? [taking a photograph]. Myself! Who would have known this for my portrait? Look at the angel child, with the soft cheeks and the pretty curly hair. How inno- cent and good I looked! [bringing it down]. And even then I was deceiving my mother. She never understood that a young man must live, he must live. We are animals first; we have instincts that need something warmer, something livelier, than the tame dull round of home. [He throws down the photo- graph; Fomd replaces it.] And even now I have no intention of dying. Yet how am I to live? I cannot work; the mines have sucked out all my strength. Has my mother any money? AST. [to Fomd]. What can we do with him? SASHA. Has my mother any money? AST. Money? Of course not. Would she let lodgings if she had? Listen. I am a poor man myself, but I will give you ten roubles and your railway fare to go to St. Petersburg. SASHA. St. Petersburg? And what shall I do there wlien I have spent the ten roubles? AST. [shrugging his shoulders]. How do I know? Live there, die there, only stay away from here. FOMA. What right have you to send- him away? Why do you suppose that she will not be glad to see him? Let her see her saint bedraggled, and love him still that is what true love means. You have regaled her with lies all these years; but now it is no longer possible. [ A knocking at the door.} She is at the door. AST. [to Sasha]. Come with me. [To Fomd.] He must go out by the other way. FOMA [stopping them]. No, I forbid it. It is the hand of God that has led him here. Go and unlock the door. [Asteryi shrugs his shoulders, and goes to unlock the door.] [To Sasha, hiding him.] Stand here a moment till I have prepared your mother. [Enter Praskovya and Varvdra, carrying a box.] PRAS. Why is the door locked? Were you afraid without old Praskovya to pro- tect you? Here is the money. Now let me count it. Have you two been quar- reling? There are fifty roubles in this bag, all in little pieces of silver; it took me two years. FOMA. How you must have denied yourself, Prask6vna, and all to .build a hut in a churchyard ! PRAS. On what better thing could money be spent? FO.MA. You are so much in love with your tomb-house, I believe that you would be sorry if it turned out that your son was not dead, but alive. PRAS. Why do you say such things? You know that I should be glad. Ah ! if I could but see him once again as he was then, and hold him in my arms ! FOMA. But he would not be the same now. PRAS. If he were different, he would not be my son. FOMA. What if all these years he had been an outcast, living in degradation? PRAS. Who has been eating here? Who has been drinking here? Something has happened ! Tell me what it is. AST. Your son is not dead. PHAS. Not dead? Why do you say it THE LITTLE STONE HOUSE 109 so sadly? No, it is not true. I do not believe it. How can I be joyful at the news if you tell it so sadly? If he is alive, where is he? Let me see him. AST. He is here. [Sasha comes forward.] PRAS. No, no! Tell me that that is not him . . . my son whom I have loved all these years, my son that lies in the churchyard. [To Sasha.] Don't be cruel to me. Say that you are not my son; you cannot be my son. SASHA. You know that I am your son. PRAS. My son is dead; he was mur- dered. I buried his body in the Tr6itski Cemetery. SASHA. But you see that I was not murdered. Touch me; feel me. I am alive. I and Adamek fought; it was not Adamek that slew me, it was . . . PRAS. No, no! I want to hear no more. You have come to torment me. Only say what you want of me, anything, and I will do it, if you will leave me in peace. SASHA. I want food and clothing; I want shelter; I must have money. PRAS. You will go if I give you money? Yes? Say that you will go, far, far away, and never come back to tell lies. . . . But I have no money to give; I am a poor woman. SASHA. Come, what's all this? PRAS. No, no! I need it; I can't spare it. What I have I have starved myself to get. Two roubles, five roubles, even ten roubles I will give you, if you will go far, far away. . . . FOMA. Before he can travel we must bribe some peasant to lend him his pass- port. PRAS. Has he no passport then? FOMA. No. [A knock. Enter Spiridon.] SPIR. Peace be on this house. May the saints watch over all of you ! As- teryi Ivanovitch will have told you of my proposal. PRAS. Yes, I have heard of it, Spiri- don. FOMA. Good-by, Spirid6n; there is no work for you here. That is all over. PRAS. Why do you say that that is all over? FOMA. There will be no tomb-house to build. Pn\s. No tomb-house? How dare you say so? He is laughing at us, Spirid6n. The tomb-house that we have planned to- gether, with the table in the middle, and the two chairs. ... Do not listen to him, Spiriddn. At last I have money enough ; let us count it together. SASHA. Give me my share, mother! PRAS. I have no money for you. SASHA [advancing]. I must have money. PRAS. You shall not touch it. SASHA. I will not go unless you give me money. PRAS. It is not mine. I have prom- ised it all to Spiridon. Help me, As- teryi Ivanovitch; he will drive me mad! Oh, what must I do? What must I do? Is there no way, Varvdra? [Tap of drums -without.] [To Sasha.] Go! go! go quickly, or worse will befall you. SASHA. I will not go and starve while you have all this money. PRAS. Ah! Since you will have it so. ... It is you, not I ! [Running out at the door and calling.] Patrol! Patrol! FOMA. Stop her. VAR. Oh, Hospodi! PRAS. Help! Help! Come here! FOMA. What have you done? What have you done? [Enter Corporal and Soldiers.] PRAS. This man is a thief and a mur- derer. He is a convict escaped from Siberia. He has no passport. CORP. Is that true? W'here is your passport? SASHA. I have none. CORP. We are looking for such men as you. Come ! SASHA. This woman is my mother. CORP. That's her affair. You have no passport; that is enough for me. You'll soon be back on the road to the North with the rest of them. SASHA. Woman ! woman ! Have pity on your son. CORP. Come along, lad, and leave the old woman in peace. [Exit Sasha in custody.] PRAS. The Lord help me ! [Praskdvya stumbles towards the eikons and sinks slindly before them.] FOMA [looking after Sasha]. Poor devil ! ASTERYI. What's a man compared to an idea? [Praskdvya rolls over, dead.] [Curtain.] MARY'S WEDDING A PLAY BY GILBERT CANNAN Copyright, 1913, by Sidgwick and Jackson. All rights reserved. MARY'S WEDDING was first produced at the Coronet Theatre, in May, 1912, with the following cast: MAEY Miss Irene Rooke TOM Mr. Herbert Lomas ANN Miss Mary Ooulden MRS. AIHEY Miss Muriel Pratt BILL AIHEY Mr. Charles Bibby Two MAIDS. VILLAGERS AND OTHERS. SCENE: The Davis's Cottage. NOTE: There is no attempt made in the play to reproduce exactly the Westmore- land dialect, which would be unintelligible to ears coming new to it, but only to catch the rough music of it and the slow inflection of northern voices. Reprinted from " Four Plays," by permission of Mr. Gilbert Cannan. MARY'S WEDDING A PLAY [The scene is the living-room in the Davis's cottage in the hill country. An old room low in the ceiling. Ann Davis is at the table in the center of the room untying a parcel. The door opens to admit Tom Davis, a sturdy quarryman dressed in his best and wearing a large nosegay.] ANN. Well, 'ast seed un? TOM. Ay, a seed un. 'Im and 'is ugly face ANN [untying her parcel]. 'Tis 'er dress come just in time an' no more from the maker-up TOM. Ef she wouldna do it. ... ANN. But 'tis such long years she's been a-waitin'. . . . 'Tis long years since she bought t' dress. TOM. An' 'tis long years she'll be a livin' wi' what she's been waitin' for; 'tis long years she'll live to think ower it and watch the thing she's taken for her man, an' long years that she'll find 'un feedin' on 'er, an' a dreary round she'll 'ave of et. . . . ANN. Three times she 'ave come to a mo^th of weddin' an' three times 'e 'ave broke loose and gone down to the Mortal Man an' the woman that keeps 'arf our men in drink. . . . 'Tis she is the wicked one, giving 'em score an' score again 'till they owe more than they can ever pay with a year's money. TOM. 'Tis a fearful thing to drink. ANN. So I telled 'er in the beginnin' of it all, knowin' what like of man 'e was. An' so I telled 'er last night only. TOM. She be set on it? ANN. An', an' 'ere's t' pretty dress for 'er to be wedded in. ... TOM. What did she say? ANN. Twice she 'ave broke wi' Mm, and twice she 'ave said that ef 'e never touched the drink fur six months she BY GILBERT CANNAN would go to be churched wi' 'im. She never 'ave looked at another man. TOM. Ay, she be one o' they quiet ones that goes about their work an' never 'as no romantical notions but love only the more for et. There've been men come for 'er that are twice the man that Bill is, but she never looks up from 'er work at 'em. ANN. I think she must 'a' growed up lovin' Bill. 'Tis a set thing surely. TOM. An' when that woman 'ad 'im again an' 'ad 'im roaring drunk fur a week, she never said owt but turned to 'er work agin an' set aside the things she was makin' agin the weddin'. . . . ANN. What did 'e say to 'er? TOM. Nowt. 'E be 'most as chary o' words as she. 'E've got the 'ouse an' everything snug, and while 'e works 'e makes good money. ANN. 'Twill not end, surely. TOM. There was 'is father and two brothers all broken men by it. [She hears Mary on the stairs, and they are silent.] ANN. 'Ere's yer pretty dress, Mary. MARY. Ay. . . . Thankye, Tom. TOM. 'Twill be lovely for ye, my dear, an' grand. 'Tis a fine day fur yer wed- din', my dear. . . . MARY. I'll be sorry to go, Tom. TOM. An' sorry we'll be to lose ye. MARY. I'll put the dress on. [She throws the frock over her arm and goes out with it.] ANN. Another girl would 'a' wedded him years ago in the first foolishness of it. But Mary, for all she says so little, 'as long, long thoughts that never comes to the likes o' you and me. . . . Another girl, when the day 'ad come at last, would 'a' been wild wi' the joy an' the fear o' it. . . . But Mary, she's sat on the fells under the stars, an' windin' among the 114 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS sheep. D' ye mind the nights she's been out like an old shepherd wi' t' sheep ? D' ye mind the nights when she was but a lile 'un an' we found 'er out in the dawn sleepin' snug again the side o' a fat ewe? TOM. Tis not like a weddin' day for 'er. ... If she'd 'ad a new dress, now ANN. I said to 'er would she like a pew dress; but she would have only the old 'un cut an' shaped to be in the fash- ion. . . . Et 'as been a strange coortin', an' 'twill be a strange life for 'em both, I'm thinkin', for there seems no gladness in 'er, nor never was, for she never was foolish an' she never was young; but she was always like there was a great weight on 'er, so as she must be about the world alone, but always she 'ave turned to the little things an' the weak, an' always she 'ad some poor sick beast for tendin' or another woman's babe to 'old to 'er breast, an' I think sometimes that 'tis only be- cause Bill is a poor sick beast wi' a poor sick soul that she be so set on 'im. TOM. 'E be a sodden beast wi' never a soul to be saved or damned ANN. 'Cept for the drink, 'e've been a good son to 'is old mother when the others 'ud 'a' left 'er to rot i' the ditch, an' 'e was the on'y one as 'ud raise a finger again his father when the owd man, God rest him, was on to 'er like a madman. Drunk or sober 'e always was on 'is mother's side. TOM. 'Twas a fearful 'ouse that. ANN. 'Twas wonderful that for all they did to 'er, that wild old man wi' 'is wild young sons, she outlived 'em all, but never a one could she save from the curse that was on them, an', sober, they was the likeliest men 'n Troutbeck. . . . TOM. 'Tis when the rain comes and t' clouds come low an' black on the fells and the cold damp eats into a man's bones that the fearful thoughts come to 'im that must be drowned or 'im go mad an' only the foreigners like me or them as 'as foreign blood new in 'em can 'old out again it; 'tis the curse o' livin' too long between two lines o' 'ills. ANN. An' what that owd woman could never do, d'ye think our Mary'll do it? 'Im a Troutbeck man an' she a Troutbeck girl? TOM. She've 'eld to 'er bargain an' brought 'im to it. ANN. There's things that a maid can do that a wife cannot an' that's truth, an' shame it is to the men. [Comes a knock at the door.] 'Tisn't time for t' weddin' folk. [Tom goes to the window.] TOM. Gorm. 'Tis Mrs. Airey. ANN. T' owd woman. She that 'as not been further than 'er garden-gate these ten years? [She goes to the door, opens it to ad- mit Mrs. Airey, an old gaunt woman just beginning to be bent with age. MRS. A. Good day to you, Tom Davis. TOM. Good day to you, Mrs. Airey. MBS. A. Good day to you, Ann Davis. ANN. Good day to you, Mrs. Airey. Will ye sit down ? [She dusts a chair and Mrs. Airey sits by the fireside. She sits silent for a long while. Tom and Ann look uneasily at her and at each other.] MRS. A. So 'tis all ready for Bill's wedding. TOM. Ay. 'Tis a fine day, an' the folks bid, and the sharry-bang got for to drive to Coniston, all the party of us. Will ye be coming, Mrs. Airey? MRS. A. I'll not. [Mrs. Airey sits silent again for long.] Is Mary in the 'ouse? ANN. She be upstairs puttin' on 'er weddin' dress. MRS. A. 'Tis the sad day of 'er life. . . . They're a rotten lot an' who should know et better than me? Bill's the best of 'em, but Bill's rotten. . . . Six months is not enough, nor six years nor sixty, not while 'er stays in Troutbeck remem- berin' all that 'as been an' all the trouble that was in the 'ouse along o' it, and so I've come for to say it. ANN. She growed up lovin' Bill, and 'tis a set thing. She've waited long years. 'Tis done now, an' what they make for theirselves they make, an' 'tis not for us to go speirin' for the trouble they may make for theirselves, but only to pray that it may pass them by. . . . MRS. A. But 'tis certain. ... Six months is not enough, nor six years, nor sixty ANN. And are ye come for to tell Mary this . . .? MRS. A. This and much more. . . . TOM. And what 'ave ye said to Bill? MRA. A. Nowt. There never was a MARY'S WEDDING son would give 'eed to 'is mother. . . . "Tisn't for im I'm thinkin', but for t f children that she's bear 'im. I 'oped, and went on 'opin' till there was no ope left in me, and I lived to curse the day that each one of my sons was born. John and Peter are dead an' left no child behind, and it were better for Bill also to leave no child behind. There's a day and 'alf a day o' peace and content for a woman with such a man, and there's long, long years of thinkin' on the peace and content that's gone. There's long, long years >f watching the child that you've borne and suckled turn rotten, an' I say that t' birth-pangs are nowt to t' pangs that ye 'ave from the childer of such a man as Bill or Bill's father. . . . She's a strong girl an' a good girl; but there's this that is stronger than 'er. [Mary comes again, very pretty in her blue dress. She is at once sen- sible of the strangeness in Tom and Ann. She stands looking from one to the other. Mrs. Airey sits gaz- ing into the fire.] MARY. Why, mother . . . 'tis kind of you to come on this morning. MRS. A. Ay, 'tis kind of me. [Ann steals away upstairs and Tom, taking the lead from her, goes out into the road.} Come 'ere, my pretty. [Mary goes and stands by her.} MARY. The sun is shining and the bees all out and busy to gather in the honey. MRS. A. 'Tis the bees as is t' wise peo- ple to work away in t' dark when t' sun is hidden, and to work away in t' sun when 'tis bright and light. 'Tis the bees as is t' wise people that takes their men an' kills 'em for the 'arm that they may do, and it's us that's the foolish ones to make soft the way of our men an' let them strut before us and lie; and 'tis us that's the foolish ones ever to give a thought to their needs that give never a one to ours. MARY. 'Tis us that's t' glorious ones to 'elp them that is so weak, and 'tis us that's the brave and the kind ones to let them 'ave the 'ole world to play with when they will give never a thought to us that gives it t' 'em. MRS. A. My pretty, my pretty, there's never a one of us can 'elp a man that thinks 'isself a man an' strong, poor fool, an' there's never a one of us can 'elp a man that's got a curse on 'im and is rotten through to t' bone, an' not one day can you be a 'elp to such a man as this. . . . MARY. There's not one day that I will not try, and not one day that I will not fight to win 'im back. . . MRS. A. The life of a woman is a sor- rowful thing. . . . MARY. For all its sorrow, 'tis a greater thing than t' life of a man . . . an' so I'll live it. ... MRS. A. Now you're strong and you're young. 'Ope's with ye still and life all before ye and so I thought when my day came, and so I did. There was a day and 'alf a day of peace and content, and there was long, long years of think- ing on the peace and content that are gone. . . . Four men all gone the same road, and me left looking down the way that they are gone and seeing it all black as the pit. ... I be a poor old woman now with never a creature to come near me in kindness, an' I was such a poor old woman before ever the 'alf of life was gone, an' so you'll be if you take my son for your man. He's the best of my sons, but I curse the day that ever he was born. . . . MARY. There was never a man the like of Bill. If ye see 'un striding the 'ill, ye know 'tis a man by 'is strong, long stride; and if ye see 'un leapin' an' screein' down th' 'ill, ye know 'tis a man; and if we see 'un in t' quarry, ye know 'tis a strong man. . . . MRS. A. An' if ye see 'un lyin' drunk i' the ditch, not roarin' drunk, but rotten drunk, wi' 'is face fouled an' 'is clothes mucked, ye know 'tis the lowest creature of the world. [Mary stands staring straight in front of her.} MARY. Is it for this that ye come to me to-day? MRS. A. Ay, for this: that ye may send 'un back to 'is rottenness, for back to it VII surely go when 'tis too late, an' you a poor old woman like me, with never a creature to come near ye in kindness, before ever the bloom 'as gone from your bonny cheeks, an' maybe childer that'll grow up bonny an' then be blighted for all the tenderness ye give to them; an' those days will be the worst of all far worse than the day when ye turn for good an' all into yourself from t' man that will FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS give ye nowt. . . . 'Tis truly the bees as is the wise people. . . . MARY. It's a weary waitin' that I've had, and better the day and 'alf a day of peace and content with all the long years of thinking on it than all the long, long years of my life to go on waitin' and waitin' for "what has passed me by, for if he be the rottenest, meanest man in t' world that ever was made, there is no other that I can see or ever will. It is no wild foolishness that I am doing: I never was like that; but it's a thing that's growed wi' me an' is a part o' me an' though every day o' my life were set be- fore me now so I could see to the very end, an' every day sadder and blacker than the last, I'd not turn back. I gave Mm the bargain, years back now, and three times e' 'as failed me; but 'e sets store by me enough to do this for me a fourth time 'Twas kind of ye to come. MRS. A. You're strong an' you're young, but there's this that's stronger than yourself MARY. Maybe, but 'twill not be for want o' fightin' wi' 't. MRS. A. 'Twill steal on ye when you're weakest, an' come on ye in your greatest need. . . . MARY. It 'as come to this day an' there is no goin' back. D' ye think I've not seed t' soft, gentle things that are given to other women, an' not envied them? D' ye think I've not seed 'em walkin' shut-eyed into all sorts o' foolishness an' never askin' for the trewth o' it, an' not envied 'em for doin' that? D' ye think I've not seed the girls I growed wi' matin' lightly an' lightly weddin', an' not envied 'em for that, they wi' a 'ouse an' babes an' me drudgin' away in t' farm me wi' my man to 'and an' only this agin 'im? D' ye think I've not been tore in two wi' wantin' to close my eyes an' walk like others into it an' never think what is to come? There's many an' many a night that I've sat there under t' stars wi 1 t' three counties afore me an' t' sea, an' t' sheep croppiri", an' my own thoughts for all the comp'nv that I 'ad, an' fightin' this way an' that for to take 'up an' let 'un be so rotten as ever 'e might be; an' there's many an' many a night when the thoughts come so fast that they hurt me an' I lay pressed close to t' ground wi' me 'ands clawin' at it an' me teeth bitin' into t' ground for to get closer an' 'ide from myself; an' many a night when I sat there seein' the man as t' brave lad 'e was when I seed 'un first leapin' down the 'ill, an' knowin' that nothin' in the world, nolhin' that I could do to 'un or that 'e could do 'isself, would ever take that fro' me. ... In all my time o' my weary waitin' there 'as never been a soul that I told so much to, an' God knows there never 'as been an' never will be a time when I can tell as much to 'im. . . . MRS. A. My pretty, my pretty, 'tis a waste an' a wicked, wicked waste. . . . MARY. 'Tis a day an' alf a day agin never a moment. . . . MRS. A. 'Tis that, and so 'tis wi' all o' us ... an' so 'twill be. ... God bless ye, my dear. . . . [Ann comes down. Mary is looking out of the window.] ANX. Ye forgot the ribbon for yer 'air, that I fetched 'specially fro' t' town. MARY. Why, yes. Will ye tie it, Ann? [Ann ties the ribbon in her hair.] MRS. A. Pretty, my dear, oh ! pretty MARY. I'm to walk to t' church o' Tom's arm. . .? A NX. An' I to Tom's left; wi' the bridesmaids be'ind, an' the rest a fol- lowin'. . . . [Tom returns, followed by two girls bringing armfuls of flowers. With these they deck the room, and keep the choicest blooms for Mary. Ann and the three girls are bunifil with making Mary reach her most beautiful. Mrs. Airey goes. At intenwls one villager and another comes to give greeting or to bring some small offering of food or some small article of clothing. Mary thanks them all with rare natural grace. They call her fine, and ejaculate remarks of admiror- tioti: "The purty bride. . . ." "She's beautiful. . . ." "'Tis a lucky lad, Bill Airey. . . ." The church bell begins to ring. . . . All is prepared and all are ready. . . . Mary is given her gloves, which she draws on when the door is thrown open and Bill Airey lunges against the lintel of the door and stands leering. He is just sober enough to know what he is at. He MARY'S WEDDING 117 is near tears, poor wretch. He is not horribly drunk. He stands surveying the group and they him.] BILL. I come I come I c-come for to to to show to show my- self . . . [He turns in utter misery and goes. Mary plucks the flowers from her bosom and lets them fall to the ground; draws her gloves off her hands and lets them fall. The bell continues to ring.] [Curtain.] THE BABY CARRIAGE A PLAY BY BOSWORTH CROCKER Copyright, 1920, by Bosworth Crocker. All rights reserved. THE BABY CARRIAGE was originally produced by the Provincetown Players, New York, February 14, 1919, with the following cast: MRS. LEZIXSKY Dorothy Miller. MRS. ROONEY A lice Dostetter. MR. ROSENBLOOM W. Clay Hill. SOLOMON LEZINSKY O. K. Liveright, PLACE: The Lezinsky Tailor Shop. TIME: To-day. Application for the right of performing THE BABY CARRIAGE must be made to Mr. Bosworth Crocker, in care of the Society of American Dramatists and Composers, 148 West 45th Street, New York, or The Authors' League, Union Square, New York. THE BABY CARRIAGE A PLAY [THE SCEXE is an ordinary tailor shov two steps down from the sidewalk. Mirror on one side. Equipment third rate. Mrs. Solomon Lezinsky, alone in the shop, is examining a torn pair of trousers as Mrs. Rooney comes in.] MRS. LEZIXSKY [27 years old, medium height and weight, dark, attractive. In a pleased voice with a slight Yiddish accept]. Mrs. Rooney! MRS. ROOXEY [30 years old. A plump and pretty Irish woman]. I only ran in for a minute to bring you these. [Holds up a pair of roller skates and a picture book.] Eileen's out there in the car- riage. [Both women look out at the l>aby-carriage in front of the window.] MRS. LEZIXSKY. Bring her in, Mrs. looney. Such a beautiful child your iileen ! MRS. ROOXEY. Can't stop where's lie kids? MRS. LEZIXSKY. The janitress takes icni to the moving pictures with her Izzy. MRS. ROOXEY. You wouldn't believe things I've run across this day, pack- [Puts down the skates.] I'm think- ig these skates'll fit one of your lads, ly Mickey God rest his soul ! used tear around great on them. MRS. LEZIXSKY. Fine, Mrs. Rooney! \Examines the skates.] But couldn't ou save them for Eileen? MRS. ROOXEY. Sure, she'd be long rowing up to them and they be laying gathering the rust. MRS. LEZIXSKY. My David and Julius and Benny could die for joy with these fine skates, I tell you, Mrs. Rooney. MRS. ROOXEY. Here's an old book [hands Mrs. Lezinsky the book], but too good to throw away entirely. MRS. LEZIXSKY [opens the book]. Fine, Mrs. Rooney ! Such a book with pic- tures in it ! My Benny's wild for picture BY BOSWORTH CROCKER books. Julius reads, reads always learning. Something wonderful, I tell you. Just like the papa my Solly ruins himself with his nose always stuck in the Torah. MRS. ROOXEY. The Toro? 'Tis a book I never heard tell of. MRS. LEZINSKY. The law and the prophets my Solly was meant to be a rabbi once. MRS. ROOXEY. A rabbi? MRS. LEZIXSKY. You know what a rabbi is Ey us, Mrs. Rooney? MRS. ROOXEY. Indeed, I know what a rabbi is, Mrs. Lezinsky a rabbi is a Jewish priest. MRS. LEZIXSKY. You don't hate the Jewish religion, Mrs. Rooney? MRS. ROOXEY. Every one has a right to their own religion. Some of us are born Jewish like you, Mrs. Lezinsky, and some are born Catholics, like me. MRS. LEZIXSKY. Catholics like you are fine, Mrs. Rooney. Such a good neigh- bor ! A good customer, too ! Why should you move away now, Mrs. Rooney? MRS. ROOXEY. The air in the Bronx will be fine for Eileen. "Tis a great pity you couldn't be moving there, yourself. With the fresh air and the cheap rent, 'twould be great for yourself and the boys not to mention the baby that's coming to you. MRS. LEZIXSKY. Thank God, that don't happen for a little while yet. But in the hottest weather maybe some Sep- tembers even so late yet ain't it, Mrs. Rooney? Always trouble by us. Such expense, too. The agent takes the rent to-day. With Solly's eyes so bad it's a blessing when we can pay the rent even. And the gas bills ! So much pants press- ing! See? They send us this already. [Shows a paper.] A notice to pay right awi?y or they shut it off. Only ten days 121 122 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS overdue. Would you believe it, Mrs. Rooney? Maybe we catch up a little next month. It don't pay no longer, this busi- ness. And soon now another mouth to feed, and still my Solly sticks by his learning. MRS. KOONEY. But he can't be a rabbi now, can he? MRS. LEZIXSKY. He can't be a rabbi now, no more, Mrs. Rooney, but such a pious man my Solly. He must be a poor tailor, but he never gives up his learning not for anything he gives that up. Learning's good for my David and Julius and Benny soon, but it's bad for my Solly. It leaves him no eyes for the business, Mrs. Rooney. MRS. ROONEY. And are the poor eyes as bad as ever? MRS. LEZIXSKY. How should his eyes get better when he gives them no chance? Always he should have an operation and the operation it don't help maybe. [Mrs. Rooney turns to the door.] Must you go so quick, Mrs. Rooney? Now you move away, I never see you any more. MRS. ROONEY. The subway runs in front of the house. MRS. LEZINSKY, I tell you something, Mrs. Rooney: Solly couldn't keep the shop open without me. Sometimes his eyes go back on him altogether. And he should get an operation. But that costs some- thing, I tell you, Mrs. Rooney. The doc- tors get rich from that. It costs some- thing, that operation. And then, some- times, may be it don't help. MRS. ROONEY. 'Tis too bad, altogether. \Looks at the baby-carriage.] Wait a minute, Mrs. Lezinsky. [Starts out.] MRS. LEZINSKY [as Mrs. Rooney goes\. What is it, Mrs. Rooney? MRS. ROONEY [just outside the door, calls out]. Something else I forgot. 'Tis out here in the carriage. [Mrs. Lezinsky threads a needle and begins to sew buttons on a lady's coat. Mrs. Rooney comes back carrying a small square package wrapped in newspaper.} MRS. ROONEY. Here's something. You'll like this, Mrs. Lezinsky. It be- longs to Eileen. MRS. LEZINSKY [looking out at the child in the carriage]. Was her collar stitched all right, Mrs. Rooney? MRS. ROONEY. It was that. Fits her coat perfect. See the new cap on her? 'Twas for her birthday I bought it. Three years old now. Getting that big I can feel the weight of her. MRS. LEZINSKY. Such a beautiful little girl, Mrs. Rooney! And such stylish clothes you buy for her. My David should have a new suit from his papa's right away now. Then we fix the old one over for Julius. Maybe my Benny gets a little good out of that suit too, sometime. We couldn't afford to buy new clothes. We should first get all the wear out of the old ones. Yes, Mrs. Rooney. Anyhow, boys ! It don't so much matter. But girls! Girls is different. And such a beautiful little girl like Eileen ! MRS. ROONEY. She'll be spoilt on me entirely every one giving her her own way. [In a gush of mother-pride.] 'Tis the darling she is anyhow. MRS. LEZINSKY. O, Mrs. Rooney, I could wish to have one just like her, I tell you, such a beautiful little girl just like her. MRS. ROONEY. Maybe you will, Mrs. Lezinsky, maybe you will. MRS. LEZINSKY. She sleeps nice in that baby-carriage. MRS. ROONEY. 'Tis the last time she sleeps in it. MRS. LEZINSKY. The last time, what? MRS. ROONEY. Her pa'll be after buy- ing me a go-cart for her now we're mov- ing. 'Tis destroying me the hauling that up and down stairs. MRS. LEZINSKY. Such a gorgeous baby- carriage all fresh painted white MRS. ROONEY. It's fine for them that likes it. As for me I'm that tired of dragging it, I'd rather be leaving it be- hind. MRS. LEZINSKY [her face aglow]. What happens to that carriage, Mrs. Rooney? MRS. ROONEY. I'll be selling it. MRS. LEZINSKY. Who buys that car- riage, Mrs. Rooney? MRS. ROONEY. More than one has their eye on it, but I'll get my price. Mrs. Cohen has spoke for it. MRS. LEZINSKY. How much you ask for that carriage, Mrs. Rooney? MRS. ROONEY. Sure, and I'd let it go for a $5 bill, Mrs. Lezinsky. THE BABY CARRIAGE 123 MRS. LEZIKSKY [her face falls]. May- be you get that $5 ... Mrs. Rooney. Those Cohens make money by that sta- tionery business. MRS. ROONEY. And sure, the second- hand man would pay me as much. MRS. LEZINSKY [longingly]. My David and Julius and Benny they never had such a baby-carriage in all their lives they never rode in a baby-carriage. My babies was pretty babies, too. And smart, Mrs. Rooney ! You wouldn't be- lieve it. My Benny was the smartest of the lot. \Then he was 18 months old, he puts two words together already. MRS. ROONEY. He's a keener that one. [Unwraps the package.] I'm clean forgetting the basket. [Holds it out to Mrs. Lezinsky's delighted gaze.] Now there you are as good as new Mrs. Lezinsky and when you do be sticking the safety pins into the cushion [she points out the cushion] you can mind my Eileen. Some of the pinholes is rusty like, but the pins'll cover it that it was herself gave your baby its first present. MRS. LEZINSKY. O, Mrs. Rooney, such a beautiful basket! Such a beautiful, stylish basket ! MBS. ROONEY. And here's a box for the powder. [Opens a celluloid box and takes out a powder puff.] And here's an old puff. Sure the puff will do if you're not too particular. MRS. LEZIXSKY [handling the things]. Why should I be so particular? In all their lives my David and Julius and Benny never had such a box and puff, I tell you, Mrs. Rooney. MRS. ROONEY [points]. Them little pockets is to stick things in. MRS. LEZINSKY. Should you give away such a basket, Mrs. Rooney? MRS. ROONEY. What good is it but to clutter up the closet, knocking about in my way. MRS. LEZINSKY. My David and Julius and Benny, they never had such a basket, but my cousin, Morris Schapiro's wife, she had such a basket for her baby. All lined with pink it was. MRS. ROONEY. Pink is for boys. I wanted a girl, having Mickey then. MRS. LEZINSKY. Me, too, Mrs. Rooney. Three boys ! Now it's time it should be a little girl. Yes, Mrs. Rooney. A little girl like Eileen. MRS. ROONEY. Sure, then, if you're going by the basket 'tis a little girl you have coming to you. Blue's for girls. ... A comb and a brush for it you can buy. MRS. LEZINSKY. Combs and brushes! What should I do with combs and brushes? My David and Julius and Benny are all born bald. MRS. ROONEY. Sure, Eileen had the finest head of curls was ever seen on a baby little soft yellow curls like the down on a bird. MRS. LEZINSKY. If I should have a little girl like your Eileen my David and Julius and Benny they die for joy over their little sister, I tell you, Mrs. Rooney. Yes, it should be a girl and I name her Eileen. Such pretty names for girls: Eileen and Hazel and Gladys and Goldie. Goldie's a pretty name, too. I like that name so much I call myself Goldie when I go to school. Gietel's my Jewish name. Ugly? Yes, Mrs. Rooney? Goldie's better much better. But Eileen's the best of all. Eileen's a gor- geous name. I name hef Eileen, I do as- sure you. She should have another name, too, for Solly. Zipporah, maybe for her dead grandmother. MRS. ROONEY. Sure, Eileen has a second name: Bridget. 'Tis for my mother in the old country. A saint's name. Her father chose it for her. Bridget's a grand name that too. MRS. LEZINSKY. Zipporah that was Solly's mother. . . . But I call her Eileen. MRS. ROONEY. That's a grand compli- ment, Mrs. Lezinsky, and 'tis myself would stand godmother for her should you be wanting me to. MRS. LEZINSKY. I'm sorry, Mrs. Rooney, by our religion we don't have such god-mothers. MRS. ROONEY. I'll be running on now not to keep you from your work and so much of it with your poor man and the drops in his sick eyes. Here ! [She puts half a dollar into Mrs. Lezinsky's hand.] MRS. LEZINSKY. For what? MRS. ROONEY. For Mr. Lezinsky stitching the collar on Eileen's coat. MRS. LEZINSKY [trying to make Mrs. Rooney take it back], Mrs. Rooney 124 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS if you wouldn't insult me please when you bring all these lovely things. . . . [Mrs. Rooifey pushes the money away.] And so you sell that fine baby- carriage. . . . That carriage holds my Benny, too, maybe? MRS. ROONEY. Sure. Easy. MRS. LEZINSKY. My David and Julius they could wheel that carriage. The little sister sleeps in it. And my Benny he rides at the foot. $5 is cheap for that elegant carriage when you should happen to have so much money. I ask my Solly. Do me the favor, Mrs. Rooney you should speak to me first before you give it to Mrs. Cohen yes? MRS. ROONEY. Sure I will. *I'H be leav- ing the carriage outside and carry the child up. You and Mr. Lezinsky can be making up your minds. [Mrs. Rooney looks through the window at a man turn- ing in from the street.] Is it himself coming home? MRS. LEZINSKY. Any time now, Mrs. Rooney, he comes from the doctor. MRS. ROONEY. 'Tis not himself. Tis some customer. MRS. LEZINSKY [as the door opens], It's Mr. Rosenbloom. MRS. ROONEY. See you later. [Rushes out. Through the window Mrs. Lezinsky watches her take the child out of the carriage.] MRS. LEZINSKY [sighs, turns to her cus- tomer]. O, Mr. Rosenbloom! Glad to see you, Mr. Rosenbloom. You well now, Mr. Rosenbloom? MR. ROSENBLOOM. Able to get around once more, Mrs. Lezinsky. MRS. LEZINSKY. I hope you keep that way. You got thinner with your sickness. You lose your face, Mr. Rosenbloom. [He hands her a coat and a pair of trousers.] Why should you bother to bring them in? I could send my David or Julius for them. MR. ROSEXBLOOM. Right on my way to the barber-shop. The coat's a little loose now. [Slips off his coat and puts on the other.] Across the back. Sec? MRS. LEZINSKY. He should take it in a little on the shoulders, Mr. Rosen- bloom? MR. ROSEXBLOOM [considers]. It wouldn't pay so much alterations for this particular suit. MRS. LEZINSKY. It's a good suit, Mr. Rosenbloom. MR. ROSENBLOOM. He should just shorten the sleeves. Those sleeves were from the first a little too long. [He slips the coat off. Mrs. Lezinsky measures coat sleeve against his bent arm.] MRS. LEZINSKY. About how much, Mr. Rosenbloom? Say an inch? MB. ROSENBLOOM. An inch or an inch and a half maybe. MRS. LEZINSKY [measures a^aira]. I think that makes them too short, Mr. Rosenbloom. One inch is plenty. MR. ROSENBLOOM. All right one inch, then. MRS. LEZINSKY. One inch. . . . All right, Mr. Rosenbloom one inch. MR. ROSENBLOOM. How soon will they be ready? MRS. LEZINSKY. Maybe to-morrow. He lets all this other work go maybe and sets to work on them right away when he gets back home. MR. ROSEXBLOOM. All right. MRS. LEZINSKY. I send my David or Julius with them, Mr. Rosenbloom? MR. ROSEXBLOOM. I'll stop in the even- ing and try the coat on. MRS. LEZINSKY. Maybe it wouldn't be ready to try on so soon All right, Mr. Rosenbloom, this evening you come in. [She calls after him as he goes out.] O, Mr. Rosenbloom! The pants? What should he do to the pants? MR. ROSENBLOOM [from the doorway]. Press them. [He turns back.] Press the whole thing suit. MRS. LEZIXSKY. Press them. Sure. Press the suit. A fine suit. Certainly a fine piece of goods, Mr. Rosenbloom. Did my husband make it up for you? MR. ROSENBLOOM. Yes. MRS. LEZINSKY. I thought so. Wears like iron, too, this goods. Yes, Mr. Rosenbloom? With one eye my husband picks the best pieces of goods I tell you, Mr. Rosenbloom. . . . He should shorten the sleeves one inch. . . . All right, he fixes it to your satisfaction, Mr. Rosen- bloom MR. ROSENBLOOM. Yes, yes. [Impa- tiently edges toward the do\>r.} MRS. LEZINSKY. This evening you come for them? THE BABY CARRIAGE 125 [He nods and hurries out.] MRS. LEZINSKY. Five dollars! [Drops everything and stands looking dreamily through the shop window at the baby- carriage. She takes a roll of money from her bosom and counts it. Shakes her head dispiritedly and sighs. She makes an estimate of the money coming in from the work on hand. Pointing to Mr. Rosenbloom's suit.] Two dollars for that [Turns from the suit to a pair of torn trousers.] Half a dollar, any- how [Points to the lady's coat on "which she has been sewing buttons.] A dollar maybe [Hears some one com- ing, thrusts the roll of money back into her bosom.] LEZINSKY [comes in. Spare. Medium height. Pronounced Semitic type. He wears glasses with very thick lenses.] Where are the children? MRS. LEZINSKY. Mrs. Klein takes them to the moving pictures with her Izzy. LEZINSKY. Always to the moving pic- tures ! The children go blind, too, pretty soon. MRS. LEZINSKY. The doctor didn't make your eyes no better, Solly? LEZINSKY. How should he make them better when he says all the time : " Don't use them." And all the time a man must keep right on working to put bread in the mouths of his children. And soon, now, another one comes nebbich ! MRS. LEZINSKY. Maybe your eyes get mch better now when our little Eileen !S. LEZINSKY. Better a boy, Goldie: that helps more in the business. MRS. LEZINSKY. It's time our David and Julius and Benny should have a little sister now. They like that. Such another little girl like Mrs. Rooney's Eileen. When it is, maybe, a girl, we call her Eileen like Mrs. Rooney's Eileen. Such a gorgeous name that Eileen ! Yes, Solly? LEZINSKY. Eileen! A Goy name! She should be Rebecca for your mother or Zipporah for mine. MRS. LEZINSKY. Sure. Zipporah, too, Solly Eileen Zipporah! When there should be sometime another boy, Solly, then you name him what you like. When it a little girl Eileen. I dress her up stylish. Such beautiful things they have in Gumpertz's window. And Mrs. Rooney sells her baby-carriage. [Both look out at the carriage.] She gives it away. LEZINSKY. She gives you a baby-car- riage? MRS. LEZINSKY. For five dollars she gives me that lovely carriage good as new all fresh painted white and the little Eileen Zipporah sleeps at the head and Benny rides at the foot by his little sis- ter. So elegant Solly! LEZINSKY. I put my eyes out to earn the bread and this woman she should buy a baby-carriage. Oi ! Oi ! MRS. LEZINSKY [points to carriage\. Such a baby-carriage what Mrs. Rooney has it only happens to us once, Solly. Only five one-dollars all fresh painted white j ust like new and such a cover to keep out the sun. She gets a little new go-cart for Eileen. Otherwise she don't give up such an elegant carriage what cost her more money than we could even see at one time except for rents and gas-bills. Five dollars is cheap for that carriage. Five dollars is nothing for that carriage I tell you, Solly. Nothing at all. She sells it now before she moves to the Bronx this afternoon. Such a bar- gain we shouldn't lose, Solly even if we don't pay all the money right away down. Yes, Solly? And Mrs. Rooney she gives our David and Julius and Benny skates and a picture book and their little sister this fine basket. [Shows him the basket.] Yes, Solly. Shouldn't we make sure to buy this baby-carriage? Only five dollars, Solly, this baby-car- riage LEZINSKY. Baby-carriage ! Baby-car- riage ! If I had so much money for baby-carriages I hire me a cutter here. This way I go blind. MBS. LEZINSKY. No, but by reading the Torah ! And that way you lose good custom, too. [Wheedling him again.] Maybe you get good business and hire you a cutter when the little Eileen comes. Five dollars ! Does that pay wages to a cutter? Yes, Solly? But it buys once a beautiful baby-carriage, and David and Julius go wild to ride their little sister in it and Benny at the foot. LEZINSKY [waving his arms], I should have a cutter not to lose my customers 126 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS and this woman she would have a baby-carriage. I lose my eyes, but she would have a baby-carriage. MRS. LEZINSKY. But it costs only five dollars. What costs a cutter? LEZINSKY. At Union wages! I might as well ask for the moon, Goldie. Oil Oi! Soon we all starve together. MRS. LEZINSKY. You hire you a cheap hand here, Solly. He does pressing and all the dirty work. He works and you boss him around. That looks good to the customers. Yes, Solly? And I save up that five dollars soon and give it back to you. Yes, Solly? Business goes bet- ter now already when people come back from the country and everything picks up a little. I help now and we spare that five dollars. Mr. Rosenbloom brings us a little work. See? [She points to the coat.] You should make the sleeves shorter one inch. Mr. Rosenbloom gets thinner by his sickness. His clothes hang a little loose on him. LEZINSKY [looks at the trousers]. And the pants? MRS. LEZINSKY. Mr. Rosenbloom didn't lose his stomach by his sickness. He only loses his face. LEZINSKY. Such a chutzpah! MRS. LEZINSKY. Yes, nothing makes Mr. Rosenbloom to lose his cheek, ain't it, Solly? And plenty roast goose has he to fill up his stomach. By us is no more roast goose nowadays. LEZINSKY. We make up what we didn't get here maybe in the world to come, Goldie leben. MRS. LEZINSKY. Roast goose in the world to come ! Such a business ! Angels shouldn't eat, Solly. I take my roast goose now then I sure get it. . . . How much you charge Mr. Rosen- bloom for this [points to the suit], Solly? LEZINSKY. One dollar and a half maybe. MRS. LEZINSKY. For such a job my cousin Morris Schapiro gets three dollars and not too dear then. Everything goes 'way up and you stay 'way behind. You should raise your prices. No wonder we shall all starve together. It's not baby- carriages what ruin us. Did our David or Julius or Benny ever have such a baby- carriage? No. But it is that you let the customers steal your work. LEZINSKY. All right I charge two dollars. MRS. LEZINSKY. What good should half a dollar do? Three dollars, Solly. LEZINSKY. Two dollars. Three dol- lars swindles him. MRS. LEZINSKY. All right then two dollars. Fifty cents is fifty cents any- how. [She goes up to him and presses her face against his.] Solly, leben, shouldn't our David and Julius and Benny have a baby-carriage for their little sister? LEZINSKY. Baby-carriage Oi! Peace, Goldie, my head aches. MRS. LEZINSKY [picking up the trou- sers]. How much for these, Solly? LEZINSKY. One dollar. MRS. LEZINSKY [derisively]. One dol- lar you say! And for the lady's coat? LEZINSKY. A couple of dollars, any- way. MRS. LEZINSKY. A couple of dollars anyway! And he thinks he does good business when he charges a couple of dollars anyway. And for that, my cousin, Morris Schapiro charges three dollars each. A couple of dollars! Your chil- dren will be left without bread. [He mutters phrases from the Torah.] You hear me, Solly? [He goes on with his prayers.] Prayers are what he answers me. Soon you pray in the streets. LEZINSKY. Woe is me! Woe is me! MRS. LEZINSKY. Could he even answer me? Yes, if it was roast goose I was asking for or black satin for a decent Shabbos dress. But no! [Satirically.] Maybe you even get roast goose from your learning. . . . Yes on account of your praying we all have to go a beg- ging yet. LEZINSKY. To-morrow is Rosch Ho- schana, Gietel. MRS. LEZINSKY. Does Rosch Hoschana mean a roast goose by us? Does it even mean a baby-carriage what costs five dollars? LEZINSKY. Roast goose and baby-car- riage! You have no pious thoughts. ... Go away. . . . My head swims. MRS. LEZINSKY. That comes by fast- ing. Don't you fast enough every day? LEZINSKY. She comes now to roast goose again. MRS. LEZINSKY. What should I care 127 for roast goose? Rosch Roschana comes next year again. But the baby-carriage it never comes again. LEZINSKY. Baby-carriage ! Baby-car- riage! When you should fast and pray. MRS. LEZINSKY. What! Should I fast and give our David and Julius and Benny a shadow maybe for a little sister ? . . . But yes I fast, too . . . that even for such a baby carriage. O, Solly that much we all do for our little Eileen. LEZINSKY [wearily, putting his hands to his eyes]. All right. How much money have you got there Gietel? MRS. LEZINSKY [sweetly]. Now call me Goldie, Solly, so I know you ainT: mad. LEZINSKY. Yes, yes. MRS. LEZINSKY. Goldie say it Solly leben Go on count it Goldie. [She takes the money out and they count it together.] MR. AND MRS. LEZINSKY [together]. One . . . [Counting out another dollar bill.] Two . . . [Counting out a third dollar bill] Three . . . [Counting out a two-dollar bill] Five dollars . . . [Another two-dollar bill] Seven dollars . . . [A ten-dollar bill] Seventeen . . . [Another ten-dollar bill] Twenty-seven . . . [The last ten-dollar bill] Thirty- seven. LEZINSKY. Thirty-seven dollars in all the rent and the gas! MRS. LEZIXSKY. And a little over, Solly, to pay on the baby carriage. LEZINSKY. And to-morrow Rosch Hoschana. Shall we starve the children on Rosch Hoschana? MRS. LEZINSKY. They could go a little hungry once for their little sister, Eileen. LEZINSKY. Don't be too sure, Goldie, maybe another boy comes. MRS. LEZINSKY. Well, even if it needs the fresh air, too. LEZINSKY [firmly after a moment's thought]. No, Goldie, it couldn't be done. In the spring we buy a baby-car- riage. MRS. LEZINSKY. You think she waits till spring to sell that baby-carriage? She sells it now before she moves away now, this afternoon, I tell you. LEZINSKY. Well, we buy another car- riage, then. MRS. LEZINSKY. You don't find such a bargain again anytime. She gives it away. LEZINSKY. My eyes get much better soon now by the operation. MRS. LEZINSKY. Operation! Opera- tion ! Always operations ! And the baby comes. No carriage for our David and Julius to wheel her in with our Benny at the foot in the fresh air and she dies on us in the heat next summer maybe and David and Julius and Benny they lose their little sister. LEZINSKY. Didn't David and Julius and Benny live without a baby-carriage? MRS. LEZINSKY. Yes, a mile to the park, maybe, and I carry them to the fresh air. And a baby-carriage for her costs five dollars. What time shall I have for that with all the extra work and my back broken? In such a baby- carriage the little sister sleeps from morn- ing to night on the sidewalk by the stoop; she gets fat and healthy from that baby-carriage. LEZINSKY. When I could pay for the operation, maybe then MRS. LEZINSKY [despairingly]. Oper- ations again always operations! LEZINSKY. Go away, Goldie, I must work. MRS. LEZINSKY. I advise you not to have that operation now. He steals your money and don't help your eyes. Get another doctor. But baby-carriages like this ain't so plenty. LEZENSKY. God of Israel, shall I go blind because you would have a baby- carriage for our unborn son? MRS. LEZINSKY. No, but by reading the Torah and that way you lose good customers, too and she shall die in the heat because David and Julius cannot push her in that baby-carriage. LEZINSKY. Go away, Gietel, I have work to do. Maybe you could rip out the sleeves from Mr. Rosenbloom's coat? MRS. LEZINSKY. I do anything any- thing you like, Solly, for that baby-car- riage. . . . Yes, I rip out the sleeves when I finish sewing on the buttons. . . . I do anything anything so we get this baby carriage. We never get an- other such carriage. 128 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS LEZINSKY. God of Israel, will she never hear me when I say: No! MRS. LEZINSKY. Then Mrs. Cohen she gets that baby carriage and every day of my life I see it go past my window and the little sister she goes without. [She picks up Mr. Rosen- bloom's coat, looks it over and finds a small -wallet in the breast pocket. Tucks the wallet into her bosom. Fiercely, half- aloud, but to herself.] No! No! Mrs. Cohen shouldn't get that baby-carriage whatever happens she shouldn't get it. [She crosses to the mirror, pulls the wallet from her bosom, hurriedly counts the money in it, glances at her husband, then takes out a five-dollar bill. She hears a noise outside and makes a move as though to restore the money to the wallet, but at the sound of steps on the stoop, she thrusts the loose bill into her bosom. As Mr. Rosenbloom comes in she has only time to stick the wallet back into the- coat. Picks up the lady's coat and sews on buttons vigorously.] MR. ROSENBLOOM. I left my wallet in that coat. LEZINSKY [with a motion of his head toward the coat], Goldie. MRS. LEZINSKY [sewing the buttons onto the lady's coat]. In which pocket, Mr. Rosenbloom? MR. ROSENBLOOM [crosses to coat]. You don't begin work on it, yet? MRS. LEZINSKY [slowly puts her work aside], I rip the sleeves out so soon I sew these buttons on, Mr. Rosenbloom. MR. ROSENBLOOM [looks in breast pocket, draws back in astonishment to find the wallet gone.] MRS. LEZINSKY. In which pocket, Mr. Rosenbloom? Ma. ROSENBLOOM. I keep it always in that breast pocket. MRS. LEZINSKY [taking the wallet from an outside pocket]. Why here it is, Mr. Rosenbloom. MR. ROSENBLOOM [suspiciously]. From which pocket does it come? MRS. LEZINSKY [points]. Right here, Mr. Rosenbloom. MR. ROSENBLOOM [shakes his head], I don't see how it got in that pocket. MRS. LEZINSKY. We didn't touch that coat, Mr. Rosenbloom except Solly looks when I told him what he should do to it ain't it, Solly ? Otherwise we didn't touch it. MR. ROSENBLOOM [opens the wallet]. Funny! It couldn't walk out of one pocket into another all by itself. MRS. LEZINSKY. We didn't touch it, Mr. Rosenbloom. MR. ROSENBLOOM [begins to count the bills]. Maybe some customer MRS. LEZINSKY. That may be all kinds of customers, Mr. Rosenbloom LEZINSKY [as Mr. Rosenbloom goes over the money for the second time.] But it hangs here always in our sight. Who has been here, Goldie? MR. ROSENBLOOM. There's a bill miss- ing here. MRS. LEZINSKY [pretending great as- tonishment], Mr. Rosenbloom! LEZINSKY [with an accusing note in his tone, meant for her only]. Gietel? MRS. LEZINSKY. How should I know? [To Mr. Rosenbloom.] Maybe you didn't count it right. [He counts it again.] MR. ROSENBLOOM. No it's short $5. LEZINSKY [under his breath, looking strangely at his wife.] Mr. Rosenbloom, however that happens I make up that $5. Such a thing shouldn't happen in my business. I make it up right away. Gietel ! Gietel give me the money. MRS. LEZINSKY [in a trembling voice]. I didn't LEZINSKY [checks her]. I pay you from my own money, Mr. Rosenbloom. . . . Gietel ! [He puts out his hand for the money.] MRS. LEZINSKY. All right, Solly. . . . [Turns her back to Mr. Rosenbloom and pulls the roll of money from her bosom, thrusting the loose bill back. Solomon, standing over her, sees this bill and puts out his hand for it.] LEZINSKY [in a tense undertone]. All Gietel all ! [Reluctantly she draws the $5 bill from her bosom and, seizing a mo- ment when Mr. Rosenbloom is re- counting his money, she thrusts it quickly into her husband's hand.] LEZINSKY [he crosses to Mr. Rosen- bloom and counts out the five dollars from the bills in the roll.] One dollar two dollars three dollars and two is five dollars. [Hands it to Mr. Rosen- bloom.] THE BABY CARRIAGE 129 MR. ROSEXBLOOM [hesitates]. You shouldn't be out that $5, Mr. Lezinsky. Anyhow pay me the difference when you charge for the suit. LEZINSKY. No, Mr. Rosenbloora if you take the money now, please. ... I couldn't rest otherwise. In all my life this never happened before. MR. ROSEXBLOOM \takes the money}. Well, if you want it that way, Mr. Lezin- sky. . . . You have the suit ready this evening anyhow? LEZIXSKY. You get the suit this even- ing, Mr. Rosenbloom. I stop everything else. . . . And I don't charge you any- thing for this work, Mr. Rosenbloom. MR. ROSEXBLOOM. Of course, you charge. "Don't charge"! What kind of business is that? LEZIXSKY. I make you a present, Mr. Rosenbloom for your trouble. MR. ROSEXBLOOM. I pay you for these alterations, all right. [He goes out.] LEZIXSKY [searches his wife's face, iriih ominous calm]. Gietel! Gietel! MRS. LEZIXSKY. You make presents, eh, Solly? Are you a rabbi or a poor blind tailor yes? LEZIXSKY [bursts out]. She makes a mock at me this shameless one ! MRS. LEZIXSKY. No, no, Solly LEZIXSKY [scathingly]. Gietel! . . . [His eyes never teai'e her face.] MRS. LEZIXSKY [in a hushed voice]. Why do you look at me like that, Solly? LEZIXSKY. Blind as I am, I see too much, Gietel. Mjis. LEZIXSKY. Listen, Solly I tell you now LEZIXSKY [silences her with a wave of his hand.] What I get I give [He takes the five-dollar bill from his pocket, smooths it out and adds it to the roll.] I give my money. I give my eyes . . . and this woman she sells me for a baby- carriage. MRS. LEZIXSKY. No, no, Solly, you shouldn't say such things before you know LEZIXSKY. Silence, woman ! How should I not know? It is here in my hand the five-dollar bill Here ih my hand. I have counted the money. Thirty-seven dollars we had. I have given him back his five and thirty-seven dollars remain.. How is that, Gietel? What is the answer to that? . . . She cheats the customer and she cheats me. . . . Rather should I take my children by the hand and beg my bread from door to door. MRS. LEZIXSKY. Solly Solly I tell you the baby-carriage LEZIXSKY. Out of my sight, woman; I forbid you to come into this shop again. MRS. LEZIXSKY. O, Solly leben, that couldn't be LEZIXSKY. The mother of my children she sins for a baby-carriage. MRS. LEZIXSKY. Listen, Solly I didn't mean to keep that money. As there's a God of Israel I didn't mean to keep it. I should use it just this after- noon to buy the baby-carriage and when the customers pay us put the money back before he misses it. LEZIXSKY. Meshugge ! So much money isn't coming to us. And why should you use Mr. Rosenbloom's money? Why shouldn't you take it from the money you had? MRS. LEZIXSKY. How could I use that money? Don't you pay the rent this afternoon to the agent? And they shut off the gas when we don't settle: by five o'clock they shut it off. And Mrs. Rooney moves away [Breaks into sob- bint/. ] and so I thought I lose the baby- carriage. LEZIXSKY. Gietel Gietel you are a . I can't speak the word, Gietel It sticks in my throat. MRS. LEZIXSKY. No, no, Solly, you shouldn't speak that word. If I took it to keep it maybe. But no. I couldn't do such a thing. Not for a million baby- carriages could I do such a thing. Not for anything could I keep what is not my own I tell you, Solly. . . . [Plead- ingly.] But just to keep it for a few hours, maybe? Why should a man with- so much money miss a little for a few hours? Then Mr. Rosenbloom he conies ; back in. I change my mind, but 1 the door opens and it is too late already. Solly leben, did I' keep it back the five dol- lars? I ask you, Solly? Didn't I give it all into your hand? I ask you that, Solly? LEZIXSKY. Woe is me ! The mother of my children and she takes what is not her own ! MRS. LEZIXSKY. So much money and 130 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS not one dollar to pay Mrs. Rooney for the baby-carriage ! You see, Solly always fine-dressed people around the mamas and the little children all dressed fine with white socks and white shoes. And our David and our Julius and our Benny, even what must they wear? Old clothes ! Yes. And to save the money they should wear black stockings and old shoes. Never no pretty things ! And it's all the time work work work and we never have nothing no new clothes no pretty things [She breaks down completely.] LEZINSKY. So our children grow up with the fear of God in their hearts MRS. LEZINSKY. What should little children know of all this pious business when they must play alone on the stoop with Izzi Klein together. For why? The Cohen children shouldn't play with our David and Julius and Benny. They make a snout at them. The Cohens dress them up stylish and they should play with Gentile children. They push my Benny in the stomach when he eats an ice-cream cone, and they say regular to my David and Julius: "Sheeny" the same as if they wasn't Jewish, too. . . . Just for once I wanted something lovely and stylish like other people have. . . . Then she asks only five dol- lars for the baby-carriage and- [Choking back a sob.] Mrs. Cohen now, Mrs. Cohen she gets it. She gets it and I must want and want. First David then Julius then comes Benny and now the little sister and never once a baby-carriage! [Sobs.] LEZINSKY. We should raise our chil- dren to be pious. [There is the sound of trundling wheels. Mrs. Lezlnsky looks out. The carriage is gone from the win- dow.} MRS. LEZINSKY [as the door opens and Mrs. Rooney appears wheeling the car- riage in, low voices}. Mrs. Rooney, Solly; she comes now to say good-by. [Mops her eyes, trys to put on a casual look.] MRS. ROONEY. Now there you are, Mrs. Lezinsky, blanket and all. [Lezinsky works feverishly without lifting his eyes.} MRS. LEZINSKY [low appealing voice}. You should look at it once, Solly. [Lezinsky stops for a moment and lets his eyes rest on the baby-carriage.] Ain't it a beautiful, stylish baby-car- riage, Solly? MRS. ROONEY. There it is now and I'll be running on for Mrs. Klein's Anna's keeping Eileen and I have her to dress before her pa comes home. He's getting off earlier for the moving. MRS. LEZINSKY. The little Eileen! Why didn't you bring her along with you, Mrs. Rooney? MRS. ROONEY. She went to sleep on me or I would that. MRS. LEZINSKY [her eyes on her hus- band's face in mute appeal.] O, Mrs. Rooney so little business and so much expense and my Solly has an opera- tion for his sick eyes soon it breaks my heart but Mrs. Cohen [Shaking voice.] she gets this lovely baby carriage. MRS. ROONEY [taking in the situation], Mrs. Cohen she gets it! Does she now? Not if my name's Rooney does Mrs. Cohen get it and she only after offering to raise me a dollar to make sure of the baby-carriage, knowing your sore need of the same. Am I a lady or not, Mr. Lezinsky? 'Tis that I want to know. " I'll give you six dollars for it," says she to me. Says I to her: "Mrs. Cohen when I spoke to you of that baby-car- riage," says I, " it clean slipped me mind that I promised the same to Mrs. Lezin- sky. I promised it to Mrs. Lezinsky long ago," says I and so I did, though I forget to make mention of it to you at the time, Mrs. Lezinsky. So here it is and here it stays or my name's not Rooney. MRS. LEZINSKY. But so much money we haven't got now not even for the operation, Mrs. Rooney. . . . [Soft plead- ing undertone to her husband.] Only five dollars, Solly ! . . . [Sinking her voice still lower.] Anyhow I don't de- serve no baby-carriage maybe [Le- zinsky makes no sign.] MRS. LEZINSKY. If we could possibly pay for that baby-carriage we keep it, Mrs. Rooney [Turns back to her hus- band, voice shakes.] for our Benny and the little sister yes, Solly? [She waits and watches him with mute appeal, then, forcing herself to speak casually.] But THE BABY CARRIAGE 131 it couldn't be done, Mrs. Rooney [Bravely.] Solly should have every dol- lar for that operation. MRS. ROONEY. There now no more about it ! 'Tis your own from this day out. . . . You can take your own time to be paying for it. ... I'll be wanting some work done anyhow when the cold weather sets in. MRS. LEZINSKY [between tears and laughter]. Solly! . . . Ain't it wonder- ful? Mrs. Rooney she trusts us for this beautiful baby-carriage ! . . . O, Mrs. Rooney ! MRS. ROONEY. 'Tis little enough to be doing for my godchild that could be was she born a Catholic now. MBS. LEZINSKY. O, Mrs. Rooney, dear Mrs. Rooney ! Solly, Solly, we should have a baby-carriage at last ! At last we should have a baby-carriage. O, Solly, Solly, what a mitzvah! Yes, Solly? [As Mrs. Rooney starts to leave.} But your blanket Mrs. Rooney MRS. ROONEY. I'll be throwing that in for good luck. MRS. LEZINSKY. It breaks my heart you move away, Mrs. Rooney. MRS. ROONEY. See you soon. [Opens the door; looks tip the street as she stands in the doorway.] Here's the kids coming. MRS. LEZINSKY. My David and Julius and Benny, they could die for joy to wheel their little sister in this baby-car- riage. Mns. ROONEY. Well, good luck the both of you and good-by! [With a sense of pride in the greater prosperity which the new address means to her.] Three thousand and thirty-seven Jerome Avenue don't forget ! MRS. LEZINSKY [bending over the baby- carriage]. Good-by, Mrs. Rooney next time you come, maybe you see her in the baby-carriage. [Soothing the blanket] the little Eileen! [Turns to her husband as the door closes.] Yes, Solly? [They look at each other in silence for a moment. She puts out her hands imploringly. His face soft- ens; he lays his hand on her shoul- der as the three little boys, David, Julius and Benny pass by the win- dow. As they come into the shop the Curtain Falls.] THE PIERROT OF THE MINUTE A DRAMATIC FANTASY CHARACTERS A MOON MAIDEK. PIEBBOT. THE PIERROT OF THE MINUTE A DRAMATIC FANTASY [SCENE: A glade in the Pare du Petit Trianon. In the center a Doric temple with steps coming down the stage. On the left a little Cupid on a pedestal. Twilight. Enter Pierrot with his hands full of lilies. He is burdened with a little basket. He stands gazing at the Temple and the Statue.} PIERROT. My journey's end! This surely is the glade Which I was promised: I have well obeyed ! A clue of lilies was I bid to find, Where the green alleys most obscurely wind; Where tall oaks darkliest canopy o'er- head, And moss and violet make the softest bed; Where the path ends, and leagues be- hind me lie The gleaming courts and gardens of Versailles ; The lilies streamed before me, green and white; I gathered, following: they led me right, To the bright temple and the sacred grove : This is, in truth, the very shrine of Love! [He gathers together his flowers and lai/s them at the foot of Cupid's statue; then he goes timidly up the first steps of the temple and stops.] It is so solitary, I grow afraid. Is there no priest here, no devoted maid? Is there no oracle, no voice to speak, Interpreting to me the word I seek? [A very gentle music of lutes floats out from the temple. Pierrot starts back; he shows extreme sur- BY ERNEST DOWSON prise; then he returns to the fore- ground, and crouches down in rapt attention until the music ceases. His face grows puzzled and petu- lant.} Too soon ! too soon ! in that enchanting strain Days yet unlived, I almost lived again: It almost taught me that I most would know Why am I here, and why am I Pierrot? [Absently he picks up a lily which has fallen to the ground, and re- peats.} Why came I here, and why am I Pierrot? That music and this silence both af- fright; Pierrot can never be a friend of night. I never felt my solitude before Once safe at home, I will return no more. Yet the commandment of the scroll was plain; While the light lingers let me read again. [He takes a scroll from his bosom and reads.} " He loves to-night who never loved before; Who ever loved, to-night shall love once more." I never loved ! I know not what love is. I am so ignorant but what is this? {Reads.} " Who would adventure to encounter Love Must rest one night within this hallowed grove. Cast down thy lilies, which have led thee on, Before the tender feet of Cupidon." Thus much is done, the night remains to me. 135 136 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS Well, Cupidon, be my security ! Here is more writing, but too faint to read. [He puzzles for a moment, then casts the scroll down.] Hence, vain old parchment. I have learnt thy rede! [He looks round uneasily, starts at his shadow; then discovers his basket with glee. He takes out a flask of wine, pours it into a glass, and drinks.] Courage, mon Ami! I shall never miss Society with such a friend as this. How merrily the rosy bubbles pass, Across the amber crystal of the glass. I had forgotten you. Methinks this quest Can wake no sweeter echo in my breast. [Looks round at the statue, and starts.] Nay, little god ! forgive. I did but jest. [He fills another glass, and pours it upon the statue.] This libation, Cupid, take, With the lilies at thy feet; Cherish Pierrot for their sake, Send him visions strange and sweet, While he slumbers at thy feet. Only love kiss him awake ! Only love kiss him awake! [Slowly falls the darkness, soft music plays, while Pierrot gathers to- gether fern and foliage into a rough couch at the foot of the steps which lead to the Temple d' Amour. Then he lies down upon it, having made his prayer. It is night. He speaks softly.] Music, more music, far away and faint: It is an echo of mine heart's complaint. Why should 1 be so musical and sad? I wonder why I used to be so glad? In single glee I chased blue butterflies, Half butterfly myself, but not so wise, For they were twain, and I was only one. Ah me ! how pitiful to be alone. My brown birds told me much, but in mine ear They never whispered this I learned it here: The soft wood sounds, the rustling in the breeze, Are but the stealthy kisses of the trees. Each flower and fern in this enchanted wood Leans to her fellow, and is understood ; The eglantine, in loftier station set, Stoops down to woo the maidly violet. In gracile pairs the very lilies grow: None is companionless except Pierrot. Music, more music ! how its echoes steal Upon my senses with unlocked for weal. Tired am I, tired, and far from this lone glade Seems mine old joy in rout and mas- querade. Sleep cometh over me, now will I prove, By Cupid's grace, what is this thing called love. [Sleeps.] [There is more music of lutes for an interval, during which a bright radiance, white and cold, streams from the temple upon the face of Pierrot. Presently a Moon Maiden steps out of the temple; she de- scends and stands over the sleeper.] THE LADY. Who is this mortal Who ventures to-night To woo an immortal? Cold, cold the moon's light, For sleep at this portal, Bold lover of night. Fair is the mortal In soft, silken white, Who seeks an immortal. Ah, lover of night, Be warned at the portal, And save thee in flight! [She stoops over him; Pierrot stirs in his sleep.] PIERROT [murmuring]. Forget not, Cupid. Teach me all thy lore: "He loves to-night who never loved before." THE LADY. Unwitting boy ! when, be it soon or late, What Pierrot ever has escaped his fate? What if I warned him! He might yet evade, Through the long windings of this ver- dant glade; Seek his companions in the blither way, Which, else, must be as lost as yester- day. So might he still pass some unheeding hours In the sweet company of birds and flowers. THE PIERROT OF THE MINUTE 137 How fair he is, with red lips formed for joy, As softly curved as those of Venus' boy. Methinks his eyes, beneath their silver sheaves, Rest tranquilly like lilies under leaves. Arrayed in innocence, what touch of grace Reveals the scion of a courtly race? Well, I will warn him, though, I fear, too late AVhat Pierrot ever has escaped his fate? But, see, he stirs, new knowledge fires his brain, And cupid's vision bids him wake again. Dione's Daughter ! but how fair he is, Would it be wrong to rouse him with a kiss? [She stoops doion and kisses him, then withdraws into the shadow.] PIERROT [rubbing his eyes]. Celestial messenger ! remain, remain ; Or, if a vision, visit me again ! What is this light, and whither am I come To sleep beneath the stars so far from home? [Rises slowly to his feet.] Stay, I remember this is Venus' Grove, And I am hither come to encounter THE LADY [coming forward, but veiled]. Love! PIERROT [in ecstasy, throwing himself at her feet]. Then have I ventured and encountered Love? THE LADY. Not yet, rash boy ! and, if thou wouldst be wise, Return unknowing; he is safe who flies. PIERROT. Never, sweet lady, will I leave this place Until I see the wonder of thy face. Go:ldess or Naiad! lady ofthis Grove, Made mortal for a night to teach me love, Unveil thyself, although thy beauty be Too luminous for my mortality. THE LADY \unveiling], Then, foolish boy, receive at length thy will: Now knowest thou the greatness of thine ill. PIERROT. Now have I lost my heart, and gained my goal. THE LADY. Didst thou not read the warning on the scroll? [Picks up the parchment.] PIERROT. I read it all, as on this quest I fared, Save where it was illegible and hard. THE LADY. Alack! poor scholar, wast thou never taught A little knowledge serveth less than naught? Hadst thou perused but, stay, I will explain What was the writing which thou didst disdain. [Reads.] " Au Petit Trianon, at night's full noon. Mortal, beware the kisses of the moon ! Whoso seeks her she gathers like a flower He gives a life, and only gains an hour." PIERROT [laughing recklessly]. Bear me away to thine enchanted bower, All of my life I venture for an hour. THE LADY. Take up thy destiny of short delight; I am thy lady for a summer's night, Lift up your viols, maidens of my trafrr, And work such havoc on this mortal's brain That for a moment he may touch and know Immortal things, and be full Pierrot, White music, Nymphs! Violet and Eg- lantine ! To stir his tired veins like magic wine, What visitants across his spirit glance, Lying on lilies, while he watch me dance? Watch, and forget all weary things on earth, All memories and cares, all joy and mirth, While my dance woos him, light and rhythmical, And weaves his heart into my coronal. Music, more music for his soul's de- light: Love is his lady for a summer's night. [Pierrot reclines, and gazes at her while she dances. The dance fin- ished, she beckons to him: he rises: dreamily, and stands at her side.} 138 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS PIERROT. Whence came, dear Queen, such magic melody ? THE LADY. Pan made it long ago in Arcady. PIERROT. I heard it long ago, I know not where, As I knew thee, or ever I came here. But I forgot all things my name and race, All that I ever knew except thy face. Who art thou, lady? Breathe a name to me, Thnt I may tell it like a rosary. Thou, whom I* sought, dear Dryad of the trees, How art thou designate art thou Heart's-Ease? THE LADY. Waste not the night in idle questioning, Since Love departs at dawn's awaken- ing. PIERROT. Nay, thou art right; what recks thy " name or state, Since thou art lovely and passionate. Play out thy will on me: I am thy lyre. THE LADY. I am to each the face of his desire. PIERROT. I am not Pierrot, but Venus' dove, Who craves a refuge on the breast of love. THE LADY. What wouldst thou of the maiden of the moon? Until the cock crow I may grant thy boon. PIERROT. Then, sweet Moon Maiden, in some magic car, Wrought wondrously of many a home- less star Such must attend thy journeys through the skies, Drawn by a team of milk-white butter- flies, Whom, with soft voice and music of thy maids, Thou urgest gently through the heav- enly glades; Mount me beside thee, bear me far away From the low regions of the solar day; Over the rainbow, up into the moon, Where is thy palace and thine opal throne ; There on thy bosom THE LADY. Too ambitious boy! I did but promise thee one hour of joy. This tour thou plannest, with a heart so light, Could hardly be completed in a night. Hast thou no craving less remote than this? PIERROT. Would it be impudent to beg a kiss? THE LADY. I say not that: yet prithee have a care! Often audacity has proved a snare. How wan and pale do moon-kissed roses grow Does thou not fear my kisses, Pierrot? PIERROT. As one who faints upon the Libyan plain Fears the oasis which brings life again ! THE LADY. Where far away green palm trees seem to stand May be a mirage of the wreathing sand. PIERROT. Nay, dear enchantress, I consider naught, Save mine own ignorance, which would be taught. THE LADY. Dost thou persist? PIERROT. I do entreat this boon ! [She bends forward, their lips meet: she withdraws with a petulant shiver. She utters a peal of clear laughter.] THE LADY. Why art thou pale, fond lover of the moon? PIERROT. Cold are thy lips, more cold than I can tell; Yet would I hang on them, thine icicle ! Cold is thy kiss, more cold than I could dream Arctus sits, watching the Boreal stream : But with its frost such sweetness did conspire That all my veins are filled with run- ning fire ; THE PIERROT OF THE MINUTE 139 Never I knew that life contained such bliss As the divine completeness of a kiss. THE LADY. Apt scholar! so love's lesson has been taught, Warning, as usual, has gone for naught. PIERROT. Had all my schooling been of this soft kind, To play the truant I were less inclined. Teach me again! I am a sorry dunce I never knew a task by conning once. THE LADY. Then come with me ! below this pleasant shrine Of Venus we will presently recline, Until birds' twitter beckon me away To my own home, beyond the milky- way. I will instruct thee, for I deem as yet Of Love thou knowest but the alpha- bet. PIERROT. In its sweet grammar I shall grow most wise, If all its rules be written in thine eyes. [The Lady sits upon a step of the temple, and Pierrot leans iipon his elbow at her feet, regarding her.} Sweet contemplation ! how my senses yearn to be thy scholar always, al- ways learn. Hold not so high from me thy radiant mouth, Fragrant with all the spices of the South; Nor turn, O sweet! thy golden face away, For with it goes the light of all my day. Let me peruse it, till I know by rote Each line of it, like music, note by note; Raise thy long lashes, Lady; smile again: These studies profit me. [Takes her hand.] THE LADY. Refrain, refrain! PERROT [with passion]. I am but studious, so do not stir; Thou art ray star, I thine astronomer! Geometry was founded on thy lip. [Kisses her hand.] THE LADY. This attitude becomes not scholarship ! Thy zeal I praise; but, prithee, not so fast, Nor leave the rudiments until the last, Science applied is good, but 'twere a schism To study such before the catechism. Bear thee more modestly, while I sub- mit Some easy problems to confirm thy wit. PIERROT. In all humility my mind I pit Against her problems which would test my wit. THE LADY [questioning him from a little book bound deliciously in vellum], What is Love? Is it folly, Is it mirth, or melancholy? Joys above, Are there many, or not any? What is love? PIERROT [answering in a very humble at- titude of scholarship], If you please, A most sweet folly! Full of mirth and melancholy: Both of these! In its sadness worth all gladness, If you please ! THE LADY. Prithee where, Goes Love a-hiding? Is he long in his abiding Anywhere ? Can you bind him when you find him ; Prithee, where? PIERROT. With spring days Love comes and dallies: Upon the mountains, through the val- leys Lie Love's ways. Then he leaves you and deceives you In spring days. THE LADY. Thine answers please me: 'tis thy turn to ask. To meet thy questioning be now my task. PIERROT. Since I know thee, dear Immortal, Is my heart become a blossom, To be worn upon thy bosom. When thou turn me from this portal, Whither shall I, hapless mortal, I4-O FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS Seek love out and win again Heart of me that thou retain? THE LADY. In and out the woods and valleys, Circling, soaring like a swallow, Love shall flee and thou shalt follow: Though he stops awhile and dallies, Never shalt thou stay his malice ! Moon-kissed mortals seek in vain To possess their hearts again ! PIERROT. Tell me, Lady, shall I never Rid me of this grievous burden! Follow Love and find his guerdon In no maiden whatsoever? Wilt thou hold my heart forever? Rather would I thine forget, In some earthly Pierrette! THE LADY. Thus thy fate, what'er thy will is ! Moon-struck child, go seek my traces Vainly in all mortal faces! In and out among the lilies, Court each rural Amaryllis: Seek the signet of Love's hand In each courtly Corisande! PIERROT. Now, verily, sweet maid, of school I tire; These answers are not such as I desire. THE LADY. Why art thou sad? PIERROT. I dare not tell. THE LADY [caressingly]. Come, say! PIERROT. Is love all schooling, with no time to play? THE LADY. Though all love's lessons be a holi- day, Yet I will humor thee: what wouldst thou play? PIERROT. What are the games that small moon- maids enjoy: Or is their time all spent in staid em- ploy? THE LADY. Sedate they are, yet games they much enjoy: They skip with stars, the rainbow is their toy. PIERROT. That is too hard ! THE LADY. For mortal's play. PIERROT. What then? THE LADY. Teach me some pastime from the world of men. PIERROT. I have it, maiden. THE LADY. Can it soon be taught? PIERROT. A single game, I learnt it at the Court. THE LADY. But, prithee, not so near. PIERROT. That is essential, as will soon appear. Lay here thine hand, which cold night dews anoint, Washing its white THE LADY. Now is this to the point? PIERROT. Prithee, forbear! Such is the game's design. THE LADY. Here is my hand. PIERROT. I cover it with mine. THE LADY. What must I next? [They play.] PIERROT. Withdraw. THE LADY. It goes too fast. [They continue playing, until Pierrot catches her hand.] PIERROT [laughing}. 'Tis done. I win my forfeit at the last. [He tries to embrace her. She es- capes; he chases her round the stage; she eludes him.] THE LADY. Thou art not quick enough. Who hopes to catch A moon-beam, must use twice as much dispatch. PIERROT [sitting down sulkily]. I grow aweary, and my heart is sore. Thou dost not love me; I will play no more. [He buries his face in his hands. The Lady stands over him.] THE LADY. What is this petulance? THE PIERROT OF THE MINUTE 141 PIERROT. 'Tis quick to tell Thou hast but mocked me. THE LADY. Nay! I love thee well! PIERROT. Repeat those words, for still within my breast A whisper warns me they are said in jest. THE LADY. I jested not: at daybreak I must go, Yet loving thee far better than thou know. PIERROT. Then, by this altar, and this sacred shrine, Take my sworn troth, and swear thee wholly mine ! The gods have wedded mortals long ere this. THE LADY. There was enough betrothal in my kiss. What need of further oaths? PIERROT. That bound not thee! THE LADY. Peace ! since I tell thee that it may not be. But sit beside me whilst I soothe thy bale AVith some moon fancy or celestial tale. PIERROT. Tell me of thee, and that dimy, happy place Where lies thine home, with maidens of thy race ! THE LADY [seating herself]. Calm is it yonder, very calm; the air For mortals' breath is too refined and rare; Hard by a green lagoon our palace rears Its dome of agate through a myriad years. A hundred chambers its bright walls enthrone, Each one carved strangely from a pre- cious stone. Within the fairest, clad in purity, Our mother dwelleth immemorially: Moon-calm, moon-pale, with moon stones on her gown, The floor she treads with little pearls is sown ; She sits upon a throne of amethysts, And orders mortal fortunes as she lists; I, and my sisters, all around her stand, And, when she speaks, accomplish her demand. PIERROT. Methought grim Clotho and her sisters twain With shriveled fingers spun this web of bane! THE LADY. Theirs and my mother's realm is far apart; Hers is the lustrous kingdom of the heart, And dreamers all, and all who sing and love, Her power acknowledge, and her rule approve. PIERROT. Me, even me, she hath led into this grove. THE LADY. Yea, thou art one of hers! But, ere this night, Often I watched my sisters take their flight Down heaven's stairway of the clus- tered stars To gaze on mortals through their lat- tice bars; And some in sleep they woo with dreams of bliss Too shadowy to tell, and some they kiss. But all to whom they come, my sisters say, Forthwith forget all joyance of the day, Forget their laughter and forget their tears, And dream away with singing all their years Moon-lovers always! [She sighs.] PIERROT. Why art sad, sweet Moon? [Laughs.] THE LADY. For this, my story, grant me now a boon. PIERROT. I am thy servitor. THE LADY. Would, then, I knew More of the earth, what men and women do. 1 4 2 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS PIERROT. I will explain. THE LADY. Let brevity attend Thy wit, for night approaches to its end. PIERROT. Once was I a page at Court, so trust in me: That's the first lesson of society. THE LADY. Society? PIERROT. I mean the very best Pardy! thou wouldst not hear about the rest. I know it not, but am a petit maitre At rout and festival and bal champetre. But since example be instruction's ease, Let's play the thing. Now, Madame, if you please ! [He kelps her to rise, and leads her forward: then he kisses her hand, bowing over it with a very courtly air.] THE LADY. What am I, then? PIERROT. A most divine Marquise! Perhaps that attitude hath too much ease. [Passes her.] Ah, that is better! To complete the plan, Nothing is necessary save a fan. THE LADY. Cool is the night, what needs it? PIERROT. Madame, pray Reflect, it is essential to our play. THE LADY [taking a lily]. Here is my fan ! PIERROT. So, use it with intent: The deadliest arm in beauty's arma- ment! THE LADY. What do we next? PIERROT. We talk ! THE LADY. But what about? PIERROT. We quiz the company and praise the rout ; Are polished, petulant, malicious, sly, Or what you will, so reputations die. Observe the Duchess in Venetian lace, With the red eminence. THE LADY. A pretty face! PIERROT. For something tarter set thy wits to search " She loves the churchman better than the church." THE LADY. Her blush is charming; would it were her own! PIERROT. Madame is merciless! THE LADY. Is that the tone? PIERROT. The very tone: I swear thou lackest naught. Madame was evidently bred at Court. THE LADY. Thou speakest glibly: 'tis not of thine age. PIERROT. I listened much, as best becomes a page. THE LADY. I like thy Court but little PIERROT. Hush ! the Queen ! Bow, but not low thou knowest what I mean. THE LADY. Nay, that I know not ! PIERROT. Though she wears a crown, 'Tis from La Pompadour one fears a frown. THE LADY. Thou art a child: thy malice is a game. PIERROT. A most sweet pastime scandal is its name. THE LADY. Enough, it wearies me. PIERROT. Then, rare Marquise, Desert the crowd to wander through the trees. [He bows low, and she curtsies; they move round the stage. When they pass before the Statue he seizes her hand and falls on his knee.] THE LADY. What wouldst thou now? PIERROT. Ah, prithee, what, save thee! THE PIERROT OF THE MINUTE THE LADY. Was this included in thy comedy? PIERROT. Ah, mock me not ! In vain with quirk and jest I strive to quench the passion in my breast ; In vain thy blandishments would make me play: Still I desire far more than I can say. My knowledge halts, ah, sweet, be piteous, Instruct me still, while time remains to us, Be what thou wist, Goddess, moon- maid, Marquise, So that I gather from thy lips heart's ease, Nay, I implore thee, think thee how time flies ! THE I.ADY. Hush ! I beseech thee, even now night dies. PIERROT. Night, day, are one to me for thy soft sake. [He entreats her with imploring ges- tures, she hesitates: then puts her finger on her lip, hushing him.] THE LADY. It is too late, for hark ! the birds awake. PIERROT. The birds awake ! It is the voice of day! THE LADY. Farewell, dear youth! They summon me away. [The light changes, it grows day- light: and the music imitates the twitter of the birds. They stand gazing at the morning: then Pier- rot sinks back upon his bed, he covers his face in his hands.] THE LADY [bending over him]. Music, my maids ! His weary senses steep In soft untroubled and oblivious sleep, With Mandragore anoint his tired eyes, That they may open on mere memories, Then shall a vision seem his lost de- light, With love, his lady for a summer night. Dream thou hast dreamt all this, when thou awake, Yet still be sorrowful, for a dream's sake. I leave thee, sleeper ! Yea, I leave thee now, Yet take my legacy upon thy brow: Remember me, who was compassion- ate, And opened for thee once, the ivory gate. I come no more, thou shalt not see my face When I am gone to mine exalted place: Yet all thy days are mine, dreamer of dreams, All silvered over with the moon's pale beams : Go forth and seek in each fair face in vain, . To find the image of thy love again. All maids are kind to thee, yet never one Shall hold thy truant heart till day be done. Whom once the moon has kissed, loves long and late, Yet never finds the maid to be his mate. Farewell, dear sleeper, follow out thy fate. [The Moon Maiden withdraws: a song is sung from behind: it is full day.] THE MOOK MAIDEN'S SOKG Sleep ! Cast thy canopy Over this sleeper's brain, Dim grows his memory, When he awake again. Love stays a summer night, Till lights of morning come; Then takes her winged flight Back to her starry home. Sleep! Yet thy days are mine; Love's seal is over thee: Far though my ways from thine, Dim though thy memory. Love stays a summer night, Till lights of morning come; Then takes her winged flight Back to her starry home. [When the song is finished, the cur- tain falls upon Pierrot sleeping.] 144 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS EPILOGUE [Spoken in the character of PIERROT] The sun is up, yet ere a body stirs, A word with you, sweet ladies and dear sirs, [Although on no account let any say That PIERROT finished Mr. Dowson's play]. One night not long ago, at Baden Baden, The birthday of the Duke, his pleasure garden Was lighted gayly with feu d'artifice, With candles, rockets, and a center-piece .Above the conversation house, on high, Outlined in living fire against the sky, ^A glittering Pierrot, radiant, white, Whose heart beat fast, who danced with sheer delight, Whose eyes were blue, whose lips were rosy red, Whose pompons too were fire, while on his head He wore a little cap, and I am told That rockets covered him with showers of gold. " Take our applause, you well deserve to win it," They cried: "Bravo! the Pierrot of the minute 1" What with applause and gold, one must confess That Pierrot had " arrived,'' achieved success, When, as it happened, presently, alas! A terrible disaster came to pass. His nose grew dim, the people gave a shout, His red lips paled, both his blue eyes went out. There rose a sullen sound of discontent, The golden shower of rockets was all spent; He left off dancing with a sudden jerk, For he was nothing but a firework. The garden darkened and the people in it Cried, " He is dead, the PierPot of the minute! '' With every artist it is even so; The artist, after all, is a Pierrot A Pierrot of the minute, naif, clever, But Art is back of him, She lives for ever! Then pardon my Moon Maid and me, be- cause We craved the golden shower of your applause! Pray shrive us both for having tried to win it, And cry, "Bravo! The Pierrot of the minute ! " THE SUBJECTION OF KEZIA A PLAY BY MRS. HAVELOCK ELLIS Copyright, 1915, by Edith M. O. Ellis. As Author and Proprietor. All rights reserved. PERSONS IN THE PLAY. JOE PENGILLY. KEZIA [Joe Pengilly's wife}. MATTHEW TREVASKIS [a friend of the Pengillys], THE SCENE is laid in a Cornish village. TIME: The Present. The whole action of the play takes place between seven o'clock and nine o'clock on a Saturday evening. Reprinted from " Love in Danger " by permission of and special arrangements with, Houghton, Mifflin Company. The professional and amateur stage rights on this play are strictly reserved by the author, to whose dramatic agent, Miss Galbraith Welch, 101 Park Avenue, New York, applications for permission to produce it should be made. THE SUBJECTION OF KEZIA A PLAY SCEXE: Interior of a cottage kitchen in a Cornish fishing village. The walls are distempered a pale blue; the ceiling wooden and beamed. Middle of back wall, a kitchen-range where fire is burn- ing. At back R. is a door opening into an inner room. At back L. small cup- boards. At side L. is a large kitchen- table laid for tea under a window facing sea. The floor is red brick. On mantel- piece, white china dogs, clock, copper candlesticks, tea-caddy, stirrups, and bits. On walls, family framed photo- graphs, religious framed pictures. Be- low table is a door leading into street. Behind door, roller with hanging towel. Usual kitchen paraphernalia, chairs, pots and pans, etc. Cat basket with straw to R. of range. At back R. is a wooden set- tle with good upright sides. Joe Pen- gill;/ is wiping his face and hands, honing just come in from the pump outside. He sighs and glances uneasily at Kezia, who has her back turned to him, and is frying mackerel at the stove. He rolls down his sleeves slowly and watches his wife uneasily. He is dressed as a la- borer corduroy trousers, hob-nailed boots, blue-and-white shirt, open throat. He takes down a sleeved waistcoat from a peg behind the door and puts it on. He is a slight man with thin light hair, gentle in manner, but with a strong keen face. Kezia is a little taller than Joe slender and graceful, with a clean cotton dress fitting well to her figure; a clean apron, well-dressed and tidy hair; good- looking and energetic. Joe smiles to himself and crosses his arms and shuffles his feet as he looks towards Kezia. Kezia turns round suddenly and looks at him sideways, the cooking-fork in one hand and the handle of the frying-pan in the other. Joe sits down at table.] 147 BY MRS. HAVELOCK ELLIS KEZIA. Why didn't thee speak? JOE. Nothin' to say, my dear. KEZIA. Thee's not much company, for sure. [Joe laughs and leans his arms on the table as he looks at Kezia; his face beams as he watches her landing the fish from the bubbling fat to a dish. She puts some on a plate in front of Joe, and pours out tea in a large cup. She suddenly looks at him as he begins picking off the tail of his mackerel with his fin- gers.] KEZIA. Cain't thee answer? JOE. To what? KEZIA [snappily]. Why, to me, of course. [Joe takes a long drink of tea and gazes at her over his cup.] JOE. Thee'rt a great beauty, Kezia, sure enough ! [He puts the cup down and goes on picking his fish with the fingers of one hand, while the other holds bread and butter.] KEZIA. There you are again; always either grumblin' or jeerin' at me. JOE. I'm not doin' neither, woman. I'm tryin' for to make up for thrawtin' of you this mornin' over they soaked crusties as I gave the cat and ruined the nice clean floor. KEZIA. Now [angrily], just when I were forgettin' all about it, of course you must bring it all up again, and you're tryin' now [pointing at the fish] all thee knows how, to make the table- cloth like a dish-clout with thy great greasy fingers ! [Joe licks his fingers, one by one, and wipes them on his trousers, as he smiles into her cross face.] KEZIA. Gracious! [whimpering] that's i 4 8 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS thee all over. Thee gives up one dirty trick for another. I believe you only married me to clean and tidy after you. [Joe laughs heartily and looks up at her.] JOE. Heart alive! I married you be- cause you are the only woman I've ever met in my life I could never weary of, not even if you tormented rne night and day. Love of 'e, my dear, seemly, makes a real fool of me most of my time. [His face becomes very grave, and Kezia's brow clears as she sits down and begins to eat.] KEZTA. You was always one for pretty talk, Joe, but you're not a bit what you were i' deeds lately. [Joe hands his' cup for more tea.] JOE. 'Cause you snap me up so. KEZIA. There you are again, tryin' to pick a quarrel. [Joe pulls his chair away from the table and drags it nearer the grate. He takes his pipe from his pocket and blows into it.] KEZIA. Now, Joe, you know I cain't abide that 'baccy smell: it gives me a headache. JOE. It gives me a headache to do without 'baccy. [Joe polishes his pipe-bowl on his sleeve, puts the stem in his mouth, and takes out some shag. Kezia watches him as she removes the tea-things. Joe watches her out of the corner of his eye as he slow- ly fills his pipe.] KEZIA. I'm fair wore out. [Joe gets up, puts his pipe on the mantelpiece and his knife and shag in his pocket, and advances to- wards Kezia. He puts his hands on her shoulders and looks in her eyes.] JOE. Kiss us, old girl ! KEZIA. Don't be so silly. I don't feel like it at all, and I want to be with mother again. JOE. And married only two years! KEZIA. It seems like six to me. JOE. What ails thee, lass? KEZIA. Don't keep allus askin' ques- tions and bein' so quarrelsome; I'm mazed at the sight of 'e, sure enough. [She folds the cloth, pokes the fire, goes into the inner room, at back R., and comes in again with her hat and shawl on and a basket in her hand. She looks at Joe, and wipes her eyes.] You can sit there as long as you've a mind to, and smoke insides black and blue. I'm going to market a bit, and then I shall go into Blanch Sally and talk to she. She've got a bit of common sense. It's just on eight o'clock, and I shan't be more nor an hour or so. [Joe does not stir as Kezia goes out of the front door. Kezia looks back to see if he'll turn, but he does not move. He gazes into the fire with his hands clasped behind his head, and his chair tilted back.] JOE. I'd as soon be a dog as a man, sure enough! They can sit by the fire and be comfortable. [He jumps up sud- denly as he hears a knock at the door.] Come in ! [The street door opens softly, and Matthew Trevaskis comes in very quietly. He is a stout, short man with bushy hair and a beard. He also is dressed as a laborer. He looks at Joe and gives a low whistle.] MATTHEW. Hallo, mate! JOE. Oh! you? [Joe sits down again, points to an- other chair, and looks gloomily back into the fire.] MATTHEW. Well, brother ! Thee looks as if thee'd run out o' speerits'and 'baccy both. JOE. I'm moody, like a thing. [Matthew laughs and draws his chair up close to Joe. He pulls down his waistcoat, and then puts his fingers in the arm-holes, as he con- templates Joe.] MATTHEW. Got the hump, mate? Have 'e? [Joe shakes his head dolefully from side to side and sighs.] MATTHEW. Jaw, I suppose? [Joe nods.] MATTHEW. Thought so. I met the missus as I came along looking a bit teasy. Women's the devil that way; it's in their breed and bone, like fightin' in we. You began all wrong, like me, mate, and females always takes advan- tage of honeymoon ways, and stamps on we if we don't take 'em in hand at THE SUBJECTION OF KEZIA 149 [Joe sighs, crosses his leys and looks at his friend.] JOE. Drat it all ! I never began no different to what I am now. I cain't make things up at all. I'm fairly mazed, never having had dealin's with no fe- male, except mother, who was mostly ill, and never in tantrums. [Matthew rises, pokes Joe in the ribs and laughs.] MATTHEW. Cheer up, brother, there's no bigger fool than a man as is sent crazy with a woman. JOE. Women is mazy things. MATTHEW. There's allus 'baccy for to fortify us against them, thanks be. [Matthew draws a little black clay pipe out of his waistcoat pocket and points to Joe's pipe on the mantelpiece as he sits down.] JOE. Kezia 'ates 'baccy in the house. MTATHEW. Smoke all the time then; it's the only way. [Joe smiles and smoothes his thin straight hair.] JOE. You allus forgets I'm bent on pleasin' of Kezia. [Matthew stretches out his legs, and his face becomes calm and thought- ful. He speaks very deliberately.] MATTHEW. The more thee tries to please women, mate, the more crotchety they becomes. Within bounds I keep the peace in our place like a judge, but she've learnt, Jane Ann have, that I'll put my foot down on any out-of-the-way tan- trums. Give them their heads and they'll soon have we by the heels. JOE. Sometimes I wonder if we give 'em their heads enough. Perhaps they'd domineer less if we left 'em take their own grainy ways. MATTHEW. You bet! If I gave in to Jane Ann entirely, where the devil do 'e think I should be at all? [The two men laugh together and light their pipes and smoke hard.] JOE. I've no notion. MATTHEW. Well ! I should be like a cat out in the rain, never certain where to put my feet. As it is, as you do know, I cain't keep no dog for fear of the mess its feet 'ud make on the floor; I cain't have a magpie in a cage 'cause its seed 'ud 'appen fall on the table. I've got to walk ginger like a rooster in wet grass for fear o' disturbin' the sand on the clean floor, and I rubs my feet on the mat afore I goes in to my meals enough to split it in half. I gives in to all things 'cause I was took captive over them, in a manner of speaking, almost afore I'd finished courting, and it takes years to understand women's fancies ! It's worse nor any book learnin', is un- derstandin' women; and then, when you think you've learnt 'em off by heart, any man 'ud fail under a first standard ex- amination on 'em. [He gets up and shakes Joe by the shoulder.] Listen to me, mate ! Bein' a real pal to thee, Joe, I'm warnin' of 'e now afore it's too late, for thee's only been wed two years, and there's time to alter things yet. [Joe suddenly gets up and goes to the door to see if it is fastened, and returns to face his friend. He takes off his long-sleeved waist- coat and throws it on a chair, after putting down his pipe.] JOE. Matthey ! MATTHEW. Yes? JOE. Don't you think it is too late even now? MATTHEW. Fur what? It's no use speakin' i' riddles, man. Trust or no trust that's my plan. Thee's the only livin' man or woman, for the matter of that, as I've blackened Jane Ann to, and if it'll ease thy mind to tell what's wor- ritin' of thee, you do know it's as safe as if you'd dropt your secret into the mouth of a mine shaft. JOE. Done! Give me a hearing and let's have finished with it. [Matthew cleans out the bowl of his pipe and knocks the ashes out against the grate as he waits for his friend to begin. Joe stands first on one leg and then on the other and gives a long whistle.] MATTHEW. Sling along. It won't get no easier wi' keeping. [Joe wipes his forehead with a red handkerchief, which he takes out of his trouper pocket.] JOE. Awkward kind o' work, pullin' your lawful wife to bits. MATTHEW. It'll get easier as thee goes on, man. I'll help thee. What's the row to-day? JOE. Crusties. [Matthew wink's at Joe and lights his pipe again.] 150 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS MATTHEW. It's always some feeble thing like that as makes confusion in a house. Jane Ann began just like that. Dirty boots in the best parlor was my first offense, and it raised hell in our house for nigh on a whole day. JOE. Well, I never! It was just the same thing in a way with me. I soaked the crusties in my tea this mornin' and threw 'em to the cat under the table, and I suppose I must 'ave put my foot in 'em, for Kezia went off like a thing gone mazy. She stormed and said [he sits down and wipes his forehead again with his handkerchief as he pauses] as she were a fool to take me, and all sorts, and then she cried fit to kill herself, and when I spoke she told me to hold my noise, and when I didn't speak she said I'd no feelin's, and was worse nor a stone. We scarcely spoke at dinner- time. She said she wished she was dead, and wanted her mother, and that, bein' a man, I was worse nor a devil; and when I kept on eatin' she said she wondered the food didn't choke me, and when I stopped eatin' she said I was never pleased wi' nothin' she'd got ready for me. My head is sore with the clang of the teasy things she drove into me, and I'm not good at replies, as you do know. [Joe ends in a weary voice and pokes the fire listlessly. Matthew smokes hard and his eyes are on the ground.] MATTHEW. Women be mysteries, and without little uns they'm worse nor monsters. A child do often alter and soften 'em, but a childless woman is as near a wolf as anything I do know. [Joe's elbows sink on his knees and his hands support his woebegone face. When he next speaks he has a catch in his voice, and he speaks quickly. JOE. That's it, is it? MATTHEW. Iss, mate ! That's the mis- chief. Unless [he looks up suddenly at Joe] perhaps she be goin' to surprise 'e by telling 'e she be going to have a little one. That would account for her bein' teasy and moody. [Joe laughs sorrowfully.] JOE. Lor', I should be the first to know that, surely ! MATTHEW. Not a bit of it. Women loves secrets of that sort. JOE. No; 'tain't that at all. I only wish it was, if what you say be true of women. MATTHEW. True enough, my son. I did the cutest day's work in my life when I persuaded Jane Ann to take little Joe to help we. I watched the two of 'em together and found he caught his tongue- ing, too, from she, but it had a sort of nestle sound in it as if she were a-cud- dlin' of him. She've been gentler wi' me ever since Joe come back again after his long bout at home. [Joe scratches his head very thought- fully; a pause, in which he seems to be thinking before speaking again.] JOE. I don't know of no sister's child to take on for Kezia at all. What's the next remedy, think you? MATTHEW. A thrashin'. [Joe jumps up and stares at Matthew.] JOE. A what? MATTHEW. Wallop her just once. [Matthew looks on the ground and taps it with his foot, and he does not see that Joe is standing over him with his hands clenched.] JOE. Shame on thee, mate ! I feel more like strikin' thee nor a female. I'm sorry I told thee, if thee can offer no more help than that. I'm not much of a chap, but I've never struck a woman yet. MATTHEW. Strike on principle, then. [He still looks fixedly at the floor, and Joe stands glaring at him.] JOE. How? MATTHEW. Like the Almighty strikes when He've got a lesson for we to learn, which we won't learn without strikes and tears. Nothin' is of no avail to stop His chastisement if He do think it's goin' to work out His plan for He and we, and that's what I'm wanting of you to do by your wife for her sake more than for yours. Wives must learn to submit. [Harshly.] It's Divine Providence as 'ave ordered it, and women be miserable, like ivy and trailers of all sorts, if they've no prop to bear 'em up. Beat her once and it'll make a man of you and be a life-long warnin' to she. JOE. But I love her, man! [Softly.] The very thought of hurting her makes me creep. THE SUBJECTION OF KEZIA [Joe shrugs his shoulders and shakes his head repeatedly.] MATTHEW. Women likes bein' hurt. It's a real fondlin' to 'em at times. [Joe sits down and folds his arms as he looks humbly at Matthew.} JOE. Lor', I never heard that afore. How can you be sure of that at all? MATTHEW. I've ' traveled, as you do knaw. I ain't been to Africa for nothin', mate. I've seen a deal o' things, which if I'd happened on afore I courted Jane Ann would have got me through the mar- riage scrimmage wi' no tiles off of my roof. That's why I'm a warnin' of you afore it's too late. Your woman be worth gettin' i' trim [with a sigh] for she's well she's [Joe's eyes rest on his friend's face and his face suddenly lights up with a smile.] JOE. She's the best sort of woman a man could 'ave for a sweetheart when her moods is off, and it's only lately her 'ave altered so, and I expect it's really all my fault. MATTHEW. Certainly it is; you've never shown master yet, and you must this very night. JOE. [Coughs nervously.] How? MATTHEW. You must thrash her be- fore it is too late. Have 'e a cane? [Joe jumps up, twists round his necktie, undoes it, ties it again marches up and down the little kitchen, and wheels round on Matthew.] JOE. You'm a fair brute, Matthew Trevaskis. MATTHEW. And you'm a coward, Joe Pengilly. [Matthew clasps his hands round his raised knee and nods at Joe, who sits.] I've given you golden advice, and if only a pal had given it to me years ago I shouldn't be in the place I'm in now, but be master of my own wife and my own chimney-corner. [Joe puts his hands in his pockets and tilts back his chair as he gazes up at the ceiling as if for inspira- tion.] JOE. I cain't stomach the idea at all; it's like murderin' a baby, somehow. MATTHEW. Stuff! You needn't lay on too hard to make bruises nor noth- in'. [Joe goes pale and puts his head in his hands for a moment, and he almost whispers.] JOE. Good Lord! Bruises! Why, man, she've got flesh like a flower ! [Matthew suddenly holds out his hand to Joe, who shakes it feebly.] MATTHEW. I almost envies thee, mate. Why, thee's fair daft wi' love still. JOE. Of course I be! [Sullenly.] She's more nor meat and drink to me; allus have been since the first I took to she. MATTHEW. All the more reason to beat her, and at once. [Sternly.] You'll lose her, sure enough, if you don't. It's the only chance for thee now, and I do knaw I'm speaking gospel truth. [A long pause, in which Joe medi- tates with a grave face. He sud- denly snaps the fingers of his right hand as he says quickly.] JOE. I'll do it. It'll nearly be the fin- ish of me, but if you're certain sure she'll love me more after it I'll shut my eyes and set my teeth and and yes, upon my soul, I'll do it! She'm more to me than all the world, and I'll save she and myself with her. But are you sure it will do any good? [Matthew wrings Joe's hands and then slaps him on the back.] MATTHEW. I swear it, brother. [Sol- emnly.] I've never once known it fail. JOE [anxiously]. Never once in all your travels? [Matthew looks down.] MATTHEW. Iss, mate, once, sure enough, but the woman had never cared twopence for the man to start with. After it she left 'un altogether. JOE [with a groan]. Oh! Good Lord! MATTHEW. That was no fair start like a thing. See? JOE. No, to be sure. MATTHEW. Now! [He strikes Joe's shoulder briskly.] Now for it! [Joe twists round towards the door, and a miserable smile is on his lips. ] JOE. Well, what now? [Matthew bends down to Joe's ear and whispers. MATTHEW. We must go and buy the cane. JOE. Sakes ! MATTHEW. Bear up ! It'll all be over 152 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS by this time to-morrow night, and that's a great stand by, isn't it? JOE. I suppose it is. [Gloomily.] Who'll be spokesman over the buyin'? MATTHEW. Me, my son. How far will 'e go i' price? [Joe shakes his head and looks wear- ily at Matthew.} JOE. It's no odds to me, Matthey; I don't know and don't care ! MATTHEW. Will sixpence ruin 'e? JOE. It's all ruin. I'm sweatin' like a bull with fear and shame, and wish I was dead and buried. [Matthew points to the door and the two men move slowly towards it.] MATTHEW. It's just on nine o'clock. Kezia will be back afore we start if we don't mind. Don't stop to think when you come back, but rush right in and set at it at once, and she'll have time to come round before you settle for the night. Bein' Saturday night, all the neighbors be mostly i' town shoppin', and if there should be a scream I'll make up a yarn to any one who comes near as '11 stop all gossip. I shan't be far off till I reckon it's all over. [Joe's teeth are et and his head down, and he gazes at the door and then at Matthew, irresolutely.] MATTHEW. Thee deserves to lose her if thee be real chicken-hearted like this 'ere. [Joe makes a dart forward, unlatches the door, rushes out followed by Matthew.] MATTHEW [outside]. Go round by the croft and then we shan't meet her coming home. [After a pause the door slowly opens and Kezia comes in. She has a basket in one hand and a string bag full of parcels in the other. She looks round, puts her parcels on the table and in the cupboards, pokes the fire, and then takes her basket in her hand again, looks at the clock and goes into the inner room. She comes back with her outdoor garments off and a loose dressing-jacket of white and blue linen over her arm. She goes to a drawer in the table and brings out a little comb and brush and stands thinking.] KEZIA. I'll do my hair down here. He cain't be long, and it's cold upstairs. Gone for tobacco, I suppose, and he'll want his tea when he comes in. [She puts the kettle on the fire. She undoes her hair, facing audi- ence; shakes it about her shoul- ders, puts on her dressing-jacket and begins to brush and comb her hair before the fire, and near the settle she bends down and warms her hands, singing a lullaby as she does so. She then stands facing the fire, smiling to herself as she sings. So absorbed is she in her thoughts that she does not see the street-door open and the white, scared face of Joe appear. He puts his hands behind his back -when he has softly shut the door, and tip-toes towards Kezia, who never sees him till he has sat down swiftly on the settle, the further corner to where she stands. His left hand, with the cane in it, is not visible to Kezia, as it is hidden by the end of the settle. Tying a large plait on one side of her head the nearest to him with pink ribbon, she suddenly turns round and sees him, and their eyes meet. Sne sits down by him. Kezia's face is very sweet and smiling as she tosses the plait over her shoul- der.] KEZIA. Seen a ghost, Joey, my dear, or is it Kezia come to her senses at last, think you? [Joe does not stir. He gazes at Kezia with a puzzled and tender expression.] JOE. What's come to thee, lass? KEZIA. Guess ! [Kezia clasps her hands behind her head and looks into Joe's face with a happy smile.] JOE. Cain't at all. KEZIA. Come close, sweetheart. [Site draws nearer to Joe, who does not move, and tries to keep the cane hidden. He suddenly draws her close to him with his right arm, and whispers.] JOE. Kezia. KEZIA [softly]. Joey, my dear! [She nestles closer to him and puts her head on his shoulder.] He'll be the dearest little thing a woman ever bore. [Joe laughs softly, kisses Kezia gent- THE SUBJECTION OF KEZIA 153 ly on the eyes, brow, and then mouth, and holds her closely to him. ] JOE. Heaven cain't be more desirable than this. KEZIA. To think there'll be three of us soon. You see now why I've been so teasy lately. Now I'll sing all day long so he'll be a happy boy. [Joe does not move. He makes fur- tive attempts to hide the cane be- hind the settle, and moves a little as he continues to smile at Kezia.] KE-ZIA. Thee'rt smiling, Joe ! Thee and me 'ave both hungered for the same thing. Did thee guess it at all, I wonder? I've kept it from thee a while to make sure. But, lor' ! my dear life ! whatever be this that you've got here? [She pulls the lonq cane out of Joe's hands and holds it in hers. They both look at it very solemnly for a few moments, and Joe scratches his head sadly, unable to speak. She bursts into a merry laugh and her lips tremble.] Eh! Joe! lad! [softly]. Thee was always unlike other chaps; that's why I do love thee so. Fancy thee guessing, and going to buy him some- thin' right away! [She puts her face in her hands and sobs and laughs together.] Oh! it brings it so near like. Most men would have thought of a cradle or a rattle, but thee! Oh! my dear! [She throirs her arms round his neck and kisses him on the mouth.] Thee thought of the first beatin' we should be forced to give him, for, of course, he'll be a lad of tre- menjous spirit. JOE [suddenly, and snatching the cane from Kezia.] So he will. Both his father and mother be folk of great spirit, and the first time as he dirts the table- cloth or frets his mother, I'll lay it on him as, thanks be, I've never laid it on nobody yet. [Curtain.] THE CONSTANT LOVER A COMEDY OF YOUTH BY ST. JOHN HANKIN Copyright, All rights reserved. "As of old when the world's heart was lighter." THE CONSTANT LOVER was first produced at the Royalty Theatre, London, January 30, 1912, under the direction of Messrs. Vedrenhe and Eadie, with the following cast: EVELYK RIVERS Miss Gladys Cooper. CECIL HARBURTON . . Mr. Dennis Eadie. Reprinted from " The Dramatic Works of St. John Hankin," by permission of, and by special arrangement with, Mr. Mitchell Kennerley. THE CONSTANT LOVER A COMEDY [Before the curtain rises the orchestra will play the Woodland Music (cuckoo) from "Hansel and Oretel" and possibly some of the Grieg Pastoral Music from " Peer Gynt," or some Gabriel Faurd. SCENE: A glade in a wood. About c. a great beech-tree, the branches of which overhang the stage, the brilliant sunlight filtering through them. The sky where it can be seen through the branches is a cloudless blue. When the curtain rises Cecil Harbur- ton is discovered sitting on the ground under the tree, leaning his back against its trunk and reading a book. He wears a straw hat and the lightest of gray flan- nel suits. The chattering of innumer- able small birds is heard while the cur- tain is still down, and this grows louder as it rises, and we find ourselves in the wood. Presently a wood pigeon coos in the distance. Then a thrush begins to sing in the tree above Cecil's head and is answered by another. After a moment Cecil looks up.] CECIL. By Jove, that's jolly! [Lis- tens for a moment, then returns to his book.] [Suddenly a cuckoo begins to call in- sistently. After a moment or two he looks up again.] Cuckoo too! Bravo! [Again he re- turns to his book.] [A moment later enter Evelyn Rivers. She also wears the light- est of summer dresses, as 'it is a cloudless day in May. On her head is a shady straw hat. As she approaches the tree a twig snaps under her foot and Cecil looks up. He jumps to his feet, closing book, and advances to her, eagerly holding out his right hand, keeping the book in his left.] BY J. H. SPEENHOFF [Reproachfully.] Here you are at last! EVELYN. At last? CECIL. Yes. You're awfully late! [Looks at watch.] EVELYN. Am I? CECIL. You know you are. I ex- pected you at three. EVELYN. Why? I never said I'd come at three. Indeed, I never said I'd come at all. CECIL. No. But it's always been three. EVELYN. Has it? CECIL. And now it's half-past. I con- sider I've been cheated out of a whole half-hour. EVELYN. I couldn't help it. Mother kept me. She wanted the roses done in the drawing-room. CECIL. How stupid of Mrs. Rivers ! EVELYN. Mr. Harburton! CECIL. What's the matter? EVELYN. I don't think you ought to call my mother stupid. CECIL. Why not if she is stupid? Most parents are stupid, by the way. I've noticed it before. Mrs. Rivers ought to have thought of the roses earlier. The morning is the proper time to gather roses. Didn't you tell her that? EVELYN. I'm afraid I couldn't very well. You see it was really 7 who ought to have thought of the roses ! I al- ways do them. But this morning I for- got. CECIL. I see. [Turning towards the tree.] Well, sit down now you are here. Isn't it a glorious day? EVELYN [hesitating]. I don't believe I ought to sit down. CECIL [turns to her]. Why not? There's no particular virtue about stand- ing, is there? I hate standing. So let's sit down and be comfortable. 157 158 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS [She sits, so does he. She sits on bank under tree, left of it. He sits below bank to right of tree.] EVELYN. But ought I to be sitting here with you? That's what I mean. It's not as if I really knew you, is it? CECIL. Not know me? [The chatter of birds dies away.] EVELYN. Not properly we've never even heen introduced. We just met quite by chance here in the wood. CECIL. Yes. [Ecstatically.] What a glorious chance ! EVELYN. Still, I'm sure mother wouldn't approve. CECIL. And you say Mrs. Rivers isn't stupid ! EVELYN [laughing]. I expect most people would agree with her. Most peo- ple would say you oughtn't to have spoken to a girl you didn't know like that. CECIL. Oh, come, I only asked my way back to the inn. EVELYN. There was no harm in asking your way, of course. But then we began talking of other things. And then we sat down under this tree. And we've sat under this tree every afternoon since. And that was a week ago. CECIL. Well, it's such an awfully jolly tree. EVELYN. I don't know what mother would say if she heard of it! CECIL. Would it be something un- pleasant? EVELYN [ruefully]. I'm afraid it would. CECIL. How fortunate you don't know it then. EVELYN [pondering]. Still, if I really oughtn't to be here. . . . Do you think I oughtn't to be here? CECIL. I don't think I should go into that if I were you. Sensible people think of what they want to do, not of what they ought to do, otherwise they get confused. And then of course they do the wrong thing. EVELYN. But if I do what I oughtn't, I generally find I'm sorry for it after- wards. CECIL. Not half sorry as you would have been if you hadn't done it. In this world the things one regrets are the things one hasn't done. For instance, if I Hbdn't spoken to you a week ago here in the wood I should have regretted it all my life. EVELYN. Would you? [He nod*.] Really and truly? CECIL [nods]. Really and truly. [He lays his hand on hers for a mo- ment, she lets it rest there. Cuckoo calls loudly once or twice she draws her hand away. EVELYN. There's the cuckoo. [Cecil rises and sits up on bank R. of her, leaning against tree.] CECIL. Yes. Isn't he jolly? Don't you love cuckoos? EVELYN. They are rather nice. CECIL. Aren't they! And such clever beggars. Most birds are fools like most people. As soon as they're grown up they go and get married, and then the rest of their lives are spent in bringing up herds of children and wondering how on earth to pay their school-bills. Your cuckoo sees the folly of all that. No school-bills for her! No nursing the baby! She just flits from hedgerow to hedgerow flirting with other cuckoos. And when she lays an egg she lays it in some one else's nest, which saves all the trouble of housekeeping. Oh, a wise bird ! EVELYN [pouting, looking away from him], I don't know that I do like cuckoos so much after all. They sound to me rather selfish. CECIL. Yes. But so sensible! The duck's a wise bird too in her way. [She turns to him.] But her way's different from the cuckoo's. [Matter-of-fact.] She always treads on her eggs. EVELYN. Clumsy creature! CECIL. Not a bit. She does it on pur- pose. You see, it's much less trouble than sitting on them. As soon as she's laid an egg she raises one foot absent- mindedly and gives a warning quack. Whereupon the farmer rushes up, takes it away, and puts it under some wretched hen, who has to do the sitting for her. I call that genius ! EVELYN. Genius ! CECIL. Yes. Genius is the infinite capacity for making other people take pains. EVELYN. How can you say that? CECIL. I didn't. Carlyle did. EVELYN. I don't believe he said any- THE CONSTANT LOVER 159 thing of the kind. And I don't believe ducks are clever one bit. They don't look clever. CECIL. That's part of their cleverness. In this world if one is wise one should look like a fool. It puts people off their guard. That's what the duck does. EVELYX. Well, I think ducks are hor- rid, and cuckoos, too. And I believe most birds like bringing up their chickens and feeding them and looking after them. CECIL. They do. That's the extraordi- nary part of it. They spend their whole lives building nests and laying eggs and hatching them. And when the chickens come out the father has to fuss round finding worms. And the nest's abomin- ably over-crowded and the babies are per- petually squalling, and that drives the husband to the public house, and it's all as uncomfortable as the Devil EVELYN. Mr. Harburton! CECIL. Well, 7 shouldn't like it. In fact, I call it fatuous. [Evelyn is leaning forward pondering this philosophy with a slightly puckered brow a slight pause}. I say, you don't look a bit comfortable like that. Lean back against the tree. It's a first-rate tree. That's why I chose it. EVELYX [tries and fails], I can't. My hat gets in the way. CECIL. Take it off then. EVELYX. I think I will. [Does so.] That's better. [Leans bark luxuriously against the trunk; puts her hat down on bank beside her.} CECIL. Much better. [Looks at her with frank admiration.] By Jove, you do look jolly without your hat! EVELYX. Do I? CECIL. Yes. Your hair's such a jolly color. I noticed it the first time I saw you. You had your hat off then, you know. You were walking through the wood fanning yourself with it. And directly I caught sight of you the sun came out and simply flooded your hair with light. And there was the loveliest pink flush on your cheeks, and your eyes were soft and shining EVELYX [troubled]. Mr. Harburton, you mustn't say things to me like that. CECIL. Mustn't I? Why not? Don't you like being told you look jolly? EVELYN [naively]. I do like it, of course. But ought you . . . ? CECIL [groans]. Oh, it's that again. EVELYX. I mean, it's not right for men to say those things to girls. CECIL. I don't see that if they're true. You are pretty and your eyes are soft and your cheeks why, they're flushing at this moment! [Triumphant.] Why shouldn't I say it? EVELYN. Please! . . . [She stops, and her eyes fill with tears.] CECIL [much concerned]. Miss Rivers, what's the matter? Why, I believe you're crying ! EVELYX [sniffing suspiciously], I'm . . . not. CECIL. You are, I can see the tears. Have I said anything to hurt you? What is it? Tell me. [Much concerned.] EVELYN [recovering herself by an ef- fort]. It's nothing, nothing really. I'm all right now. Only you won't say things to me like that again, will you? Promise. [Taking out handkerchief.] CECIL. I promise ... if you really wish it. And now dry your eyes and let's be good children. That's what my nurse used to say when my sister and I quar- reled. Shall I dry them for you? [Takes her handkerchief and does so tenderly.] EVELYX [with a gulp]. Thank you. [Takes away handkerchief.] How ab- surd you are! [Puts it away.] CECIL. Thank you! [Evelyn moves down, sitting at bot- tom of bank, a little below him.] EVELYN. Did you often quarrel with your sister? CECIL. Perpetually. And my broth- ers. Didn't you? EVELYN. I never had any. CECIL. Poor little kid. You must have been rather lonely. EVELYN [matter-of-fact]. There was always Reggie. CECIL. Reggie? EVELYN. My cousin, Reggie Town- send. He lived with us when we were children. His parents were in India. CECIL [matter-of-fact]. So he used to quarrel with you instead. EVELYX [shocked]. Oh no! We never quarreled. At least, Reggie never did. / did sometimes. CECIL. How dull! There's no good in quarreling if people won't quarrel back. i6o FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS EVELYN. I don't think there's any good in quarreling at all. CECIL. Oh, yes, there is. There's the making it up again. EVELYN. Was that why you used to quarrel with your sister? CECIL. I expect so, though I didn't know it, of course then. I used to tease her awfully, I remember, and pull her hair. She had awfully jolly hair. Like yours oh ! I forgot, I mustn't say that. Used you to pull Reggie's hair? EVELYN [laughing]. I'm afraid I did sometimes. CECIL. I was sure of it. How long was he with you? EVELYN. Till he went to Winchester. And of course he used to be with us in the holidays after that. And he comes to us now whenever he can get away for a few days. He's in his uncle's office in the city. He'll be a partner some day. CECIL. Poor chap ! EVELYN. Poor chap ! Mother says he's very fortunate. CECIL. She would. Parents always think it very fortunate when young men have to go to an office every day. I know mine do. EVELYN. Do you go to an office every day? CECIL. No. EVELYN [with dignity}. Then I don't think you can know much about it, can you? CECIL [carelessly], I know too much. That's why I don't go. EVELYN. What do you do? CECIL. I don't do anything. I'm at the Bar. EVELYN. If you're at the Bar, why are you down here instead of up in London working? CECIL. Because if I were in London I might possibly get a brief. It's not like- ly, but it's possible. And if I got a brief I should have to be mugging in chambers, or wrangling in a stuffy court, instead of sitting under a tree in the shade with you. EVELYN. But ought you to waste your time like that? CECIL [genuine]]/ shocked}. Waste my time ! To sit under a tree a really nice tree like this talking to you. You can call that wasting time! EVELYN. Isn't it? CECIL. Xo ! To sit in a frowsy office adding up figures when the sky's blue and the weather's heavenly, that's wasting time. The only real way in which one can waste time is not to enjoy it, to spend one's day blinking at a ledger and never notice how beautiful the world is, and how good it is to be alive. To be only making money when one might be making love, that is wasting time ! EVELYN. How earnestly you say that ! [Cecil leans forward close to her.] CECIL. Isn't it true? EVELYN [troubled]. Perhaps it is. [Looks away from him.] CECIL. You know it is. Every one knows it. Only people won't admit it. [Leaning towards her and looking into her eyes.] You know it at this moment. EVELYN [returning his gaze slowly]. I think I do. [For a long moment they look into each other's eyes. Then he takes her two hands, draws her slowly towards him and kisses her gently on the lips.] CECIL. Ah! [Sigh of satisfaction. He releases her hands and leans back against the tree again.} EVELYN [sadly]. Oh, Mr. Harburton, you oughtn't to have done that ! CECIL. Why not? EVELYN. Because . . . [Hesitates.] Because you oughtn't. . . . Because men oughtn't to kiss girls. CECIL [scandalized]. Oughtn't to kiss girls! What nonsense! What on earth were girls made for if not to be kissed? EVELYN. I mean they oughtn't . , . unless . . . [Looking away.} CECIL [puzzled]. Unless? EVELYN [looking down]. Unless they love them. CECIL [relieved]. But I do love you. Of course I love you. That's why I kissed you. [A thrush is heard calling in the dis- tance.] EVELYN. Really? [Cecil nods. Eve- lyn sighs contentedly.] That makes it all right then. CECIL. I should think it did. And as it's all right I may kiss you again, mayn't I? FVELYN [shyly]. If you like. CFCIL. You darling! [Takes her in his arms and kisses her long and tender- ly.] Lean your head on my shoulder, THE CONSTANT LOVER 161 you'll find it awfully comfortable. [He leans back against the tree.] [She does so.] There! Is that all right? EVELYN. Quite. [Sigh of content- ment.] CECIL. How pretty your hair is ! I al- ways thought your hair lovely. And it's as soft as silk. I always knew it would be like silk. [Strokes it.] Do you like me to stroke your hair? EVELYN. Yes ! CECIL. Sensible girl! [Pause; he laughs happily.} I say, what am I to call you? Do you know, I don't even know your Christian name yet? EVELYN. Don't you? CECIL. No. You've never told me. What is it? Mine's Cecil. EVELYN. Mine's Evelyn. CECIL. Evelyn? Oh, I don't like Eve- lyn. It's rather a stodgy sort of name. I think I shall call you Eve. Does any one else call you Eve? EVELYN. No. CECIL. Then I shall certainly call you Eve. After the first woman man ever loved. May I? EVELYN. If you like Cecil. CECIL. That's settled then. [He kisses her again. Pause of ut- ter happiness, during ivhich he set- tles her head more comfortably on his shoulder, and puts arm round her.] Isn't it heavenly to be in love? EVELYN. Heavenly! CECIL. There's nothing like it in the whole world ! Say so. EVELYN. Love is the most beautiful thing in the whole world. CECIL. Good girl ! There's a reward for saying it right. [Kisses her.] [Pause of complete happiness for both.] EVELYN [meditatively]. I'm afraid Reggie won't be pleased. [The chatter of sparrows is heard.] CECIL [indifferently]. Won't he? EVELYN [shakes her head]. No. You see, Reggie's in love with me too. He al- ways has been in love with me, for years and years. [Sighs.] Poor Reggie! CCIL. On the contrary. Happy Reg- gie ! EVELYN [astonished]. What do you mean? CECIL. To have been in, love with you years and years. I've only been in love with you a week. . . . I've only known you a week. EVELYN. I'm afraid Reggie didn't look at it like that. CECIL [nods]. No brains. EVELYN. You see, I always refused him. CECIL. Exactly. And he always went on loving you. What more could the silly fellow want? EVELYN [shyly, looking up at him]. He wanted me to accept him, I suppose. [The bird chatter dies away.] CECIL. Ah! . . . Reggie ought to read Keats's " Ode to a Grecian Urn." ... I say, what jolly eyes you've got! I no- ticed them the moment we met here in the wood. That was why I spoke to you. EVELYN [demurely]. 'l thought it was to ask your way back to the inn. CECIL. That was an excuse. I knew the way as well as you did. I'd only j ust come from there. But when I saw you with the sunshine on your pretty soft hair and lighting up your pretty soft eyes, I said I must speak to her. And I did. Are you glad I spoke to you? EVELYN. Yes. CECIL. Glad and glad? EVELYN. Yes. CECIL. Good girl! [Leans over and kisses her cheek.] EVELYN [sigh of contentment; sits up]. And now we must go and tell mother. CECIL [with a comic groan]. Need we? EVELYN [brightly]. Of course. CECIL [sigh]. Well, if you think so. EVELYN [laughing]. You don't seem to look forward to it much. CECIL. I don't. That's the part I al- ways hate. EVELYN. Always? [Starts forward and looks at him, puzzled.] CECIL [quite unconscious]. Yes. The going to the parents and all that. Par- ents really are the most preposterous peo- ple. They've no feeling for romance whatever. You meet a girl in a wood. It's May. The sun's shining. There's not a cloud in the sky. She's adorably pretty. You fall in love. Everything heavenly! Then why, I can't imagine she wants you to tell her mother. Well, you do tell her mother. And her mother at once begins to ask you what your profession is, and how much money 1 62 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS you earn, and how much money you have that you don't earn and that spoils it all. ' EVELYN [bewildered]. But I don't un- derstand. You talk as if you had ac- tually done all this before. CECIL. So I have. Lots of times. EVELYN. Oh ! [Jumps up from the ground and faces him, her eyes flashing with rage.] CECIL. I say, don't get up. It's not time to go yet. It's only four. Sit down again. EVELYN [struggling for words]. Do you mean to say you've been in love with girls before? Other girls? CECIL [apparently genuinely astonished at the question]. Of course I have. EVELYN. And been engaged to them? CECIL. Not engaged. I've never been engaged so far. But I've been in love over and over again. [Evelyn stamps her foot with rage turning aivay from him.] My dear girl, what is the matter? You look quite cross. [Rises.] EVELYN [furious]. And you're not even ashamed of it? CECIL [roused to sit up by this ques- tion]. Ashamed of it? Ashamed of be- ing in love? How can you say such a thing! Of course I'm not ashamed. What's the good of being alive at all if one isn't to be in love? I'm perpetually in love. In fact, I'm hardly ever out of love with somebody. EVELYN [still furious]. Then if you're in love, why don't you get engaged? A man has no business to make love to a girl and not be engaged to her. It's not right. CECIL [reasoning with her]. That's the parents' fault. I told you parents were preposterous people. They won't allow me to get engaged. EVELYN. Why not? CECIL. Oh, for different reasons. They say I'm not serious enough. Or that I don't work enough. Or that I haven't got enough money. Or else they simply say they " don't think I'm fitted to make th^ir daughter happy." Anyhow, they won't sanction an engagement. They all agree about that. Your mother would be just the same. [Impatient exclamation from Eve- I don't blame her. I don't say she's not right. don't say they haven't all been right. In fact, I believe they have been right. I'm only explaining how it is. EVELYN [savagely]. I see how it is. You don't really want to be married. CECIL. Of course I don't want to be married. Nobody does unless he's per- fectly idiotic. One wants to be in love. Being in love's splendid. And I dare say being engaged isn't bad though I've had no experience of that so far. But being married must be simply hateful. EVELYN [boiling with rage]. Non- sense ! How can it be hateful to be mar- ried if it's splendid to be in love? [The cuckoo is heard.] CECIL. Have you forgotten the cuckoo? EVELYN. Oh ! ! ! CECIL. No ties, no responsibilities, no ghastly little villa with children bellow- ing in the nursery. Just life in the open hedgerow. Life and love. Happy cuckoo ! EVELYN [furious]. I think cuckoos de- . testable. They're mean, horrid, disgust- ing birds. CECIL. No. No. I can't have you abusing cuckoos. They're particular friends of mine. In fact, I'm a sort of cuckoo myself. EVELYN [turning on him]. Oh, I hate you! I hate you! [Stamps her foot.] CECIL [with quiet conviction]. You don't. EVELYN. I do! CECIL [shaking his head]. You don't. [Quite gravely.] One never really hates the people one has once loved. [He looks into her eyes. For a mo- ment or two she returns his gaze fiercely. Then her eyes fall and they fill with tears.] EVELYN [half crying]. How horrid you are to say that! CECIL. Why? EVELYN. Because it's true, I suppose. Ah, I'm so unhappy! [Begins to cry.] CECIL [genuinely distressed]. Eve! You're crying. You mustn't do that. I can't bear seeing people cry. [Lays hand on her shoulder.] EVELYN [shaking it off]. Don't. I eo n't bear you to touch me. After fall- ing in love with one girl after another like that. When I thought you were only in love with me. THE CONSTANT LOVER 163 CECIL. So I am only in love with you now. EVELYN [tearfully]. But I thought you'd never been in love with any one else. And I let you call me Eve because you said she was the first woman man ever loved. CECIL. But I never said she was the only one, did I? [Argumentatively.] And one can't help being in love with people when one is in love, can one? I couldn't help falling in love with you, for instance, the moment I saw you. You looked simply splendid. It was such a splendid day too. Of course I fell in love with you. EVELYN [slightly appeased by his com- pliment, drying her eyes]. But you seem to fall in love with such a lot of people. CECIL. I do. [Mischievously.] But ought you to throw stones at me? After all, being in love with more than one per- son is no worse than having more than one person in love with you. How about Resrgie? EVELYN. Reggie? [The sparrows' chatter starts again.] CECIL [nods]. Reggie's in love with you, isn't he? So am I. And both at once too! I'm only in love with one per- son at a time. EVELYN [rebelliously], I can't help Reggie being in love with me. CECIL. And I can't help my being in love with you. That's just my point. I knew you'd see it. EVELYN. I don't see it at all. Reggie is quite different from you. Reggie's love is true and constant. . . . CECIL. Well, I'm a constant lover if you come to that. EVELYN. You aren't. You know you aren't. CECIL. Yes, I am. A constant lover is a lover who is constantly in love. EVELYN. Only with the same person. CECIL. It doesn't say so. It only says constant. EVELYN [half-laughing]. How ridicu- lous you are! [ Turns away.] CECIL [sigh of relief]. That's right. Now you're good-tempered again. EVELYN. I'm not. CECIL. What a story! EVELYN. I'm not. I'm very, very angry. CECIL. That's impossible. You can't possibly be angry and laugh at the same time, can you? No one can. And you did laugh. You're doing it now. [She does so unwillingly.] So don't let's quarrel any more. It's ab- surd to quarrel on such a fine day, isn't it? Let's make it up, and be lovers again. [The sparrows die away.] EVELYN [shaking her head]. No. CECIL. Please ! EVELYN [shaking her head]. No. CECIL. Well, you're very foolish. Love isn't a thing to throw away. It's too precious for that. Love is the most beautiful thing in the whole world. You said so yourself not ten minutes ago. EVELYN. I didn't. You said it. [Looking down.] CECIL. But you said it after me. [Gently and gravely.] Eve, dear, don't be silly. Let's be in love while we can. Youth is the time to be in love, isn't it? Soon you and I will be dull and stupid and middle-aged like all the other tedious people. And then it will be too late. Youth passes so quickly. Don't let's waste a second of it. They say the May- fly only lives for one day. He is born in the morning. All the afternoon he flutters over the river in the sunshine, dodging the trout and flirting with other May-flies. And at evening he dies. Think of the poor May-fly who happens to be born on a wet day! The tragedy of it! EVELYN [ioftty]. Poor May-fly. CECIL. There! You're sorry for the May-fly, you see. You're only angry with me. EVELYN. Because you're not a May- fly. CECIL. Yes, I am. A sort of May-fly. EVELYN [with suspicion of tears in her voice]. You aren't. How can you be? Besides, you said you were a cuckoo just now. CECIL. I suppose I'm a cuckoo-May- fly. For I hate wet days. And if you're going to cry again, it might just as well be wet, mightn't it? So do dry your eyes like a good girl. Let me do it for you. [Does it with her handkerchief.] [She laughs ruefully.] There, that's better. And now we're go- ing to be good children again, aren't we? CECIL [holding out hand]. And you'll kiss and be friends? 1 64 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS EVELYN. I'll be friends, of course. [Sadly.] But you must never kiss me again. CECIL. What a shame! Why not? EVELYN. Because you mustn't. CECIL [cheerfully]. Well, you'll sit down again anyhow, won't you? just to show we've made it up. [Moves towards tree.] EVELYN [shakes head]. No. CECIL [disappointed; turns], A ... Then you haven't really made it up. EVELYN. Yes, I have. [Picks up her hat.] But I must go now. Reggie's coming down by the five o'clock train, and I want to be at the station to meet him. [Holds out hand.] Good-by, Mr. Harburton. CECIL [taking hand]. Eve! You're going to accept Reggie! [Pause.] EVELYN [half to herself], I wonder. CECIL. And he'll have to tell your mother? EVELYN. Of course. CECIL [drops her hand}. Poor Reggie! So his romance ends too ! EVELYN. It won't!. If I marry Reg- gie I shall make him very happy. CECIL. Very likely. Marriage may be happiness, but I'm hanged if it's romance ! EVELYN. Oh! [Exclamation of impa- tience.] [She turns away and exits R.] [Cecil watches her departure with a smile half-amused, half-pained, till she is long out of sight. Then with half a sigh turns back to his tree.] CECIL [re-seating himself]. Poor Reg- gie! [Re-opens his book and settles him- self to read again.] [A cuckoo hoots loudly from a dis- tant thicket and is answered by an- other. Cecil looks up from his book to listen as the curtain falls.] [Curtain.] THE JUDGMENT OF INDRA A PLAY BY DHAN GOPAL MUKEBJI Copyright, 1920, by Stewart & Kidd Company. All rights reserved. The professional and amateur stage rights of this play are strictly reserved by the author, to whose dramatic representative, Frank Shay, in care Stewart & Kidd Co., Cincinnati, Ohio, applications for permission to produce it should be made. THE JUDGMENT OF INDRA A PLAY [TIME: The Fifteenth Century.] [PLACE: A Monastery on one of the foothills of Himalaya.] [SENE: In the foreground is the outer court of a Monastery. In the center of the court is a sacred plant, growing out of a small altar of earth about two feet square. On the left of the court is a sheer precipice, adown which a flight of stone steps only a few of which are visible connects the Monastery with the village in the valley below. To the right are the temple and the adobe ivalls and the roof of the monas- tery cells. There is a little space between the temple and the adobe walls, which is the passage leading to the inner recesses of the monastery. Several steps lead to the doors of the temple, which give on the court. In the distance, rear, are the snowy peaks of the Himalayas, glowing under the emerald sky of an Indian after- noon. To the left, the distances stretch into vast spaces of wooded hills. Long bars of light glimmer and die as the vast clouds, with edges of crimson, golden and silver, spread portentously over the hills and forest. A roll of thunder in the distance, ac- companies the rise of the curtain.} SHANTA. [He is reading a palm-leaf manuscript near the Sacred Plant. He looks up at the sky.] It forbodes a ca- lamity. [Suddenly the Temple doors open. Shukra stands framed in the door- way. Seeing that Shanta is alone, Shukra walks down the steps to- ward him.] SHUKRA. Are you able to make out the words? SHANTA. Aye, Master. SHUKRA. Where is Kanada? SHANTA. He will be here presently. Listen, master: it sayeth: " Only a hair's 167 BY DHAN GOPAL, MUKERJI breadth divides the true from the false. Upon him who by thought, word or deed confuses the two, will descend the Judg- ment of Indra." SHUKRA. The thunder of Indra is just. It will strike the erring and the unrighteous no matter where they hide themselves; in the heart of the forest or in the silence of the cloisters, Indra's Judgment will descend on them. Even the erring heart that knows not that it is erring will be smitten and chastised by Indra. [Thunder rumbles in the dis- tance.] SHANTA. Master, when you speak, you not only fill the heart with ecstasy, but also the soul with the beauty of truth. SHUKRA. To praise is good. But why praise me, who have yet to find God and, [Shakes his head sadly.] SHANTA. You will find Him soon; your time is nigh. SHUKRA. I wish it were true. SHANTA. Master, if there be anything that I can do for you. If I could only lighten your burden a little, SHUKRA. Thou hast done that already. All the cares of the monastery thou hast taken from me. Thou hast bound me to thee by bonds of gratitude that can never break. [Enter Kanada.] Ah, Kanada, how be it with you to-day? [Coming to him. ] KANADA. [He is a lad of twenty and two.] By your blessing I am well and at peace. Have you finished your medi- tation? SHUKRA. [Sadly.] Nine hours have I meditated, but I shall say the prayers now. [Enters the temple and shuts the door.] KANADA. He seems not to be himself. SHANTA. When he is in meditation for a long time, he becomes another being. KANADA. There is sadness in his eyes. SHANTA. How can he be sad, he who i68 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS has risen above joy and sorrow, pleasure and pain, hate and love? KANADA. Above love, too? SHANTA. Yea, hate and love being op- posite, are Maya, illusion! KANADA. Yet we must love the world. SHANTA. Yea, that we do to help the world. KANADA. The Master is tender to the villagers even if they lead the worldly life. SHANTA. We be monks. We have broken all the ties of the world, even those of family, so that we can bestow our thoughts, care and love upon all the children of God. Our love is impartial. [The thunder growls in the distance.] KANADA. Yea, that is the truth. Yet I think the Master loves thee more than any other. SHANTA. Nay, brother. He loves no one more than another. I have been with him ten years; that makes him depend on me. But if the truth were known, he loves none. For he loves all. Indra, be my witness: the Master loveth no one more than another. KANAUA. Ah, noble-souled Master ! Yet I feel happy to think that he loveth thee more than any. SHANTA. He loves each living crea- ture. He is not as the worldly ones who love by comparison this one more, the other less. Last night, as the rain wailed without like a heart-broken woman, how his voice rose in song of light and love! He is one of God's prophets, and a true singer of His praise. KANADA. I can hear him yet. SHANTA. I will never forget the in- effable joy that glowed in his words. Only he who has renounced all ties, can speak with such deep and undying love. No anxiety KANADA. It was that of which I would speak to thee. Dost thou not see sadness and anxiety in the Master's face? SHANTA. He is deep in thought naught else. KANADA. Ever since that message was brought him the other day, he has seemed heavy hearted. It was melancholy tid- ings. SHANTA. Nay, that message had naught to do with him. [Thunder yrowls. The Temple doors open. Shu- kra comes out of the Temple and shuts the doors behind him. Then he stands still in front of the Temple.] SHUKRA. [Calling.] ^Canada. KANADA. Yea, Master. [He goes up to Shukra, who gives him some directions. Kanada exits; Shukra stands looking at the sky>] SHANTA. How wonderful a vision he is! As he stands at the threshold of the temple he seems like a new God, another divinity come down to earth to lead the righteous on to the realms celestial. Ah, Master, how grateful am I to have thee as my teacher ! I thank Brahma for giv- ing thee to me. [Enter Kanada. Shukra then walks to Shanta, with Kanada following him.] KANADA. Master, all is ready. SHUKRA. Go ye to the village; ask them if all be well with them. When the heavens are unkind ah, if it rains an- other day all the crops will be destroyed. What will they live on? No, no, it can- not be. Go ye both down to them and take them my blessings: Tell them we will make another offering to Indra to- night. It must not rain any more. SHANTA. Bring out begging bowls, Kanada. KANADA. Shall I bring the torches, too? [Crossing.] SHUKRA. The clouds may hide the moon; yea, the torches, too. [Kanada exits R.] SHUKRA. Yea. [Thunder growls above head.] The storm grows apace. I hope thou wilt find shelter ere it breaks. [A short silence.} The world is growing darker and darker each day. Sin and Vice are gathering around it like a vast coiling Serpent. We monks be the only ones that can save it and set it free. Shanta, be steadfast; strengthen me. Help me to bring the light to the world. Thou art not only my disciple, but my friend and brother. [He embraces Shan- ta.] Save me from the world. KANADA. [Entering.] Here be [Stops in surprise.] SHUKRA. [Releasing Shanta.] Come to me, Kanada. [The latter does so, Shukra putting an arm around Kanada's neck.] Little Brother KANADA. [Radiantly.] Master SHUKRA. Be brave and free free from the delusions of this world, San- sara. Go yet to the village; take them our blessings ! Hari be with them all ! May ye return hither safely. [Thunder and lightning.} Ah, Lord Indra! Look, it is raining yonder. Go, hasten SHANTA. [Taking a begging bowl and torch from Kanada.] Come! SHUKRA. [Putting his hands on their heads.] I bless ye both. May Indra protect ye [the rest of his words are drowned by the lightning flash and peal of thunder], [The two disciples intone: " OM Shanti OM." They go down the SHTTKRA. May this storm pass. OM Shiva. Shiva love you, my Shanta. For ten long years he has been with me; he has greatly helped me in my search after Him who is the only living Reality. To-day I am nearer God I stand at the threshold of realization. I seem to feel that it will not be long before the Veil will be lifted and I shall press my heart against the heart of the ultimate mystery Who comes there? [Listens attentively]. They cannot have gone and come back so soon. Ha! another illu- sion ! These days I am beset by endless illusions. Perhaps that betokens the end of my search, as the gloom is always thickest ere the dawn. Yea, after this will come the Light ; I will see God ! [Hears a noise; listens attentively.] Are they already returning? [Calling.] Shanta! [He crosses and looks down. Thunder rolls very loudly now. He does not heed that. Suddenly he recoils in agitation. Footsteps are heard from be- low, rising higher and higher. Shukra rubs his eyes to make sure that he has really seen something that is not an illu- sion. He goes forward a few steps. The head of an old man rises into view, Shukra is stupefied; walks backwards un- til his back touches the Sacred plant. He stands still. The old man at last climbs the last step. He has not no- ticed Shukra. He looks at the Hima- layas in the rear. Then his eyes travel over the monastery walls Now sud- denly they catch sight of ShuJcra.] SHUKRA. What seek ye here? OLD MAX [eyeing him carefully]. Ah, Shukra! dost thou not recognize thine aged father? [He goes to Shukra with outstretched arms.] SHUKRA. I have no father. OLD MAN. But I am thy father. Did not my messenger come the other day? [Silence.] Did he lie to me? Dost thou not know thy mother is SHUKRA. Thy messenger came. OLD MAN. Then come thou home at once. There is not time to be lost. Come, my son, ere thy mother leaves this earth. SHUKRA. I cannot go. OLD MAN. Thou canst not go? Dost thou not know that thy mother is on her death-bed? SHUKRA. I have renounced the world. For twelve years I have had no father, nor mother. OLD MAN. Thou didst leave us, but we did not renounce thee. And now thou shouldst come. SHUKRA. I told thy messenger that I have no father nor mother, I cannot come. OLD MAN. I heard it all. If you art born of us, thou canst not have a heart of stone? Come, my son: I, thy father, implore thee. SHUKRA. Nay, nay; God alone is my father. OLD MAN. Hath it not been said in the scriptures that thy parents are thy God? Thy father should be obeyed. SHUKHA. That was said by one who had not seen the Truth, the Light. OLD MAN. I command thee in the name of the Scriptures. SHUKRA. God alone can command me. OLD MAN. Vishnu protect me! Art thou dreaming, my child? Yonder lies ihy mother, fighting death, SHUKRA. I have heard it all. OLD MAN. And yet thou wilt not go? SHUKRA. Nay, father, I cannot go. The day I took the vow of a monk, that day I cut the bond that binds me to you all. I must be free of all ties. I must love none for myself that I may love all for God. Here I must remain where God has placed me, until He calls me elsewhere. OLD MAN. But thy mother lies, fight- ing with each breath. She wishes to see thee. SHUKHA. I cannot come. OLD MAN. But thou must. SHUKHA. I would if I could; but my life is in the hands of God. 170 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS OLD MAX [mocking]. God! Thy life belongs to God? Who gave thee life? Not God, but she who lies there dying; what ingratitude ! This, indeed, is the age of darkness; sons are turning against their fathers, and killing their own mother. SHUKRA [quietly]. I may not love one more than another; my steps, as my heart, go whither God guides them. OLD MAX [mocking}. Truth is thy witness? SHUKRA. May Indra himself punish me if I love one more than another. Hear me, Indra. [The roll of thunder above.] OLD MAX [in desperation]. Come, my son, in the name of thine own God I Eray to thee, come to thy mother. I neel at thy feet and beg for this boon. [He does so.] SHUKRA [raising him to his feet. He puts his own head down on the old man's feet.]. OLD MAX. Then thou comest? [Shu~ kra rises to his feet.] SHUKRA [hesitating]. There is a law in the Sacred books that says an as- cetic should see the place of his birth every twelfth year. OLD MAX. And it is twelve years now since thou didst renounce us! Ah! blessed be the law. SHUKHA. Yet, father, if I go, I go not in obedience to the law, but since the desire to see my mother is uppermost in me, I who dreamt not of the law hitherto yea, now I hasten to abide by the law. Ah, what mockery ! It is not the letter of the law, but the spirit in us that judges us sinners or saints. Now if I go with thee to obey the law, that would be betraying the law. OLD MAX. Betraying the law ! SHUKRA. Thought alone is the meas- ure of our innocence. He who thinks evil is a doer of evil indeed. Nay, nay, tempt me not with the law. I must re- main here. I must keep my vow. [He looks up to heaven; it is covered with enormous black clouds.] OLD MAX. The law is not written in the heavens. It is inscribed in the heart of man. Obey the dictates of thy heart. SHUKRA. God alone shall be obeyed. I cannot betray His command. I, who am an ascetic, must not yield to the de- sire to see my mother Nay! God OLD MAX. What manner of God is He that deprives a dying mother of her son? Such a God never was known in Hindu life. No such God lives, nor breathes. [Thunder and lightning.] SHUKRA. Erring Soul, do not blas- pheme your creator. He is the God of Truth God of Love. OLD MAX [disdainfully]. God of Love, How can He be God of Love if He dries up the stream of thy heart and blinds thy reason as the clouds blind the eyes of the Sun? Nay, thou liest. It is not the God of Love, but the God of thine insane self self-love that makes thee rob thy mother of her only joy in life. I yea, I will answer to God for thee. If, by coming to see thy mother, thou sinnest, I ask God to make me pay for thy sin. Come, obey thy father, I will take the burden of thy sin, if sin it be. SHUKRA. Nay, each man pays for his sins as each man reaps the harvest of his own good deeds. None can atone for another. Ah, God ! cursed be the hour when I was born. Cursed, OLD MAX [angrily]. Thou cursest thy birth? SHUKRA. Yea, to be born in this world of woe is a curse indeed. OLD MAX. Then curse thy tormented mind and thy desolate heart; curse not, SHUKRA. Nay, I curse the hour that saw me come to this earth of delusion and Maya. I do curse, OLD MAX. Thou dost dare curse the hour when thou wert born ! Ah, vile sin- ner! To curse the hour of thy birth when thy mother is dying! God be my witness, he has incurred his father's wrath. Now, no God can save thee. SHUKHA. Nay, nay, OLD MAX. Shukra. I, thy father, thy God in life, curse thee. Thou hast de- prived thy mother of her child, and her death of its solace. Thou hast incurred the wrath of the Spirits of all thy de- parted ancestors. SHUKRA [cries out]. Not thus; not thus. [Thunder and lightning, the whole sky is swept by the clouds.] OLD MAX. Not thus? Thus alone shall it be. Cursed be thou at night; cursed be thou by day; cursed be thou going; cursed be thou coming. Thou art THE JUDGMENT OF INDRA 171 cursed by the spirit of the race, by the spirit of God. [Continued thunder and lightning.] SHUKKA [falling at Ms father's feet]. I beseech thee, my father, OLD MAN [shrinking away]. Touch me not. [Going left.] Cursed art thou in Life and Death forever. SHUKRA. God ! Father, go not thus. OLD MAN. I am not thy father. [Deafening and blinding thunder and lightning.] SHUKRA. Father OLD MAN [going down the steps]. Pollute not my hearing by calling me thy father. May the judgment of Indra be upon thee ! [He totters down out of sight, left, in anger and horror.] SHUKRA. Father, hear, oh hear ! [The rain comes down in a deluge; thun- der and lightning. The rain blots every- thing out of sight. It pours in deep, dark sheets, through which the chains and sheets of lightning burn and run. After raining awhile, the sky clears. In the pale moonlight, Shukra is seen crouching near the Sacred plant. He is wet and disheveled. He slowly rises, swaying in exhaustion. Voices are heard below.] SHUKRA. Can it be that it is over? Has Indra judged me and found me free of error? Yea, were I in error, the light- ning would have struck me. I lay there blinded by rain awaiting my death. It did not come. Yea, Indra has judged! [Noises below; he does not hear.] O, thou shadowy world, I am free of thee at last. Free of love and loving, free of all bondage. I have no earthly ties, I lean on God alone. At last, I am bound to no earthly being, not even [strange pause] not even, Shanta. [He be- comes conscious of the noise of approach- ing footsteps and the light of the torches from below.] Who is that? [He goes forward a few steps. Enter Kanada, torch in hand.] KANADA. Master, Master. SHUKRA. Kanada, thou, [a pause, very brief but poignant]. Why this agi- tation? Shanta, where is Shanta? KANADA. Shanta is SHUKRA [seeing the other torches rising suddenly]. Speak! Who comes hither? KANADA. They bring a dead man. SHUKRA. Who is he? [As a premoni- tion of the truth comes over him.] W T here is Shanta? KANADA [blurts out]. At the foot of the hill the lightning struck him. SHUKRA [with a terrible cry]. Shan- ta, my Shanta! [Two men carrying torches with one hand, and dragging something white with the other, come up the steps. This vision silences Shukra. A pause follows. Another torch is seen rising behind them.] SHUKHA [slowly]. Shanta, gone. [Pause again, looking into the starry heavens.] This is the Judgment of In- dra! [Curtain.] THE WORKHOUSE WARD A PLAY BY LADY GREGORY Copyright, 1909, by Lady Gregory. All rights reserved. PERSONS MICHAEL MISKELL 1 MIKE MclNERNEV f MRS. DONOHOE [a Countrywoman], Reprinted from " Seven Short Plays," by Lady Gregory, published by G. P. Putnam's Sons, by permission of Lady Gregory and Messrs. G. P. Putnam's Sons. All acting rights, both professional and amateur, are reserved in the United States, Great Britain, and all countries of the Copyright Union, by the author. Per- formances forbidden and right of presentation reserved. Application for the right of performing this play or reading it in public should be made to Samuel French, 28 West 38th Street, New York City, or 26 South Hampton Street, Strand, London. THE WORKHOUSE WARD A PLAY [SCENE: A ward in Cloon Workhouse. The two old men in their beds.] MICHAEL MISKELL. Isn't it a hard case, Mike Mclnerney, myself and yourself to be left here in the bed, and it the feast day of Saint Colman, and the rest of the ward attending on the Mass. MIKE MclxERXEY. Is it sitting up by the hearth you are wishful to be, Michael Miskell, with cold in the shoulders and with speckled shins? Let you rise up so, and you well able to do it, not like my- self that has pains the same as tin-tacks within in my inside. MICHAEL MISKELL. If you have pains within in your inside there is no one can see it or know of it the way they can see my own knees that are swelled up with the rheumatism, and my hands that are twisted in ridges the same as an old cab- bage stalk. It is easy to be talking about soreness and about pains, and they may- be not to be in it at all. MIKE MclxERXEY. To open me and to analyze me you would know what sort of a pain and a soreness I have in my heart and in my chest. But I'm not one like yourself to be cursing and praying and tormenting the time the nuns are at hand, thinking to get a bigger share than myself of the nourishment and of the milk. MICHAEL MISKELL. That's the way you do be picking at me and faulting me. I had a share and a good share in my early time, and it's well you know that, and the both of us reared in Skehanagh. MIKE MclxEHXEY. You may say that, indeed, we are both of us reared in Ske- hanaeh. Little wonder you to have good nourishment the time we were both rising, and you bringing away my rabbits out of the snare. MICHAEL MISKELL. And you didn't BY LADY GREGORY bring away my own eels, I suppose, I was after spearing in the Turlough? Selling them to the nuns in the convent you did, and letting on they to be your own. For you were always a cheater and a schemer, grabbing every earthly thing for your own profit. MIKE MclxERXEY. And you were no grabber yourself, I suppose, till your land and all you had grabbed wore away from you! MICHAEL MISKELL. If I lost it itself, it was through the crosses I met with and I going through the world. I never was a rambler and a card-player like your- self, Mike Mclnerney, that ran through all and lavished it unknown to your mother ! MIKE MclNERXEY. Lavished it, is it? And if I did was it you yourself led me to lavish it or some other one? It is on my own floor I would be to-day and in the face of my family, but for the mis- fortune I had to be put with a bad next door neighbor that was yourself. What way did my means go from me is it? Spending on fencing, spending on walls, making up gates, putting up doors, that would keep your hens and your ducks from coming in through starvation on my floor, and every four footed beast you had from preying and trespassing on my oats and my mangolds and my little lock of hay! MICHAEL MISKELL. O to listen to you! And I striving to please you and to be kind to you and to close my ears to the abuse you would be calling and letting out of your mouth. To trespass on your crops is it? It's little temptation there was for my poor beasts to ask to cross the mering. My God Almighty! What had you but a little corner of a field ! MIKE MclxERXEY. And what do you say to my garden that your two pigs had 175 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS destroyed on me the year of the big tree being knocked, and they making gaps in the wall. MICHAEL MISKELL. Ah, there does be a great deal of gaps knocked in a twelve- month. Why wouldn't they be knocked by the thunder, the same as the tree, or some storm that came up from the west? MIKE McIxEHNEY. It was the west wind, I suppose, that devoured my green cabbage? And that rooted up my Cham- pion potatoes? And that ate the goose- berries themselves from off the bush? MICHAEL MISKELL. What are you say- ing? The two quietest pigs ever I had, no way wicked and well ringed. They were not ten minutes in it. It would be hard for them to eat strawberries in that time, let alone gooseberries that's full of thorns. MIKE MclNERNEY. They were not quiet, but very ravenous pigs you had that time, as active as a fox they were, killing my young ducks. Once they had blood tasted you couldn't stop them. MICHAEL MISKELL. And what hap- pened myself the fair day of Esserkelly, the time I was passing your door? Two brazened dogs that rushed out and took a piece of me. I never was the better of it or of the start I got, but wasting from then till now! MIKE MdxERXEY. Thinking you were a wild beast they did, that had made his escape out of the traveling show, with the red eyes of you and the ugly face of you, and the two crooked legs of you that wouldn't hardly stop a pig in a gap. Sure any dog that had any life in it at all would be roused and stirred see- ing the like of you going the road ! MICHAEL MISKELL. I did well taking out a summons against you that time. It is a great wonder you not to have been bound over through your lifetime, but the laws of England is queer. MIKE MclxERNEY. W T hat ailed me that I did not summons yourself after you stealing away the clutch of eggs I had in the barrel, and I away in Ardra- han searching out a clocking hen. MICHAEL MISKELL. To steal your eggs is it? Is that what you are saying now? [Holds up his hands.] The Lord is in heaven, and Peter and the saints, and yourself that was in Ardrahan that day put a hand on them as soon as myself! Isn't it a bad story for me to be wearing out my days beside you the same as a spancelled goat. Chained I am and tethered I am to a man that is ram- shacking his mind for lies ! MIKE MclNERNEY. If it is a bad story for you, Michael Miskell, it is a worse story again for myself. A Miskell to be next and near me through the whole of the four quarters of the year. I never heard there to be any great name on the Miskells as there was on my own race and name. MICHAEL MISKELL. You didn't, is it? W T ell, you could hear it if you had but ears to hear it. Go across to Lisheen Crannagh and down to the sea and to Newtown Lynch and the mills of Duras and you'll find a Miskell, and as far as Dublin ! MIKE MclNERNEY. What signifies Crannagh and the mills of Duras? Look at all my own generations that are buried at the Seven Churches. And how many generations of the Miskells are buried in it? Answer me that! MICHAEL MISKELL. I tell you but for the wheat that was to be sowed there would be more side cars and more com- mon cars at my father's funeral (God rest his soul!) than at any funeral ever left your own door. And as to my mother, she was a Cuffe from Claregal- way, and it's she had the purer blood ! MIKE MclxERXEY. And what do you say to the banshee? Isn't she apt to have knowledge of the ancient race? Was ever she heard to screech or to cry for the Miskells? Or for the Cuffes from Claregalway? She was not, but for the six families, the Hyneses, the Foxes, the Faheys, the Dooleys, the Mclnerneys. It is of the nature of the Mclnerneys she is I am thinking, crying them the same as a king's children. MICHAEL MISKELL. It is a pity the banshee not to be crying for yourself at this minute, and giving you a warning to quit your lies and your chat and your arguing and your contrary ways; for there is no one under the rising sun could stand you. I tell you you are not behaving as in the presence of the Lord. MIKE MclNERKEY. Is it wishful for my death you are? Let it come and meet me now and welcome so long as it will part, me from yourself! And I say, and THE WORKHOUSE WARD 177 I would kiss the book on it, I to have one request only to be granted, and I leaving it in my will, it is what I would request, nine furrows of the field, nine ridges of the hills, nine waves of the ocean to be put between your grave and my own grave the time we will be laid in the ground ! MICHAEL MISKELL. Amen to that ! Nine ridges, is it? No, but let the whole ridge of the world separate us till the Day of Judgment! I would not be laid anear you at the Seven Churches, I to get Ireland without a divide ! MIKE MclNERXEY. And after that again ! I'd sooner than ten pound in my hand, I to know that my shadow and my ghost will not be knocking about with your shadow and your ghost, and the both of us waiting our time. I'd sooner be delayed in Purgatory! Now, have you anything to say? MICHAEL MISKELL. I have everything to say, if I had but the time to say it! MIKE MclvERNEY. [Sitting up.] Let me up out of this till I'll choke you ! MICHAEL MISKELL. You scolding pau- per you ! MIKE MclNERNEY. [Shaking his fist at him.] Wait a while! MICHAEL MISKELL. [Shaking his fist.] Wait a while yourself! [Mrs. Donohoe comes in with a par- cel. She is a countrywoman with a frilled cap and a shawl. She stands still a minute. The two old men lie down and compose them- selves.] MRS. DONOHOE. They bade me come up here by the stair. I never was in this place at all. I don't know am I right. Which now of the two of ye is Mike Me? Inerney? MIKE MclxERNEY. Who is it is call- ing me by my name? MRS. DOXOHOE. Sure amn't I your sis- ter, Honor Mclnerney that was, that is now Honor Donohoe. MIKE MclxERXEY. So you are, I be- lieve. I didn't know you till you pushed anear me. It is time indeed for you to come see me, and I in this place five year or more. Thinking me to be no credit to you, I suppose, among that tribe of the Donohoes. I wonder they to give you leave to come ask am I living yet or dead? MRS. DONOHOE. Ah, sure, I buried the whole string of them. Himself was the last to go. [Wipes her eyes.] The Lord be praised he got a fine natural death. Sure we must go through our crosses. And he got a lovely funeral; it would delight you to hear the priest reading the Mass. My poor John Donohoe! A nice clean man, you couldn't but be fond of him. Very severe on the tobacco he was, but he wouldn't touch the drink. MIKE MCINERNEY. And is it in Cur- ranroe you are living yet? MRS. DONOHOE. It is so. He left all to myself. But it is a lonesome thing the head of a house to have died ! MIKE MclxERNEY. I hope that he has left you a nice way of living? MRS. DONOHOE. Fair enough, fair enough. A wide lovely house I have; a few acres of grass land . . . the grass does be very sweet that grows among the stones. And as to the sea, there is some- thing from it every day of the year, a handful of periwinkles to make kitchen, or cockles maybe. There is many a thing in the sea is not decent, but cockles is fit to put before the Lord ! MIKE MclNERNEY. You have all that! And you without e'er a man in the house? MRS. DONOHOE. It is what I am think- ing, yourself might come and keep me company. It is no credit to me a brother of my own to be in this place at all. MIKE MclNEHNEY. I'll go with you! Let me out of this ! It is the name of the Mclnerneys will be rising on every side! MRS. DONOHOE. I don't know. I was ignorant of you being kept to the bed. MIKE MclNERNEY. I and not kept to it, but maybe an odd time when there is a colic rises up within me. My stomach always gets better the time there is a change in the moon. I'd like well to draw anear you. My heavy blessing on you, Honor Donohoe, for the hand you have held out to me this day. MRS. DONOHOE. Sure you could be keeping the fire in, and stirring the pot with the bit of Indian meal for the hens, and milking the goat and taking the tack- lings off the donkey at the door; and maybe putting out the cabbage plants in their time. For when the old man died the garden died. MIKE MclNERNEY. I could to be sure, 1 78 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS and be cutting the potatoes for seed. What luck could there be in a place and a man not to be in it? Is that now a suit of clothes you have brought with you? MRS. DOXOHOE. It is so, the way you will be tasty coming in among the neigh- bors at Curranroe. MIKE MclxERXEY. My joy you are! It is well you earned me ! Let me up out of this! [He sits up and spreads out the clothes and tries on coat.] That now is a good frieze coat . . . and a hat in the fashion . . . [He puts on hat.] MICHAEL MISKELL [alarmed]. And is it going out of this you are, Mike Mcln- erney ? MIKE MclxERXEY. Don't you hear I am going? To Curranroe I am going. Going I am to a place where I will get every good thing! MICHAEL MISKELL. And is it to leave me here after you you will? MIKE MclxERXEY [m a rising chant]. Every good thing ! The goat and the kid are there, the sheep and the lamb are there, the cow does be running and she coming to be milked ! Plowing and seed sowing, blossom at Christmas time, the cuckoo speaking through the dark days of the year ! Ah, what are you talk- ing about? Wheat high in hedges, no talk about the rent ! Salmon in the rivers as plenty as hurf! Spending and getting and nothing scarce ! Sport and pleasure, and music on the strings! Age will go from me and I will be young again. Geese and turkeys for the hundreds and drink for the whole world! MICHAEL MISKELL. Ah, Mike, is it truth you are saying, you to go from me and to leave me with rude people and with townspeople, and with people of every parish in the union, and they having no respect for me or no wish for me at all! MIKE MclxEHXEY. Whist now and I'll leave you . . . my pipe [hands it over] ; and I'll engage it is Honor Donohoe won't refuse to be sending you a few ounces of tobacco an odd time, and neighbors com- ing to the fair in November or in the month of May. MICHAEL MISKELL. Ah, what signifies tobacco? All that I am craving is the talk. There to be no one at all to say out to whatever thought might be rising in my innate mind ! To be lying here and no conversible person in it would be the abomination of misery! MIKE MclxERXEY. Look now, Honor. ... It is what I often heard said, two to be better than one. . . . Sure if you had an old trouser was full of holes. ... or a skirt. . . wouldn't you put an- other in under it that might be as tattered as itself, and the two of them together would make some sort of a decent show? MRS. DONOHOE. Ah, what are you say- ing? There is no holes in that suit I brought you now, but as sound it is as the day I spun it for himself. MIKE MclxERXEY. It is what I am thinking, Honor ... I do be weak an odd time . . . Any load I would carry, it preys upon my side . . . and this man does be weak an odd time with the swell- ing in his knees . . . but the two of us together it's not likely it is at the one time we would fail. Bring the both of us with you, Honor, and the height of the castle of luck on you, and the both of us to- gether will make one good hardy man! MRS. DOXOHOE. I'd like my job! Is it queer in the head you are grown asking me to bring in a stranger off the road? MICHAEL MISKELL. I am not, ma'am, but an old neighbor I am. If I had fore- casted this asking I would have asked it myself. Michael Miskell I am, that was in the next house to you in Skehanagh ! MRS. DOXOHOE. For pity's sake ! Michael Miskell is it? That's worse again. Yourself and Mike that never left fighting and scolding and attacking one another ! Sparring at one another like two young pups you were, and threaten- ing one another after like two grown dogs! MIKE MclxERXEY. All the quarreling was ever in the place it was myself did it. Sure his anger rises fast and goes away like the wind. Bring him out with myself now, Honor Donohoe, and God bless you. MRS. DONOHOE. Well, then, I will not bring him out, and I will not bring your- self out, and you not to learn better sense. Are you making yourself ready to come? MIKE MclxEHXEY. I am thinking, maybe ... it is a mean thing for a man that is shivering into seventy years to go changing from place to place. MRS. DOXOHOE. Well, take your luck or leave it. All I asked was to save you THE WORKHOUSE WARD 179 from the hurt and the harm of the year. MIKE MclxERXEY. Bring the both of us with you or I will not stir out of this. MRS. DOKOHOE. Give me back my fine suit so [begins gathering up the clothes}, till I go look for a man of my own ! MIKE MclxERXEY. Let you go so, as you are so unnatural and so disobliging, and look for some man of your own, God help him ! For I will not go with you at all! MRS. DOXOHOE. It is too much time I lost with you, and dark night waiting to overtake me on the road. Let the two of you stop together, and the back of my hand to you. It is I will leave you there the same as God left the Jews ! [She goes out. The old men lie down and are silent for a moment.] MICHAEL MISKELL. Maybe the house is not so wide as what she says. MIKE MclxERXEY. Why wouldn't it be wide? MICHAEL MISKELL. Ah, there does be a good deal of middling poor houses down by the sea. MIKE MclxERXEY. What would you know about wide houses? Whatever sort of a house you had yourself it was too wide for the provision you had into it. MICHAEL MISKEI.L. Whatever provi- sion I had in my house it was wholesome provision and natural provision. Herself and her periwinkles ! Periwinkles is a hungry sort of food. MIKE MclxERXEY. Stop your impu- dence and your chat or it will be the worse for you. I'd bear with my own father and mother as long as any man would, but if they'd vex me I would give them the length of a rope as soon as another ! MICHAEL MISKELL. I would never ask at all to go eating periwinkles. MIKE MclNERXEY [sitting up}. Have you any one to fight me? MICHAEL MISKELL [whimpering}. I have not, only the Lord ! MIKE MclxERXEY. Let you leave put- ting insults on me so, and death picking at you ! MICHAEL MISKELL. Sure I am saying nothing at all to displease you. It is why I wouldn't go eating periwinkles, I'm in dread I might swallow the pin. MIKE MclxERXEY. Who in the world wide is asking you to eat them? You're as tricky as a fish in the full tide! MICHAEL MISKELL. Tricky is it! Oh, my curse and the curse of the four and twenty men upon you ! MIKE MclxERXEY. That the worm may chew you from skin to marrow bone ! [Seizes his pillow.] MICHAEL MISKELL [seizing his own pil- low]. I'll leave my death on you, you scheming vagabone ! MIKE MclxERNEY. By cripes! I'll pull out your pin feathers! [throwing pillow]. MICHAEL MISKELL [throwing pillow], You tyrant ! You big bully you ! MIKE MclxERNEY [throwing pillow and seizing mug}. Take this so, you stobbing ruffian you ! [They throw all within their reach at one another, mugs, prayer books, pipes, etc.} [Curtain.} LOUISE A PLAY BY J. H. SPEENHOFF TRANSLATED FROM THE DUTCH BY A. V. C. P. HUIZINGA AND PIERRE LOVING. Acting rights reserved by Pierre Loving. All rights reserved. PERSONS LOUISE. VAN DER ELST [Notary]. VENNEMA [Louise's Father], SOPHIE [Serving Maid], Applications for permissions to produce LOUISE must be addressed to Pierre Loving, 240 W. 4. LOUISE A PLAY [SCEXE: A large fashionably ap- pointed room, with few decorations on the walls. The latter are papered in yellow with large black lilies. To the right, a tall broad window with heavy brown cur- tains. To the left, an old gold harp with a little footstool. Behind, to the right, a door with brown portieres, affording a view of a vestibule and banister. To the left, down front, a broad couch with black head cushions. Next to it the end of a heavy broad oaken table, with the side turned toward the couch. Behind, the back wall has an open chimney with carved wood and ornaments on it. Be- side the chimney, on both sides, are two large comfortable chairs and two others by the table and window respectively. On the table are the remains of break- fast: fruit glasses and two empty cham- pagne bottles. As the curtain rises Louise is discov- ered lying on the couch with her feet ex- tended toward the audience. She lies quietly and gazes blankly in the distance. Closer scrutiny reveals that she is in the last stage of intoxication. On the whole, it is rather a lady-like inebriety and ex- presses itself now and again by way of a heavy sigh, looseness of limb, a languid flutter of the eyelids and a disposition to be humorous. It is about three in the afternoon. As for the tone of the room, there are a lot of yellows, blacks and browns; the light is quite subdued. Soon after the rise of the curtain, Louise be- gins slowly and dreamily to hum a mel- ody. She stops for a while, gazes blankly around and starts humming again. Then she raises herself, crosses her arms on the tables and rests her head on them. Her hair is loosely arranged or dis- arranged. Her dressing gown is black and white. A bell is rung downstairs. Louise does not seem to hear it. Another ting-a-ling. BY J. H. SPEENHOFF You can hear the maid going downstairs. The door opens and shuts. Two pairs of feet are heard climbing the stairs. The maid parts the portieres, shows Van der Elst in and points Louise out to him, meanwhile remaining discreetly behind the portieres. The truth is that Sophie is very much embarrassed. She looks as if she has been called away from her proper duties. She is a healthy maid, with tousled blond hair, cotton dress, blue apron, maid's cap and is in her stocking feet. She goes toward Louise, then stops confusedly at a little distance from her. She moves a chair needlessly, in timid embarrassment, and wipes her lips with her apron.] SOPHIE. Here's a gentleman to see you to see you, madam. [Louise doesn't hear.] SOPHIE [approaches the end of table], A gentleman has come come to see you. LOUISE [raising herself on her elbows; with her head on her hands]. What are you doing? SOPHIE [confusedly], I madam? Why, nothing. But there's a gentleman . . . you see . . . LOUISE. A gentleman? Very well, you may go. [She closes her eyes.] SOPHIE. But . . . but ... he wishes to speak to you. A gray-haired gentle- man. He is standing by the portieres . . . over there. [Indicates Van Elst.] [Louise does not pay any attention to Sophie or Van Elst, but composes herself for another nap on the couch.] SOPHIE. May he come in? [A long pause.] May he. . . .? [Louise does not answer. Sophie waits a bit, then she beckons Van Elst into the room.] She won't answer, sir. Maybe you'd better come back in an hour or so. . 183 1 84 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS VAN ELST. Hm! No. That's impos- sible. [Looks at Louise.] What's the matter with madam? Is she asleep? SOPHIE. No . . . you see . . . she is, you know. . . . VAN ELST [approaching}. What? SOPHIE. She isn't well. . . . VAN ELST. Ab not well? SOPHIE. Yes, from. . . . [Hesitates.] VAN ELST [spying the bottles on the table]. Has madam consumed those? SOPHIE. Yes, yes. It's awful. [Pause.] VAN ELST. Does this happen very often? SOPHIE. Yes. Oh, yes, quite often. VAN ELST. Indeed ! SOPHIE. Hadn't you better go until . . . for a while? VAN ELST. No, no. I shall. . . . SOPHIE. Very well, sir, you know best. [Sophie goes out of the room on tip- toe.] [Now that Sophie is out of the room, one has an opportunity to scrutin- ize Van Elst more closely. He is a prosperous-looking country gen- tleman about fifty years old. He wears a shining tophat, white vest with a gold chain across his stom- ach, tight-fitting blue trousers, low shoes, white socks and a short blue coat. He is clean-shaven and when he removes his hat, one ob- serves that his hair is close-cropped. His walking-stick, contrary to ex- pectations, is liyht and slim. He takes a chair near the window, di- rectly behind the harp, puts his hat, cane and gloves beside him on the floor and looks around. He glances at Louise, shakes his head solemnly, coughs, wipes his fore- head, puts his handkerchief care- fully away, coughs again, moves his chair and after some signs of nervousness, says]: VAN ELST. Miss . . . may I have a word with you? [Louise doesn't hear.] VAN ELST [with growing embarrass- ment]. I ... I should like to speak to you. LOUISE [a little wildly]. Are you there? VAN ELST [taken aback]. Yes . . . no ... yes ... I. ... Whom do you mean? LOUISE. Come here beside me. VAN ELST [astonished]. Certainly, but LOUISE [sighing]. Come . . . come. VAN ELST. Aren't you making a mis- take? I'm not . . . LOUISE [raising herself halfway, left elbow on table, head on hand, the other arm outstretched on the table. She looks unseeingly at him]. Don't you want to? VAN ELST. But I'm not . . . how shall I put it? I've come to speak with you very seriously. LOUISE [has seated herself in the middle of the couch. She extends her arms with a smiling invitation]. Don't you dare? VAN ELST [very considerably em- barrassed by this time. He coughs and mops his face]. It isn't quite necessary. We can talk this way. LOUISE [smiling], I will come to you, you know. Ah, you don't realize . . . VAN ELST [rising, disturbed]. Xo. Please stay where you are. Don't trouble yourself. I can hear you from where you are, and you can hear me. LOUISE [ignores his words completely, gets up dizzily and gropes with the aid of the table toward the chair. She lenns on the arm of the chair and looks at Van Elst. She points out the small chair], Come here. VAN ELST [after some deliberation, sits at her side]. We had better . . . [His voice dies in a mutter.] LOUISE [insistent]. No. Here at my side. Sit close to me, then I'll be able to hear you better. VAN ELST [pulling his chair closer], I don't see why . . . LOUISE. Don't you think I'm very beau- tiful and wise? VAN ELST. I have very serious things to discuss with you. Will you listen to me? [He assumes an important pose.] LOUISE. Why do you take on such a severe tone? You must be more gentle very gentle. VAN ELST. Hm ! Very well. First let me tell you who I am. My name is Van der Elst. I'm the new attorney back home, and I am a friend of your father's. LOUISE. Well? VAN ELST. I think a lot of your father. As you know, Mr. Degudo was your father's lawyer; but he's gone away and I've taken his place. LOUISE 185 LOUISE. Why am I honored with these confidences? VAN ELST. You ought to know who I am. LOUISE. Well, what's your name? VAN ELST [angrily]. I told you that my name is Van der Elst, attorney-at- law. LOUISE [smiling vapidly}. Have you any bonbons with you? VAX EI.ST. What sort of a question is that, madam? You're not listening to me. {He gets up angrily, about to col- lect his effects prior to leaving.] LOUISE. Are you leaving me so soon? If I were you, I wouldn't leave. [Van Elst walks back and forth in annoyance, muttering all the while.] LOUISE. What are you muttering about? Come here and sit by my side. Last week I received flowers from an old gentleman, an old gentleman. At least that is what the girl said. He sent them for my shoulders, mind you. You see, he had seen my shoulders. Please sit down. That's why he sent me flowers [extending her hand] and this ring came with them. Look! [Van der Elst has taken a seat. She thrusts her hand be- fore his face.] It's the thin one. VAN ELST. Madam, I didn't come for this frivolity. LOUISE. What would you give if you could kiss me? [Van Elst coughs and fumbles with his handkerchief.] LOUISE. Do you know what I suspect? I suspect that you are the old gentleman in question. VAN ELST [getting up in high dudgeon]. Madam, I consider that accusation en- tirely improper, in view of the fact that I am a respectable married man. I want you to know that I keep out of these things. My reputation is above reproach. Do you intend to listen to me or not? LOUISE. Don't shout so. VAN ELST. Do you talk this way al- ways? You amaze me. LOUISE [smiling], I suspect you are the gentleman with the pretty touch about my shoulders. Well, sit down. Is he gone? Are you gone? VAN ELST [stepping forwardly boldly], I am still here. This is positively the last time I'll ask you to listen to me. I assure you, my patience is nearly ex- hausted. Your father and mother, your family have asked me to bring the follow- ing to your notice. Your present conduct has caused a great scandal. You've left your family for a man who is too far above you socially ever to make you his wife. Consequently, you have become his mistress. LOUISE. Eh? VAN ELST. I'm not through yet. Your father and mother have requested me to ask you to come back home. They await you with open arms. LOUISE. Don't be silly. Sit down. VAN ELST. Oh, it's useless. LOUISE [incoherently]. Will you prom- ise to tell me? VAN ELST. I suppose I'll have to wait. [He sits down in utter despair.] LOUISE [goes up to him unsteadily, groping for the arm of the chair. With a laugh]. Tell me, which one was it. This shoulder or this one? Ah, aren't you clever ! You're the old gentleman, aren't you, you old duck? VAN ELST. A useless commission. Poor parents! LOUISE. What's that? The joke's on me. ' VAN ELST. Next she'll ask me to dance with her, I suppose. LOUISE. Dance? No dancing. Don't get up. You needn't get up. I don't mean it ... really, I don't. [Louise sits in front of the harp and runs her fingers idly over the strings. Then slowly, she plays the same melody she hummed previ- ously. She hums it again dream- ily. The music grows softer and softer. She sighs, stops playing, her head drops to her hands and she falls limply to the fl^oor.] VAN ELST. Good God, what's this? It wasn't my fault. I suppose I was cruel to her. [ Walks excitedly back and forth. Sophie enters.] SOPHIE. What's the matter? VAN ELST. Look at your mistress. I can't make out what's wrong with her. SOPHIE. Oh, that's nothing. It hap- pens every day. Just a fainting fit. VAN ELST. What a life ! What a life ! Why don't you do something? She can't be allowed to lie there that way. SOPHIE. Just a minute. [She seize* 1 86 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS Louise by the waist and lifts her from the floor. Van Elst assists her.] SOPHIE. Nothing to worry about [ar- ranging Louise's clothes]. Now you lie here and you'll be quite all right in a very short while. She gets that way quite frequently. VAN ELST [sinks into a chair]. This is frightful. SOPHIE [confidentially]. Madam drinks heavily in the afternoons and in the even- ing, too, when the master is here. Yes, and then they sing together and madam plays on that thing there. [Points to the harp.] It's very nice sometimes. VAN ELST. Who is the master? SOPHIE. I don't know, sir. But that's what I've been told to call him. VAN ELST. Are they happy together? Or do they sometimes quarrel? SOPHIE. I don't know. I don't think so, for he's very good and likes her very much. VAN ELST. Madam never weeps or is sad? I ask these questions for madam's sake. SOPHIE. Oh, yes, she weeps sometimes. But it's mostly when she hasn't had a drink and feels out of sorts. But it's soon cured when I fetch the wine. VAN ELST. Then she occasionally thinks of her home. That may help us. SOPHIE. May I suggest 'something, sir? [She busies herself clearing off' the table.] If I were you, I should go away quietly. VAN ELST. Go away? SOPHIE. For madam can't bear men folks around her when she sobers up. If I were you, I'd go away. VAN ELST. No, I'll stay. If she's sober after a while, perhaps she'll be able to talk to me coherently. SOPHIE. You must know "best. But I warn you, madam can't bear to have any- body else with her. VAN ELST. What! Do you think I came for that purpose? SOPHIE. Of course. You're not try- ing to tell me that you came to read the newspaper with her. VAN ELST. You keep your mouth shut. I've come to ask madam to return to her parents. SOPHIE. Oh, that's it, is it? You're from the family. I see. Of course . . . but she won't go with you. LOUISE [dreaming aloud]. William, William! He's bolting. Help! Help! Oh, the brown mare! Look! [Sighs.] SOPHIE. She's delirious again. She goes on like that a lot. She was in a carriage with the master the other day, when the horse bolted. That's what she always dreams about these days. LOUISE. Ah, wait. I left my earrings at the doctor's. Mother, mother, I love you so. [She sighs heavily. A ring is heard below.] VAN ELST. Ah, that's Mr. Vennema. Open the door for him. It's her father. SOPHIE. Ought I let him in? He mustn't see her in that condition. VAN ELST. Please open the door. SOPHIE. Oh, all right. [She goes out.] [Van der Elst listens.] LOUISE. Hopla, hopla, hopla. . . . [Vennema and Sophie mount the stairs.] SOPHIE [to Vennema behind the por- tieres]. Come this way, sir. You may come in. [Vennema comes in hesitating and stops at the door. He is a kindly country parson type, wholly gray, with a gray beard and mustache. He is wearing an ecclesiastical hat, a black coat and black trousers. He gazes about anxiously and fi- nally his eyes light on Van der Elst. Van der Elst beckons to Vennema and indicates Louise on the couch. Sophie goes out.] VAN ELST. There she is. VENNEMA. Is she ill? VAN ELST. No, that isn't it. She's dreaming. She's very nervous. She was quite agitated a moment ago. VENNEMA. What did she say? VAN ELST. She wouldn't listen to me. She insisted on speaking of other things. As a matter of fact; she acted very queerly. LOUISE. First prize . . . splendid. VENNEMA. What's the matter with her? VAN ELST. I don't know. Nerves per- haps. VENNEMA. Has she had a fainting spell? VAN ELST. Don't worry about it. She'll be better in a little while. VENNEMA [noticing the bottles]. Is she. . . .? LOUISE 187 VAN ELST. I don't know. VENNEMA. Couldn't you tell? You may tell me. VAN ELST. Yes; I think a little. VENNEMA. That hurts. I never thought she would allow herself to get into such a state. Has she been this way for a long time? VAN ELST. About ten minutes, I should say. But she'll be quite all right in a little while. VENNEMA. I can't help being dis- tressed over it. That she should have descended to this ! VAN ELST. Do you know what the maid told me? She said that they are happy together, and that he is truly in love with her. VENNEMA. Yes. But why did he al- low her to go this far? VAN ELST. She won't see anybody. VENNEMA. Not even me? Her father? VAN ELST. Perhaps you. VENNEMA. What do you think? Will she come home with us? Have you found out? VAN ELST. She didn't pay any atten- tion to me. She didn't quite understand my mission. I don't know. Perhaps you had better speak to her. LOUISE [calling]. I ... Oh ... Help! [She sits up in the middle of the couch, with her hands to her face. She droops and seems to fall asleep in a sitting post- ure.] VENNEMA. Is she . . .? VAN ELST. Yes, she's coming to. LOUISE [wakes with a start]. Bah! [She looks around, does not recognize Van der Elst and Vennema. Then, peer- ing closer, she registers surprise, sudden fright and finally anger. Van der Elst is about to speak, but she interrupts him. ] LOUISE. Who are you? [Coughs.] Who are you and what is your business here? Go away. . . . Go away. VAN ELST. Madam ... I ... VENNEMA. Let me speak. [He goes toward Louise.] Louise ... it is I. Don't you recognize me? [After a pause.] Louise! LOUISE [after a pause]. Father! VENNEMA. Aren't you glad to see your father? LOUISE [in a low tone of voice]. Oh, father. VENNEMA. You are not ill, my child? LOUISE. No. Why have you come? VENNEMA. I wanted to speak to you. LOUISE. Why did you come? Why? VENNEMA [seating himself beside Louise on the couch]. Listen to me, my dear. LOUISE. Yes. VENNEMA. I came to find out whether you are happy or not. LOUISE. I don't know. Happy . . . that's a strange word. VENNEMA. Why strange? Are you happier here than with us. LOUISE [leaning forward on her hands]. Than with you? [Looking up.] I pre- fer to be here. VENNEMA. Don't you miss us all, just the least little bit? LOUISE. Sometimes, when I'm alone. All the same, I'd rather be here. VENNEMA. Aren't you deluding your- self? Wasn't your life with us at home better? LOUISE. Better? What do you mean, better? VENNEMA. You know what I mean. Don't you regret running off with . . . him . . . and spreading sorrow in our hearts? LOUISE. I loved him. And then I yearned for freedom, for the pleasures of life and travel. At home everything was so dull and monotonous. I couldn't stand the smug people at home. Their life is one round of lying and gossiping, of scolding and backbiting. VENNEMA. But what of this sort of existence? You don't quite appreciate the damage you have done. How you have stained the fair reputation of your parents. I wonder whether that has ever occurred to you? You say that you do not like the people who are our neighbors back home, but it is these very people who make and unmake reputations. We must live with them. Can't you realize that? LOUISE. Father, I'm sorry, but I couldn't go back to them. The common- place tattlers with their humdrum, un- eventful lives scarcely exist for me. VENNEMA. They don't exist for you, you say. But, remember, that they de- spise you. They and their contempt do not reach you, but they reach us. LOUISE [almost inaudibly]. Yes. i88 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS VENNEMA. But your future? Have you thought of that? What will it be? Wretchedness and contempt. When I came in and saw you stretched out in that condition, I ... LOUISE. Father, I want to forget. I don't want to think of the past. VENNEMA. In order not to think of the past, you resort to drink? LOUISE. Sometimes it is hard to for- get. VENNEMA. Tell me, Louise: does he love you, and do you love him? And even if this be true, will he continue to love you always? Won't the time come when he will grow indifferent to you? LOUISE [getting up]. Never . . . never. Not he. You don't believe that such a thing is impossible? He cannot forget me. I have given him everything . . . my love, myself ... all that is truly my- self. VENNEMA. Aren't you a little too op- timistic? LOUISE. Not when it concerns him. He knows what I have sacrificed. He knows what I have given him. There is no room for doubt, father. VENNEMA. Very well, we will not speak of it again. But how about us, Louise? Don't you ever think of us? Don't you ever long to come back to us, to the old home where you were born? Wouldn't you like to see it again? LOUISE [sadly]. Yes. VENNEMA [anxious and excited]. Then come back with me. Come back to us. You know my motive for coming. Won't you come back home with me? Every- thing is in perfect readiness for you: your little room, the flowers, the trees . . . everything. Louise . . . LOUISE. Father, that can never be. Never. VENNEMA. Why not? We have ar- ranged everything. Nothing will be lack- ing for your welcome, your comfort. LOUISE. Why should I bring misfor- tune to you? It would simply add to your unhappiness. Isn't it better now that I am away from home? Later on, perhaps. VENNEMA. Later on? Did it ever oc^ cur to you thnt there may be no later on? You may not find us then. We are get- ting old, your mother and I. LOUISE. Don't, please! VENNEMA. Come, Louise. Come. Think of the happiness. LOUISE. How about the townfolks? Would they accept me again, do you think? VENNEMA. Don't think of them. Those who are sincerely friendly to us, will continue to be so. The rest don't count. Ah, if we only could have you back, my child ! LOUISE [after a pause]. Father, I can- not go back. Don't you see that it is utterly impossible? I am changed now. And then I am not strong enough. Life is so long and I cannot bear to face it alone. VENNEMA. But you will have us. You belong to us, and your place, if you have a place in the world, is with your mother and father. Your old home is waiting for you with welcoming arms. Summer is coming and you know how splendid the garden and the orchard are when the lilac trees are in bloom. Do you remember the little tree you planted once? Doesn't your heart yearn to see the little flowers that have sprouted on its branches? Everything is just waiting for you to come home. LOUISE [dreamily]. Everything. . . . VENNEMA. You will come, won't you? LOUISE. I cannot. I simply cannot. It is your happiness that I am thinking of. The intrusion of my life would spoil everything. Everybody will blame you. VENNEMA. My child, I have long ago put behind me what the world says. LOUISE [suddenly]. And William? What about William? What about him when I go back? No, I can't do it. I cannot leave him. VENNEMA. What about your mother, Louise? She is waiting for you. She will be at the window to-night, waiting and peering out. Your chair is ready for you and she herself will open the door to greet you, to take you to her heart again. Do you know, Louise, she has been get- ting very gray of late. Come. LOUISE. Mother isn't ill? VENNEMA. Your mother wants to see you before she . . . LOUISE [rising to her feet]. I ... I will do it. VENNEMA. Thank you, my child. [He embraces her]. We shall go at once. LOUISE. Ring for Sophie, please. Yes, LOUISE 189 we will go at once. [Close to him.] Mother is not seriously ill? VENXEMA. I am sure, your return will be her cure. VAN ELST [who has listened attentively throughout the whole conversation}. Madam, permit me also to thank you for this resolve to return home. You are going to make many hearts joyful be- cause of your decision. LOUISE. I hope so. SOPHIE [enters}. Is there anything you wish, madam? LOUISE. Pack my traveling bag. Get my black hat and gray coat. I am leav- ing at once. SOPHIE. Very well, madam, but . LOUISE. Lose no time about it. I'm in a hurry. SOPHIE. A lady called to see, madam, and I told her you were engaged. LOUISE. What did she want? Did she say? SOPHIE. She said she would come back. She insisted on speaking with you. LOUISE. Do you know the lady? SOPHIE. Yes. ... no. That is, I don't know. I believe I've seen her before. LOUISE. Didn't she say what her errand was? SOPHIE. No, madam, but she said she would come back soon. LOUISE. When she comes, show her into the drawing room. SOPHIE. Yes, madam. LOUISE. Have everything ready at once. SOPHIE. Yes, madam. [She yoes out.] LOUISE. You will excuse me. I must change my clothes. I shall put my old ones on. You see, I kept them. Then I must write to him. I must tell him why I am going away. [She goes out by the side door.] VENKEMA. I feel as if I have never been as happy as this before. VAN ELST. It will help your wife to get well. She hasn't been very well these last few weeks. VEXXEMA. Yes, I know it will do her heaps of good. I am quite happy. VAX ELST. Don't excite your wife un- necessarily to-night. Any shock may be too much for her. VEXXEMA. Yes, we will postpone our rejoicing until to-morrow. You must come to-morrow, but alone. Bring your wife Sunday evening. The process of ac- clamation will be slow, of course. There is a train about six, I believe. VAN ELST. Yes, at five forty-five. We have an hour yet. VEXNEMA. The sooner the better. She must have a change at first. I thought it mightn't be a bad idea if we paid my brother a visit at Frezier. It might do her a lot of good. Yes, I think what she needs is a change of scene. VAN ELST. If I were you I would stay home the first week. VENNEMA. We'll attend to that later. It is terrible when you think of the con- dition she was in when we arrived. VAN ELST. The maid said that it hap- pened quite often, too. VENNEMA. What do you think he will do when he learns that she is gone? VAN ELSP. If he is anything of a man, if he is a man of honor, then he will stay away. If not, there is the law. But I believe it can be arranged although she loves him very much. " VENNEMA. Let's not speak of it any more. She will change slowly, and so the past will be forgotten. SOPHIE [enters with a traveling bag]. Oh, isn't Madam here? VENNEMA. She will be back very shortly. SOPHIE. Here's the bag. Everything is ready. [Puts Louise's things on the table.] LOUISE [enters very simply dressed with a letter in her hand]. Here I am. [To Sophie.] Have you packed everything? SOPHIE. Yes, everything is ready. LOUISE. Help me then. [Sophie helps Louise with her coat.] LOUISE. Mail this letter for me. [The bell rings downstairs.] Go and see who it is. I am not at home to anybody now. SOPHIE. It may be the lady who was here before. LOUISE. Heavens, I had almost forgot- ten her. If it's the lady SOPHIE. Yes? LOUISE. See who it is. SOPHIE [going]. Yes, madam. VENNEMA. What is it, Louise? What does the lady wish? LOUISE. Nothing, father [with a forced laugh]. Nothing at all. VENNEMA. Must you see her? Can't you say that you are about to go away FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS on a trip and that you cannot see her? Say that, and let us go. LOUISE. Oh, it's nothing. I will just speak to her, and then we will go at once. [She laughs again in a forced manner.] VENNEMA. But why are you so ex- cited? SOPHIE [entering]. Madam, the lady has gone away. She left this. [She ex- tends a visiting card.] But LOUISE. What is it, Sophie? SOPHIE. She told me to tell you that you must think of the bay mare. Here is her card. LOUISE [excitedly]. Oh, a card [tries to restrain herself]. Give it to me. SOPHIE. Then she said nothing about Elsa and the race. [Louise takes the card and goes a little to the side.] VENNEMA. What's the matter, Louise? What ails you? LOUISE [deeply affected]. Father, father! [She looks from the card to her father with tears in her eyes; then she goes mutely toward the couch, sits down, and stares blankly in front of her.] LOUISE [sobbing], I can't do it! VENNEMA [takes the visiting card from her hands]. Must you pay all that? Have you lost all that money? LOUISE. Yes. VENNEMA. Through gambling? LOUISE. Yes. VENNEMA. Good God! Gambling, too? And to-night you must pay all that money. SOPHIE [entering excitedly with a small bunch of flowers]. Madam, Madam. LOUISE [looks up slowly and sees the flowers]. What is it? SOPHIE. These are the compliments of Mr. De Brandeis. LOUISE. Mr. De Brandeis? SOPHIE. The gentleman is waiting be- low in a carriage. VENNEMA. Tell that gentleman to go away. LOUISE. It was too beautiful, too good to be true. Now it will never be. VENNEMA. Why not? I shall give you the money. LOUISE. Father, I tell you it can never be. VENNEMA. What do you mean? What are you going to do, Louise? LOUISE. Father, I can't go back home with you. [To Sophie.] Take the flowers and tell Mr. De Brandeis that that [Vennema sinks into a chair. Sophie stands at the door with the flowers. Van der Elst stands listening anxiously.} LOUISE [with a sob in her throat]. Tell him, that I am going to stand by him. [She stands looking at the door, twitching her handkerchief ner- vously.] [Curtain.] THE GRANDMOTHER A PLAY BY LAJOS BIRO Authorized Translation by Charles Recht. Copyright, 1920, by Charles Recht. All rights reserved. CHARACTERS THE GRANDMOTHER. HER GRANDCHILDREN: THE BLOND YOUNG LADY. THE BRUNETTE YOUNG LADY. THE BRIDE. THE VIVACIOUS GIRL. THE MELANCHOLY GIRL. THE SENTIMENTAL HIGH SCHOOL GIRL. THE JOVIAL YOUNG MAN. THE POLITE YOUNG MAN. THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. All rights reserved by Charles Recht and John Biro, 47 West 42nd Street, New York. Applications for permission to produce THE GRANDMOTHER must be made to Mr. Charles Recht. A PLAY \There is only this notable thing to be said about Grandmother her hair is snow white, her cheeks rosy and her eyes violet blue. She is the most youthful and enthusiastic, best and most cordial grand- mother ever beloved by her grandchildren. The scene opens on a broad, sunny ter- race furnished tvith garden furniture, chairs, small tables and chaises longues. Back of the terrace is the beautiful sum- mer residence of Grandpa. Behind it is a large English garden in its lenten blos- soms. The Disagreeable Young Man en- ters; yawns; stretches discontentedly; slouches here and there; picks up a vol- ume from the table, then falls into a couch at right and, lighting a cigarette, begins to read. The other grandchildren enter in groups of two and three and seat them- selves.} THE JOVIAL YOUNG MAX. My word, children, I am too full for utterance. What a spread ! Now for a good cigar and a soft chair and I am as rich as a king. THE BLOND YOUNG LADY. We are hav- ing such charming weather. Is not this park like a paradise? THE BRUNETTE YOUNG LADY. How did you like the after-dinner speeches? THE VIVACIOUS GIRL. Uncle Heinrich was splendid. [There is great laughter.] THE POLITE YOUNG MAN. Uncle Hein- rich was never strong in speechmaking, but in the beginning even Demosthenes stuttered. THE JOVIAL YOUNG MAN. The trouble is that Uncle Heinrich stopped where Demosthenes began. Besides a manufac- turer has no time to parade on the sea shore with pebbles under his tongue. [There is more laughter.] THE POLITE YOUNG MAN. Children, who wants a cigarette? BY LAJOS BIRO THE BLOND AND BRUNETTE YOUNG LADIES. I ! THE POLITE YOUNG MAN [handing them cigarettes and lighting a match for them. He speaks to the Bride], Aren't you going to smoke? BRIDE. No, I thank you. THE JOVIAL YOUNG MAN. Lord, no! She must not ! The noble bride must not permit tobacco smoke to contaminate her rosy lips. [They all laugh.] THE VIVACIOUS GIRL. May I have a cigarette, too? THE JOVIAL YOUNG MAN. You be care- ful or the same misfortune may happen to you at any minute that happened to Lucy [pointing to the Bride, he hands the Vivacious Girl a cigarette.] THE VIVACIOUS GIRL. If my bride- groom shall object to tobacco smoke, he can pack his things and off. THE BRUNETTE YOUNG LADY. Well, young people, what are we going to do next? THE MELANCHOLY YOUNG LADY. Let's remain here. The park looks so beauti- ful. THE BLOND YOUNG LADY. Oh, I ob- ject. We'll remain here until the sun goes down a little and then we'll play tennis. [They agree.] THE MELANCHOLY YOUNG LADY. Can't we remain here? Let us enjoy the spring in the garden. THE JOVIAL YOUNG MAN. Let's play tennis. A little exercise is the best cure for romance. And you can enjoy your spring out there as well you dreamer. [They laugh.] THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. You are as loud as the besiegers of Jericho in your planning. THE JOVIAL YOUNG MAN. Behold ! He speaketh. [They laugh.] THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. You 194 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS are so overbearing in your jollifications that it is positively disgusting. For the past hour you have been giggling away without the slightest reason. You have so much leisure you do not know what to do with yourselves. THE BBUNETTE YOUNG LADY. Curt, must you always be the killjoy in a party ! THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. If you would at least take yourselves off from here. THE BRUNETTE YOUNG LADY. But ad- mit that to-day there is reason enough for every kind of jollity. THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. Is there, indeed? You have finished a cost- ly banquet and now are enjoying a good digestion. You are young and have a healthy animal appetite; but why deck sentimentalism.on your horns? THE POLITE YOUNG MAN. Your par- don ! Do you suppose that all a person gets out of this remarkable occasion is a good dinner? Have you no appreciation? Do you realize what this day means to all of us? THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. Very well, my boy. Now tell me why you are so over-filled with joy? THE POLITE YOUNG MAN. Yes, I will. I am glad that I can celebrate the golden wedding of my grandfather. I am glad that just thirty years ago to-day grand- father founded his factory. I am glad because of our large and happy family and that so many lovely and good and happy people have come here to celebrate this remarkable event; all of them good and prosperous. THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. Pros- perous! THE POLITE YOUNG MAN. Yes, I re- joice at their prosperity. THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. The laborers down there in the foundry, how- ever, are not as over-joyed at this pros- perity as you are. For this prosperity of yours they have been starving these past thirty years. THE POLITE YOUNG MAN. Grandfather was always good to his employees. TICE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. In- deed ! Our grandfather has managed by hook or by crook to amass an enormous fortune and you are glad that his for- tune is now made and you do not have to resort to questionable means. THE POLITE YOUNG MAN [hurt]. Questionable means? You do not in- tend to assert that our grandpapa . . . THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. I as- sert nothing. But mark you this. There is only one honest way to gain a large fortune: inheriting it. You cannot earn it without resorting to questionable means. THE POLITE YOUNG MAN. Shame! to say a thing like that ! THE BRUNETTE YOUNG LADY. Shame to say that of grandfather. [All of them are upset and disturbed. Grandmother appears on the bal- cony.] GRANDMOTHER. Why, children, what is it? What's wrong? THE SENTIMENTAL HIGH SCHOOL GIRL. Why, grandma, just think of it! Curt said that grandpa made his fortune by questionable means. THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. I did not say exactly that THE POLITE YOUNG MAN. Yes, you did. THE OTHERS [chiming in]. You said that. Yes, you said that. GRANDMOTHER [as energetically as possible for her]. I think you are in error, Curt. In the entire fortune of your grandpa there is not a single copper that was not earned by him in the most honest way. THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. But look, grandma, what I said was gen- erally in those cases no one GRANDMOTHER [hurt]. When I tell you this, boy, it is so. When I tell you anything, my child, you should never doubt it. THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. Yes, grandma, you are quite right. But I maintain that human learning and experi- ence have proved THE POLITE YOUNG MAN. Why don't you stop? Do you perhaps want to in- sult grandma? You are taking too great an advantage of our good nature I'll tell you that ! THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. If you folks had any sense THE POLITE YOUNG MAN. Don't you know enough . . . THE OTHER GRANDCHILDREN. . . to shut up. [Attacks him.] Indeed. He's right. Stop shut up ! THE GRANDMOTHER [The Disagreeable Young Man, in spite of this scene, wants to con- tinue, but the protests of the others drown his voice. He casts a contemptuous look at them, shrugs his shoulders, throws himself on the sofa and begins to read.] THE POLITE YOUNG MAN. Now don't trouble yourself about him any longer, grandma dear. Here, rest yourself nicely in this chair among us. THE JOVIAL YOUNG MAN. There, grandma! The old folks are there at table. We young people are here in the fresh air. We lacked only the youngest one of us all. And here you are. [There is a glad assent as the Grand- mother sits down.] THE VIVACIOUS GIRL. Are you quite comfortable, grandma dear? Would you like something to rest your feet on? GRANDMOTHER. Thanks, my child, I am quite all right, and I am very happy. THE BLOND YOUNG LADY. Yes, grand- ma, you ought to feel happy. THE BRUNETTE YOUNG LADY. How young you look, and how lovely and rosy ! THE BRIDE. Grandma? GRANDMOTHER. What is it, my angel? THE BRIDE. Tell me, how does a woman manage so that she is admired by her husband for full fifty years, as you are by grandfather? THE BRUNETTE YOUNG LADY. Yes, how did you manage that? GRANDMOTHER. You will all be loved and admired after fifty years as I have been. A person must be good. We must love each other. THE POLITE YOUNG MAN. But, grand- mother, is it not wonderful at seventy and seventy-five to love so beautifully and purely as you and grandfather have loved? GRANDMOTHER. You must always be good and patient with each other, and brave. Never lose courage. THE VIVACIOUS GIRL. But look, grand- ma, not even I could be as brave as you have been. And no one can ever say that I lose courage. [They all laugh.] I still shudder when I think how in those days in March of Forty-eight you had to run away ! Or in the Sixties when the city was bombarded, you with my mamma and Aunt Olga escaped from the burning house . . . THE SENTIMENTAL HIGH SCHOOL GIRL. How interesting that was! Tell us an- other story, grandma. [There is loud assent.] Yes, yes, grandma sliall tell us another story! GRANDMOTHER. But I have already told you so much. You heard all our history. THE SENTIMENTAL HIGH SCHOOL GIRL. Not I, grandma; I have not heard the story of when you got lost in the Fried- richsrode forest. GRANDMOTHER. That story I have told you so often, children. Ask your mother about it; she'll tell you. THE POLITE YOUNG MAK. But, grand- ma, I haven't heard it, either. Just tell us that one and we'll go to play tennis. THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. If you'll pardon me, grandma, I believe you ought to tell us a different incident to- day. I've heard that history so often. Tell us something contemporaneous. Tell us about the first sewing machine, or the first railroad, or about crinolines or contemporary theater or art. THE BLOND YOUNG LADY. No. Tell us about the woods. THE OTHERS. Yes, yes, that's right, the story of how you got lost. [The Disagreeable Young Man shrugs his shoulder and buries his head iti his book. Grandmother begins to narrate, and the circle of her ad- miring and attentive audience grows narrower.} GRANDMOTHER. Well, my children, it happened in the year eighteen hundred and forty, a year after grandfather was almost shot by error. In those days the happenings took us quite far away from here to Friedrichsrode, my dears, where you have never been. Your grandfather had a small estate there, and that's how we made our livelihood. We always wished and prayed to get the manage- ment of the large estate of the Count of Schwanhausen. But we lived there hum- bly in the little house. THE BLOND YOUNG LADY. Was my mamma home then? GRANDMOTHER. No, she was not in this world yet. But a year later she was born. So your grandfather and I lived then in this little red-roofed house. Your grandfather used to be busy with the land the entire day. Those days I was taking FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS on weight, and to reduce I would take long walks through the country. One day in October in the afternoon it was beautiful sunny autumn weather as usual I went again on my long walk. The country there is very beautiful all hills covered with dense forests. This afternoon my way led into the famous forest of Friedrichsrode. When there I kept on walking here and there I would stop to pick a flower. THE BLOND YOUNG LADY. Don't for- get, grandma, that it was quite late when you left your house. GRANDMOTHER. You are correct, my dear. After our dinner I had some things to attend to in the house and that is why I started that day later than usual. I was walking through the forest, going in deeper and deeper and suddenly I be- gan to realize that it was getting dark. It was in the autumn and the days were getting short. When I saw how dark ft was I turned homeward. But in the meanwhile evening came sooner than I counted, and suddenly it got dark alto- gether. Now, thought I, I must hustle. I hurried, as well as I could, but as much as I hurried I did not get home. Had I gone home the right way I would have reached it then, and so it dawned on me that I had lost my way. THE SENTIMENTAL HIGH SCHOOL GIRL. Great Heavens . . . GRANDMOTHER. Indeed, my child, I was really lost in the woods and in the Friedrichsrode forest, besides. What that meant you cannot now realize. Since that time these woods have been considerably cleared. Then also we live in a different world to-day. But in those days Friedrichsrode forest was a very, very dismal place. It spread away into the outskirts of the Harz Mountains and was a wild, primaeval, godforsaken forest where highway robbers were hiding. And in the winter it was full of the wolves from the mountains. [There is a short pause.] THE VIVACIOUS GIRL. And what did you do, grandmother? GRANDMOTHER. Really, my child, a great anxiety came upon me. I stood still and tried to fix my direction. Then I turned to a path which I figured ought to lead me home. After I walked a half hour, however, I found that the forest instead of getting lighter was getting thicker and thicker. Three or four times I changed the direction, but no matter what I did I was walking deeper and deeper into the dark woods. Although the moon was shining then, the branches of the trees were so thick that I could see but little. And that which I saw only frightened me all the more. Every tree stump, every overhanging bough excited my fear. My feet were continuously caught in the roots of big trees and thg undergrowth tore my bleeding face and feet; and it was getting cold. I felt frozen. And dismally quiet, terribly dark was the night in the forest. [There is a pause and suspense.] THE SENTIMENTAL HIGH SCHOOL GIRL. Good heavens, how perfectly terrible ! GRANDMOTHER. Then I collected all my wits. I said to myself, if I keep on walking I will lose my way all the more. I ought to remain where I am and wait. When grandfather arrives at home and misses me he will start a search with all the help and people. They will go into the woods with torchlights and then I will see the lights from the distance and hear them call and in that way I can get home. THE MELANCHOLY GIRL. How clever of our grandma! THE VIVACIOUS GIRL. And how brave! GRANDMOTHER. After I figured it out that way I looked about for a sheltered nook. In between two great big tree trunks there was a cave, like a little house, a place all filled with soft moss. A pleasant camping place. I fell into this and prepared myself for a long wait. I waited and waited. The night peopled the woods with every kind of sound. There was whistling, whispering, hum- ming, blowing, screeching and once from a distance a long-drawn deep howling. This, undoubtedly, was the wolves. THE SENTIMENTAL HIGH SCHOOL GIRL [frightened]. Merciful God! GRANDMOTHER. Then even I lost my courage. I wanted to run, run as long as my legs would carry me. But I re- alized that the wiser thing was to be brave and to remain. So I set my teeth and kept on waiting. And then gradu- ally the howling ceased. So, I sat there on this moss bank gazing before me and thought of many things. Suddenly I THE GRANDMOTHER 197 heard a noise. I straightened up and listened. It was a breaking sound and a rustle as though some one were brushing aside the underbrush. . . . The noise was getting nearer and nearer. THE SENTIMENTAL HIGH SCHOOL GIRL. Oh! GRANDMOTHER. I was all ears. I could clearly distinguish now that the sound was the footstep of a human being;. Frightened, I started through the dark~- ness and in the dull moonlight I saw that actually a man was wading through the thick underbrush. What was I to do? I pressed against the tree trunk and my fast and loud-beating heart seemed to be in my throat. The man was coming di- rectly toward me. When he was about three paces away from me and I could distinguish his features, I felt like faint- ing. It was " Red Mike," a very danger- ous fellow from our neighborhood; every one knew that he was a robber. Later on he was imprisoned for murder, but he escaped from the prison. Now he was there. . . . What should I do? THE VIVACIOUS GIRL [breathlessly]. What did you do, grandma? THE SENTIMENTAL HIGH SCHOOL GIRL. Great heavens! GRANDMOTHER. Frenzied, I pressed against the tree trunk. I wanted to hide, but the robber came directly toward me. It was as though he could see me even in this darkness and behind the tree trunk. Later on when he was caught, I found out, that he had prepared this very place for his night's resting place. He had brought all this soft moss there. Of course, I did not know that he just came there to rest himself. All I saw was that he was making directly for me. Then such a great fear seized me that instead of pressing against the tree and letting him go past me I shrieked just as he came within reaching distance and began to run away. [There is a pause and feverish sus- pense.] THE MELANCHOLY YOUNG LADY. And what did the robber do? GRANDMOTHER. My sudden outcry and quick dash and flight scared him for the moment, but as soon as I appeared in the moonlight, he saw that it was only a woman who had frightened him. He hesitated about a half a minute and then started to pursue me. I flew. I was young then and I could run fast. But it was dark and I did not know my way. As I pressed forward I ran into a low branch and tore my cheek so that it bled. My skirt was torn into shreds. Suddenly I stumbled and fell to the ground. I hurt myself quite painfully, but in spite of that I rose quickly again and com- menced to run. And the robber after me all the time. I could always hear his footsteps in my wake. My legs were about to give up under me when I got an idea to hide behind a stout tree trunk. But the robber began to look through the underbrush in the spot where he last saw me and he finally found me. He came near me. THE VIVACIOUS GIRL. How terrible ! GRANDMOTHER. With one single leap I jumped aside and started to run again. Once more I fell down and again I rose. Aimlessly I ran wildly over roots and stones and the robber kept right on after me. . . . And the distance between me and my pursuer was getting smaller and smaller. Then all of a sudden I heard the sound of his footsteps close to me to escape him I tried to dash away to the side of him but with a sudden leap he was by my side. Grabbing me by my shoulder he threw me on the ground and I fell upon my back. He had run so fast that he dashed a couple of paces past me. He turned about. . . . And then I saw that he had a long knife in his hand. THE SENTIMENTAL HIGH SCHOOL GIRL [horrified]. Merciful heaven! GRANDMOTHER. I could not budge. . . . And unspeakable fear seized me. . . . Then I uttered a piercing shriek. . . . The robber approached me. ... I cried out. . . . [There is a pause.] THE MELANCHOLY GIRL. Then, then THE VIVACIOUS GIRL. Well, what then? What? GRANDMOTHER. I cried out like an in- sane person. . . . Now the robber was near me. '. . . He bent over me. . . . Sud- denly a voice sounded, " who is crying here? " the voice seemed to be near the footsteps were audible " who's crying here?" it asked the second time. . . . The branches parted and a man in a hunting habit with a gun in his hand appeared. The robber took to his heels and flew into FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS the woods. The hunter now came near me and called to a second man who fol- lowed. They helped me to rise and they carried me over to a small clearing. There I saw a light buggy into which they lifted me. Soon they fetched the horses and in a half hour I was in the Schwanhausen castle sipping hot brandy which they had prepared for me. The man in the hunting habit was the Count of Schwanhausen, who had been hunting in the woods. THE SENTIMENTAL HIGH SCHOOL GIRL. How interesting! GRANDMOTHER. In the castle I quite recovered. Then the Count ordered an- other carriage to drive me home and at six in the morning I landed safely in our house. Your grandpa was sick with wor- ry. . . . He and his people had searched for me in the woods for hours. And that's how I was almost lost. A few days later grandpa went to thank the Count for my rescue. The Count took a liking to him. THE BLOND YOUNG LADY. That was the old Count? GRANDMOTHER. Yes, it was the old Count. The benefactor of all of us. Grandfather thanked him courteously for my rescue. The Count took a liking to him and soon after that grandfather got the management of the entire Schwan- hausen estate, which proved the corner- stone of his good fortune. And that, my dears, is the story of my night wander in the forest of Friedrichsrode. [Amid general approval, Grandma, is surrounded. Everybody is in- debted to her. They all speak at once, except the The Disagreeable Young Man.] " We thank you cordially." " It was wonderful, grandma, dear." " Interesting." " Beautiful." THE VIVACIOUS GIRL. Grandma is a story-telling genius ! THE POLITE YOUNG MAX. A most won- derful one ! GRANDMOTHER. Very well, my dears, but now run along to your tennis game. I'll come over later to watch on. [They all agree.] THE POLITE YOUNG MAN. Three cheers for our very dear beloved charming grandma. [They all cheer three times, then they surround her, kiss her cheeks and head and stroke her hair.] THE BLOND YOUNG LADY. Adieu old sweetheart. THE BRUNETTE YOUNG LADY. Auf wiedersehen precious grandma ! THE SENTIMENTAL HIGH SCHOOL GIRL [inspired]. Grandma. . . . ! [She rush- es over to her and covers her with kisses.] [Grandma bears all these amiabilities with pleasurable tolerance. She strokes and pats the grandchildren and as they retire, she fondly gazes after them, nodding to them with laughter.] GRANDMOTHER. Curt are not you going with the others? THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAX. No. GRANDMOTHER, Why not, Curt? Why don't you follow the others? THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. They think that I am bad, and I know that they are stupid. [Grandmother seats herself in silence. The Disagreeable Young Man con- tinues to read. He lights a new cigarette. While lighting the ciga- rette ] THE DISAGREEABLE Youxo MAX. Grandma ! GRANDMOTHER. What is it, my child? THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAX. What- ever you say might, of course, never be questioned . . . GRAXDMOTHEH. No, my child. THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. But do tell me, grandma, did that story really happen in that way? GRANDMOTHER. What story? THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAX. The night wander through the Friedrichsrode forest. GRAXDMOTHER. Certainly it happened. THE DISAGREEABLE YOUXG MAN. Ex- actly as you told it? Are you quite sure that you remember all those details. GRANDMOTHER. Yes. Why? THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. Oh, just so. I merely wanted to inquire, grandma. GRANDMOTHER. But why did you want to? THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. I was just interested. Thank you very much. Do not let me disturb you further, grand- ma. THE GRANDMOTHER 199 [He takes up his book and continues to read. The Grandmother re- mains seated, but is greatly em- barrassed. She would like to keep on gazing into the park and en- joying her quiet, but she- is unable to concentrate her thoughts. She is getting more and more disturbed. There is a pause.] GRANDMOTHER. Curt ! THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAX. Yes grandma, dear. GRANDMOTHER. Curt, why have you asked me if the forest incident happened that way? THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. I merely wanted to find out, grandma. GRANDMOTHER. You just wanted to find out. But one does not ask such things without some good reason. THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. I was interested. GRANDMOTHER. Interested, but why are you interested? THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. Just in general. But do not get disturbed on account of that, grandma. [The Grandmother is silent.] [The Disagreeable Young Man picks up his book. The Grandmother wants to drop the subject at this point. She does not succeed, but continues to look over toward the young man. Tie reads on.] GRANDMOTHER. Curt! THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. Yes, grandma, dear. GRANDMOTHER. Curt, you shall tell me this instant the reason you asked if the incident really happened that way ! THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. But, grandma ... I have already told you that . . . GRANDMOTHER. Don't you tell me again that you asked because the matter inter- ested you. You would have never asked such a question if you did not have some special reason for it. THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. But, grandma GRANDMOTHER. Curt, if you do not this moment tell me why you said that, then I will never [her voice becomes unusually strong and shakes] I never in my life will speak to you again. THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. But, grandma, I do not want to insult you. GRANDMOTHER. You will not insult me if you will be sincere and open. Be sin- cere always. . . . And you will not insult me. But when your trying to hide some- thing from me, that's when you insult me. This cannot remain in this way. I must know what you are thinking of. I must know that. THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. Grandma, I was afraid you would be angry with me. GRANDMOTHER. If you keep on con- cealing things I shall be angry. No mat- ter what you have to say I will not hold it against you. THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. Are you not angry now? GRANDMOTHER. No. I promise you I will not be angry. Say whatever you please. [The Disagreeable Young Man hesi- tates.] GRANDMOTHER. Well, then out with it speak up, my child be it what it may as long as it is frank and sincere. Speak up, now. Come! THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. Very well then, grandma. It is impossible that the story could happen in that manner. GRANDMOTHER [off ended]. You mean that I told an untruth? THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. Oh, no. I did not say that the incident did not happen. I just maintain that it could not have happened in that fashion. GRANDMOTHER. But why not? THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. On account of the details. Let us take it for granted, grandma, that as you state you commenced your exercise walk in the afternoon . . . GRANDMOTHER. Yes. THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. Let's say that you had household duties and started out quite late about four o'clock. GRANDMOTHER [disturbed, but follow- ing the cross-examination intently]. Yes. THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. Very well, you started at four o'clock. The walk was a good one and consumed let us say one hour and a half. GRANDMOTHER. Yes. THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. Yes? This brings us to half-past five o'clock. In October and in a dense forest besides at half-past five it gets fairly dark at 200 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS that hour. It was then that you lost your way? THE GRANDMOTHER [nods her head in assent ] . THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. An- other hour and a half spent in wander- ing that brings us to seven o'clock. You now reached the night lodging of the robber here you were resting? GRANDMOTHER. Exactly. THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. Quite right. Here you were waiting and rest- ing now we want to allow a long time for it three let us say three and a half hours. GRANDMOTHER [involuntarily]. Not that long . . . THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. Oh, yes ... let us ... we'll then have reached half-past ten o'clock. It could not have been later when this forest bandit came. These pirates never go to their bed earlier. They shun light and must get their sleep while the world is the darkest. He could not sleep during the day even in the darkest forests. In short, then, it was half-past ten? GRANDMOTHER. Half-past ten. THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. Now began the flight and the pursuit. You ran let us say full twenty minutes. That is a great deal. I was a track run- ner in college and I know what a twenty- minute stretch means. Shall we say twenty minutes? GRANDMOTHER. Twenty minutes . . . THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. In any circumstances it was not even eleven when you were safely out of danger? GRANDMOTHER. Yes. THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. And and a half hour later you were sipping hot brandy in the Schwanhausen castle? GRANDMOTHER. Yes. [The Disagreeable Young Man is si- lent.] GRANDMOTHER [shaking with excite- ment]. And what else? [The Disagreeable Young Man is si- lent.] GRANDMOTHER [she shakes with fear as to what will follow, but forces herself to face it]. Well, say on ... what else? . . . THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. At six on the following morning you reached your home and . . . [He pauses.] GRANDMOTHER [if her loud-speaking could be called an outcry, then she cries out]. Yes . . . what else? . . . What happened then? ... Go on ... say it . . . what else? THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. [He makes a new attempt to tell everything bravely at once, but hesitates.] In the morning at six you arrived at home. The others had no idea as to the distance be- tween Schwanhausen and Friederichs- rode. But I wanted to see it myself, so last year with a friend I made a walking trip through that country. I tried this distance. In a half hour of slow walking I reached from one place to the other, and the horses in the Count's stables and the state roads were then in as good con- dition as to-day. Well, then you started from the castle at half-past five in the morning; but you reached there at half- past eleven the preceding night. . . . You spent six entire hours in the castle. . . . Then, another point they all speak of the count, the '* benefactor of us all," as the " old count." . . . When he died five years ago he was, of course, an old count an old man of seventy. . . . But thirty- five years ago he was a young count of thirty years of age. [The Grandmother stares blindly at The Disagreeable Young Man. A larmed over Grandma's fright, he rises. He would very much like to make up to her, but he lacks words. The Grandmother rises. She is trembling. With a shaking hand she is nervously setting her dress to rights. Twice she turns to the young man to speak to him, but is unable to utter a word. Then she turns; she is about to return into the house, but remains near the doorstep. Again she turns; then she is about to go in, but turns again and remains standing.] THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN [fright- ened]. Grandma, you gave me your word that you would not be angry. GRANDMOTHER [she stumbles forward a few steps. She is disturbed, shivering, beside herself, complaining, almost sob- bing]. You are an evil child! You are a bad, bad and evil child! For fifty years I have told the same story . . . always the same, same way . . . and that it hap- pened differently never, never even came into my mind. [Curtain.] THE RIGHTS OF THE SOUL A PLAY BY GIUSEPPE GIACOSA TRANSLATED BY THEODORA MAHCONE. Copyright, 1920, by Stewart & Kidd Company. All rights reserved. CHARACTERS PAOLO. MARIO. ANHA. MADDALENA. PLACE: A villa at Brianza. TIME: The Present. Applications for the right of performing THE RIGHTS OF THE SOUL must be made to Frank Shay, who may be addressed in care of Stewart & Kidd Company. THE RIGHTS OF THE SOUL ONE ACT [SCENE: A living-room well furnished in an old fashioned style but not shabbily. An open fire-place which is practical. A sofa. A writing desk. A closet at the back. Door leading into Anna's room at the left. Window at the right. Paolo discovered seated at the writing desk upon which there is a confusion of papers.] [Servant Maddalena enters.} PAOLA. Well, has he returned yet? MADDALENA. Not yet. PAOLO. He has taken a lot of time ! MADDALENA. I have been to look for him at the post-office cafe". PAOLO. I told you to look in his room or in the garden. Was it necessary to run all over the country? MADDALENA. Well, he wasn't there. I thought he wasn't at the cafe either, but they told me where he was. He'll be back shortly. He went to the station at Poggio to meet the engineer of the water- works. The tax collector saw him walk- ing in that direction. He always walks. But he will return by the stage for the engineer's sake. The stage should be here at any moment. It is sure though but are you listening? PAOLO. No, you may go. MADDALENA. Yes, sir. But it is sure that if the engineer of the water-works really has arrived, your brother will not go away to-morrow. You and the Ma- dame intend leaving to-morrow, don't you? PAOLO. Yes, no. I don't know yes, we will go to-morrow. Leave me alone. MADDALENA. All right, but see if I'm wrong; I say that your brother will not go to-morrow, nor the day after to-mor- row. Here he is. MARIO. Were you looking for me? PAOLO. Yes, for the last hour. BY GIUSEPPE GIACOSA MADDALENA. Mr. Paolo here asked me PAOLO. I did not ask you anything. Go away. [He takes her by the arm and pushes her out.] MARIO. What has happened? PAOLO. She is . insufferable. She isn't listening at the door, is she? MARIO. No, be calm. I hear her in the garden. What has happened. You look worried. PAOLO. [After a pause.] Do you know why Luciano killed himself? MARIO. No. PAOLO. He killed himself for love. For the love of Anna. I have the proofs they are there. I just found it out to-day, a moment ago. He has killed himself for the love of my wife. You and I were his relatives; he was a com- panion of my youth, my dearest friend. He tried to force her to love him. Anna repulsed him. He insisted; Anna re- sponded firmly. Highly strung as he was, he killed himself. MARIO. How did you find out? PAOLO. I have the proofs, I tell you. I have been reading them for an hour. I am still stunned ! They have been there for a month. You know that as soon as I received the telegram in Milan which announced his suicide in London, I ran to Luciano's room and gathered all his papers, made a packet of them, sealed it and brought them here. MARIO. I told you to burn them. PAOLO. I wanted to in fact, but after- ward I thought it better to await until the authorities of the hospital, to whom he left the estate, had verified the ac- counts. The Syndic came here an hour ago, at the order of the sub-Prefect, to give me the wallet which was found on the body and which our Consul at London had sent to the Minister of Foreign Af- 203 204 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS fairs. I was just putting them away into the desk, when I felt the desire, I don t know why, to look for the reason of his suicide which no one seemed able to ex- plain. [Mario starts.] You know? You suspect the reason? MARIO. I suspected PAOLO. Suspected! You knew of this love? MARIO. There, there I will tell you, don't excite yourself! PAOLO. No answer me! You knew? MARIO. I felt it yes, that Luciano had lost his head. PAOLO. And you never told me any- thing? MARIO. What had I to tell you? Seen by others these things appear greater and more offensive than they are. And then I might have been wrong; I only see you and Anna during your short visits to the country. If you, who are with her all the year, did not see anything On the other hand, Anna was always on her guard, she knew perfectly how to defend herself. PAOLO. Oh, Anna ! Anna is a saint ! I have always thought of her as one. But now MARIO. Go on tell me. PAOLO. In the wallet I found a letter and noticed it was in Anna's hand- writing. MARIO. It was perfectly natural that your wife should write to our cousin. PAOLO. Naturally. In fact I have read it. Here it is. [Mario starts to take the letter.] No, listen. [Paolo reads.] "You write me " [Speak- ing.] There is no heading. [Reads.] " You write me that if I do not respond you will return immediately. I love my husband, that is my reply. This and only this forever. I beg you not to torment me. Anna." MARIO. Of course. PAOLO. The scoundrel. MARIO. What date is that letter? PAOLO. Luciano himself has noted the hour and date when he received it. He has written here in pencil: " Received to-day, June 26th, 11 A.M." He killed himself before noon. MARIO. Poor devil! One can see it was a stroke of insanity; the writing demonstrates that. PAOLO. You understand of course, that I did not stop there. I opened the wallet. I found four other letters from Anna all on the same subject and in the same tone. The first is of three years ago. There are few words; returning a letter Luciano had written. I looked for this letter of Luciano it is not here. He must have destroyed it. He kept only hers. Then there is a little note from Rome; you know Anna visited her mother in Rome for a month last winter. It is evident that our friend followed her. Anna would not see him. Then there is a long one which must have been written when he was recovering from that fall he had from his horse. It is the only long one among the five written in af- fectionate terms, reasoning and begging; a wonderful letter, good, noble; read read. MARIO [turning away]. No, no, no. PAOLO. Listen, just a moment. MARIO. I don't like to. PAOLO. She does nothing but speak of me, of our brotherly youth. She also speaks of you. She says MARIO. No, I beg of you. It is use- less. I know what kind of a woman my sister-in-law is and I do not need proofs of her virtue. Why do you bother with those poor letters? Is it so painful that you have found them? PAOLO. Painful? It is painful that I am not able to weep for a false relative who wished to rob MARIO. Let him alone. He is dead and he has not robbed you of anything. If he had lived he would not have robbed you of anything, the same. Anna knew how PAOLO. And this? And this? You count as little? Is this painful? I never had the shadow of a doube about Anna, but nor has the thought even passed through my mind but it is different not to have doubted and not to have thought, than to possess the palpable proof of her faith and love. " I love my husband." It is the refrain of all her letters. MARIO. Was it necessary that she tell you this? PAOLO. She did not tell it to me, she told it to him. She told it to him do you understand? Luciano had all the qualities which attract a woman. He was younger, better looking than I, well spoken, full of fire and courage. THE RIGHTS OF THE SOUL 205 MARIO. How it pleases you, eh? To praise him now ! PAOLO. Painful? If I had burned, as you wished, those papers and then one day I should have discovered this love, who could then have lifted this suspicion from my mind? MARIO. The certainty makes you sus- picious ! PAOI.O. What do you mean? MARIO. If you had feared this a year ago, that which has happened would not have occurred. I was wrong not to have opened your eyes. A long way off, per- haps Luciano would not have killed him- self. PAOLO. But I would have lacked the proof. MARIO. Your tranquility costs much to the others. PAOLO. You can't pretend that I should feel badly about the fate of Lu- ciano? MARIO. I am not speaking of him. PAOLO. Of whom? MARIO. Of your wife. Think what she must be suffering! PAOLO. Do you think she blames her- self? MARIO. Of course. PAOLO. I have noticed that she was distressed but not agitated. MARIO. You do not see the continuous things, you only see the unexpected. Besides, Anna is mistress of herself. PAOLO. And she has done her duty. MARIO. It is a long time that she has done her duty. PAOLO. I shall know how to comfort her, there, I shall know how to cheer her. You shall see, Mario. I feel that we have returned to the first days of our marriage, that I possess her only from to-day. MARIO. Leave it to time. You have read you have known. It is enough. It is useless that Anna knows you know. PAOLO. She was here when the Syndic gave me the wallet. But she went out immediately. MARIO. She does not know, then, that you have read? PAOLO. She will have imagined it. MARIO. No. And in any case she would be grateful if you pretended to ignore. . . . PAOLO. Let us be frank. Don't let's argue. Nothing is more dreadful than to plan out a line of conduct in these matters. What she has done, Anna has done for me. I must think how to re- pay her. She has done this for me, for me, do you understand? MARIO. And who says the contrary? See how you excite yourself. PAOLO. Excite myself! Certainly, I will not go and say: "I have read your letters and I thank you very much ! " One understands that when I spe.-.k of comforting her and of cheering her I in- tend to do it with the utmost tenderness, with the utmost confidence. I have al- ways been like that. That was why she loved me. There is no need to change even to please you. MARIO. How you take it! PAOLO. It is you who take it badly. You have not said a just word to me. I thought better of you. One would say, to hear you, that this discovery was a disgrace. What has happened new from this discovery? Luciano is dead a month ago, the first grief is passed. If I did continue to ignore everything he would not return to life ! He did not arrive to do me the harm he wanted to; so peace be to his soul. There remains the cer- tainty of my wife's love and for this, think as you wish, I rejoice for the best fortune which could befall me. MARIO. Come here. [He places an arm aroud Paolo's shoulders.] Are you persuaded that I love you? PAOLO. Yes. MARIO. Well then, if you are content, so am I. Is it all right? PAOLO. Yes. Now go and pack your bag. MARIO. Ah, that reminds me, I cannot go to-morrow. PAOLO. No ! MARIO. The engineer Falchi has ar- rived. The day after to-morrow there is the meeting of the water-company. PAOLO. Send it to the devil. MARIO. I cannot, I am the president. PAOLO. It was arranged that we were to leave to-day. W T e put it off on your account. MARIO. How could it be helped? I had to sell the hay. It is now a question of three days, four at the most. PAOLO. Suppose Anna and I go mean- while? The rent of the chalet started 2o6 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS fifteen days ago. You can join us as soon as you are free. MARIO. If you think so PAOLO. I'll tell you. The day after to-morrow is Anna's birthday. Until the business kept me in Milan all of July, we always passed that day together just Anna and I. We did not do this on purpose, but things turned out so. Last year I was able to be free early in July and we came here to stay until Sep- tember. Well, three days before her birthday, Anna begged me to take her for a trip to Switzerland. She did not tell me, you understand, the reason for her desire, but insisted upon leaving im- mediately. We went to Interlaken and from there we went up to Murren. The day of Saint Anna we were at Murren. The place was so lovely, Anna liked it so much, that then and there I arranged for a chalet for this year. Fifteen days ago you who never go anywhere, proposed to accompany us MABIO. Did you find it indiscreet of me? PAOLO. No. You saw that Anna was pleased. She is very fond of you. MARIO. I know. PAOLO. When you had to postpone your leaving it was the same as to pro- 'pose that we wait for you. But the first delay would still have allowed us to ar- rive in time; this second one will not and I, for my part, now especially desire to be there at the date arranged. It is childish if you wish MARIO. No. All right. I will join you there. PAOLO. We postponed leaving until to- morrow to await you; but now that you cannot come immediately we could leave this evening. [Jumping up.] I must go to get out of here. Those letters MARIO. Burn them. Give them to me. PAOLO. Ah, no. Not yet. MARIO. Go. Go to-night; it is better. But will Anna be ready? ANNA. [Who has entered.] To do what? MARIO. I was telling Paolo that I could not leave to-morrow; nor for three or four days. It is useless that you two remain here in the heat to wait for me. Paolo must be back in Milan at the be- ginning of September; every day short- ens his vacation. I am old enough to travel alone; as soon as I am free I will join you. What do you say? ANNA. As you wish. MARIO. I also desire to thoroughly clean the house and garden. Your pres- ence would disturb me, and mine is nec- essary. PAOLO. And as Mario cannot accom- pany us, we may as well leave this eve- ning. ANNA. So soon? PAOLO. Your luggage is almost fin- ished. MARIO. You will gain a day. At this season of the year it is better to travel by night than by day. It is full moon now and the Gottard road is charming. ANNA [distractedly]. Yes. Yes. MARIO [to Paolo], Then you had bet- ter go immediately to the stable in the piazza and tell them to hold a carriage in readiness. At what time does the train leave from Poggio? PAOLO. At seven-thirty. MARIO. Tell him to be here at six. I would send Battista to order it, but the engineer has taken him with him. On the other hand, it is better that you see the carriage, they have some antediluvian arks! PAOLO. And why don't you go? He knows you and you know his arsenal you could choose better. MARIO. You are right. Anna, I will send Maddalena to help you with your luggage? ANNA. Yes, thank you, Mario. Send Maddalena to help me. MABIO [going off]. And dinner is at five. PAOLO. Yes. [Mario exits. Silence. Anna takes a few steps toward the desk. Paolo goes impetuously to Anna and takes her in his arms and kisses her. She breaks away violently.] ANNA. Oh horrors! [The words escape from her lips involuntarily.] PAOLO [drawing back], Anna! ANNA. There was one of my letters In that wallet, wasn't there? PAOLO. Yes, there was. ANNA. You have read it? PAOLO. Yes. ANNA. I have killed a man and you embrace me for that? PAOLO. I did not want to. I was THE RIGHTS OF THE SOUL 207 tempted not to tell you. Mario advised me not to. Then when I saw you you filled me with tenderness ! But what did you say, Anna? ANNA. Pardon me. And promise me that you will never speak of all this again, either here or hereafter, directly or indirectly never. PAOLO. I promise. ANNA. You will not keep your prom- ise. PAOLO. Oh ! ANNA. You will not keep it. I know you. What a misfortune that you should have known it! I saw it in your eyes when I came in, that you knew. I had hoped that you would always have ignored it. I prayed so. But as soon as I en- tered I saw immediately. [With imper- ceptible accent of mocking pity.] You had a modest and embarrassed air. I know you so well. Do you want to hear how well? When Mario proposed you go for the carriage, I thought he will not go. When you sent him instead, I smiled. PAOI.O. I noticed it, but I did not un- derstand. PAOLO. That's nothing. That you should read me is natural. ANNA. In exchange, eh? And listen when Mario was leaving, I also thought now the minute we are alone he will come to me and embrace me. PAOLO. You imagine very well. . . . ANNA. This was also natural, wasn't it? PAOLO. I love you so much, Anna. [A long pause.] It is strange that in your presence I have a sense of restraint. I tell you something and immediately I think should I tell her? Was it better I kept silent? It is the first time I have had this feeling toward you. We both need distraction. ANNA. Yes, but to-day I do not leave. PAOLO. No? But you said ANNA. I have thought better. There is not the time to get ready. PAOLO. Your luggage is ready. ANNA. Oh, there is a lot to do. PAOLO. W T e have eight hours yet. ANNA. I am tired. PAOLO. Mario has just gone to order the carriage. ANNA. It can be for another day. PAOLO. Perhaps to-morrow ANNA. Not to-day, certainly. PAOLO. I do not know how to tell Mario. It looks like a whim. 'ANNA. Oh, Mario will understand. PAOLO. More than I do. ANNA. I did not wish to say PAOLO. Anna, you do not pardon me for having read those letters. ANNA. You see, you have already be- gun to speak of them again ! Well, no, no, no, poor Paolo, it is not that. I have nothing to pardon. Believe me. I feel no wrath or bitterness. I would have given, I don't know what, if you had ignored them; for you, for your own good, for your peace, not for me. But I felt that some time or other [Pause.] It has been a useless tragedy you will see. PAOLO. What do you mean? ANNA. I don't know, don't mind me excuse me [Moves up.] PAOLO. Are you going? ANNA. Yes. PAOLO. So you won't tell me if we go to-niorrow? ANNA. We have time to decide. PAOLO. Oh, rather. [Anna exits. Silence.] A useless tragedy ! [Sits with his elbows upon his knees and his head in his hands.] MARIO [coming in]. There, that is done. And Anna? PAOLO. She's there. [Points off.] MARIO. Maddalena will be here imme- diately, she was still at the wash-house. Well? Come, come, shake yourself, throw off that fixed idea. One knows that at the first opportunity You do well to leave immediately, the trip will distract you. PAOLO. We do not go. MARIO. What? PAOLO. Anna does not want to. MARIO. Why? PAOLO [shrugs his shoulders], MARIO. She said so? PAOLO. She understood, she asked me. ... I could not deny it. MARIO. She asked of her own accord, without you spying anything? PAOLO. Do me the favor of not judg- ing me now. If you knew what I am thinking ! MARIO. Do you wish that I speak to her? I am convinced that to remain here is the worse thing to do. PAOLO. Try it. Who knows? You 208 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS understand her so well! She said so her- self. MARIO. And you promise me not to worry meanwhile? PAOLO. What is the use of promising? I wouldn't keep it. She said that also. She knows me. Don't you know me? MAHIO. Is she in her room? PAOLO. I think so. MARIO. Leave it to me. PAOLO. Look out. If no, no, go go_ we shall see afterwards. [Mario exits. Paolo takes a letter from the wal- let, reads it attentively, accentuating the words.] "You write me that if I do not respond you will return immediately." [Speaks.] You write me! Where is that letter? [Reads.] "I love my husband, that is my response. This and only this forever. I beg you not to torment me." [Speaks.] 1 beg you not to torment me. Ummm! MADDALENA. Here I am. PAOLO. I do not want you. It is not necessary now. If I need you I will call you. MADDALEXA. Excuse me, Mr. Paolo, is it true what they say in the village? PAOLO. What? MADDALEXA. That the Syndic brought the wallet of Mr. Luciano this morning with a lot of money in it for the poor! PAOLO. Why no. MADDALEXA. The servant of the Syn- dic said so just now at the wash-house. PAOLO. There was nothing in it, the Syndic also knows that. MADDALEXA. Oh, it would not have been a surprise. Mr. Luciano came here rarely, but when he did he spent. PAOLO. I am glad to hear it. MADDALEXA, Last year, to Liberata, the widow of the miner who went to Amer- ica to join his son and to whom you gave fifty lire, well, Mr. Luciano gave her a hundred. PAOLO. What a story! He wasn't even here at that time. MADDALENA. Wasn't even here? I saw him PAOLO. Nonsense. That woman re- ceived word that her husband was killed in the mine and that the son wanted her to come to America, the day I left for Switzerland, a year ago yesterday or to- day; I remember it because I gave her a little money in gold which I had been able to procure. She was to leave two days later. . . . MADDALENA. There you are. PAOLO. There you are nothing. Luci- ano was not there. I know. MADDALEXA. He arrived the day Lib- erata started on the trip. PAOLO. Oh, two days after we left. MADDALEXA. Yes it was. He arrived in the morning. PAOLO. At his villa. MADDALEXA. No, no, here; but he found only Mr. Mario; he was annoyed, poor man, and left immediately. PAOLO. Ah, I did not know that. . . . Then you are right. Ah, so he came? You are right. Oh, he was generous ! He left all to the hospital. MADDALEXA. Yes, yes. But what hos- pital? MARIO [off stage calls]. Maddalena! MADDALEXA. Here I am. MARIO [entering]. Go to Madame, she needs you. [Maddalena exits.] [To Paolo.] I have persuaded her. PAOLO. How fortunate to have a good lawyer. MARIO. And as you see, it did not take long. PAOLO. Want to bet I know how you convinced her? MARIO. Oh, it was very easy I said PAOLO. No, let me tell you. I want my little triumph. You gave up the business which held you here and decided to leave with us. MARIO. Even that. PAOLO. Eh? Didn't I know it? When you went away I was just about to tell you and then I wanted to wait and see. So now Anna is disposed to go? MARIO. Are you sorry? PAOLO. I should say not! All the more as we are are we not going to amuse ourselves? The place, the trip, the hotels, yes, it is better. But the company ! To run away there should be few of us. MARIO. W T hat are you saying? PAOLO [putting his two hands on Mario's shoulders and facing him.] To run away do you understand? We must be a few. To run away as Anna and I did last year. MARIO. I do not understand. PAOLO, You did not tell me that Luci- THE RIGHTS OF THE SOUL 209 ano had been here last year, nor the day that he was here. MARIO. I don't know. I do not re- member. . . . PAOLO. There you are there there I knew it ! And you knew that Anna went away from here to avoid him. And I went with her all unconscious. You saw the husband take a train and run away before the other could arrive! MABIO. And if it is true. It does not tell you more or less than the letters did. PAOLO. No, a little more. Everything tells a little more. One grain of sand piles up upon another, then another until it makes the mill-stone which crushes you. It tells a little more. It is one thing to keep away and another to run away. One can keep away a trouble without begging it to keep its distance. But one runs away for fear. MARIO. Uh-h ! PAOLO. And look here look look, let us examine the case. Let us see. It is improbable that he wrote her he was coming. It is sure he did not or she would have responded: "You write me that you are coming. ... I love mv hus- band I beg you to remain away. ' MARIO. Oh ! PAOLO. So she, foreseeing his inten- tions, felt that he would come ... by that divination. . . . MARIO. You are the first husband to get angry because a wife did her duty. PAOLO. Uhm ! Duty the ugly word ! MARIO. If there ever was a virtuous woman ! PAOLO. Woman or wife? MARIO. It is the same. PAOLO. No, no. A woman is for all; a wife for myself alone. Do you believe one marries a woman because she is virtu- ous? Never! I marry her because I love her and because I believe she loves me. There are a thousand virtuous women, there is one that I love, one alone who loves me ... if there is one. . . . MARIO. Paolo! PAOLO. And if she loved him? Tell me and if she loved him? And if she repulsed him for virtue's sake, for duty's sake? Tell me. What remains for me? If he was alive I could fight, I might win out. But he is dead and has killed him- self for love of her. If she loved him no force can tear him from her heart. MARIO. You think ? PAOLO. I do not know. It is that I do not know. And I want to I want to hear her shout it to my face. And she shall tell me. . . . Oh, I had the feeling the minute I had read the first letter. I did not then understand anything, indeed, I believed; "I love my husband." But I immediately felt a blow here and it hurt me so ! And I did not know what it was. Oh, before some fears assume shape, it takes time. First they gnaw, they gnaw and one does not know what they are. I was content. ... I told you I was content, I wanted to pursuade my- self, but you have seen that fear gnaws at my heart. And if she loved him? Oh, surely ! The more admirable eh? All the world would admire her. I, myself, would admire her upon my knees if she were the wife of another. But she is mine. I am not the judge of my wife. I am too intimately concerned, I cannot judge, I am the owner she is mine a thing of mine own. I must admire her because, while she could have cheated me altogether, she has only cheated me a little. I see that which she has robbed me of, not that which remains. MARIO. You are crazy ! PAOLO. Do you not see that I am odious to her? MARIO. Oh, God ! PAOLO. Odious ! You were not here a moment ago. Don't you see that it is necessary that she have your help in order to support my presence? MARIO. To-day. Because she knows that you have read did I not tell you? Because it is embarrassing. PAOLO. Not only to-day. You never move from this place. For fifteen years that you have played at being a farmer, you have not been away for a week. And fifteen days ago you suddenly decided to make a tour of the world. She begged you to. MARIO. I swear PAOLO. I do not believe you. Anna shall have to tell me. [Paolo starts to exit.] MARIO. What are you doing? PAOLO. I am going to ask her. MARIO. No, Paolo. PAOLO. Let me go. MARIO. No. Maddalena is also there. 2IO FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS PAOLO. Oh, as far as that's concerned [Calls.] Anna Anna! MARIO. You are very ungrateful. PAOLO. If she loved me it did not come hard for her to repulse him. If she loved him, I owe her no gratitude. ANNA [entering]. Did you call me? [Mario starts to exit.] PAOLO. No, no. Remain. Yes, Anna. I wanted to ask you something. What- ever you say, I shall believe you. ANNA. Of that I am certain. PAOLO. Was it you who begged Mario to come with us? Not to-day I don't mean. ANNA. Neither to-day nor before. MARIO. You see! ANNA. I did not beg him nor did I propose it to him. But I must say that if Mario had not come I would not have gone either. PAOLO. To-day. But fifteen days ago? MARIO. Listen, this is ridiculous. ANNA. It is natural that Paolo desires to know and he has the right to question me. PAOLO. I do not wish to impose my rights. ANNA. There you are wrong. We must value our own and respect those of the others. Fifteen days ago I would have gone with you alone. MARIO. Oh, blessed God! PAOLO. You were afraid that she would say no? ANNA. But his consent to accompany us greatly relieved me. PAOLO. Which is to say that my company would have weighed upon you. ANNA. Not weighed. It would have annoyed me. PAOLO. May one ask why? ANNA. You may as well. Because I was shadowed by an unhappiness which you ignored at the time, whereas now you know the reasons. Knowing them, you will understand that I must be very worried, but for the sake of your peace I must hide my unhappiness, seeing that I had nothing to reproach myself with in relation to you. You understand that for two to be together, always together, it would be more difficult to pretend all the time all the time ! While the pres- ence of a third person MARIO. But listen listen ANNA. Mario had the good idea to ac- company us. PAOLO. Mario, who knew him! ANNA. I ignore that. PAOLO. Did he ever speak of it? MARIO. Do not reply, Anna, do not answer, come away he is ill, he does not reason poor devil it will pass and he will understand then ANNA. No, it is useless. PAOLO. A useless tragedy, isn't it, Anna? ANNA. Do you require anything more of me? PAOLO [imperiously]. Yes. I want the letters which you wrote to Luciano. ANNA. That is just. I will go and get them. [Exits.] PAOLO. All ! [Anna returns and hands Paolo a key.] ANNA. They're in my desk, in the first drawer at the right. They are tied with a black ribbon. PAOLO. Very well. [Exits.] MARIO. Pardon him, Anna, he does not know what he is doing. He loves you so much? He is rather weak. ANNA. Oh, without pity! MARIO. As are the weak. He loves you he loves you. ANNA. Worse for him that he loves me. He will lose. MARIO. No, it is for you to help him. ANNA. As long as I can. [Paolo returns with the letters in his hand, goes to the dc.sk and takes out the others, throws them all into the fire-place and lights them.} MARIO. What are you doing? Look, Anna ! [Anna stands rigid, erect and watches the letters burn, and murmurs as though to herself.] ANNA. Gone! Gone! Gone! [Paolo comes to Anna imth hands clinched as though in prayer, bursts into tears and kneels before her. Mario goes off half in contempt and half in despair.] PAOLO [on his knees]. And now can you pardon me? [Anna reluctantly rests a hand upon his head, then indulgently and dis- couragingly .] ANNA. Rise rise. PAOLO. Tell me that you pardon me. THE RIGHTS OF THE SOUL 211 I swear that I want to die here and now. ANNA. Yes, yes. Arise; do not re- main so. It hurts me. PAOLO [getting vp]. I do not know what got into my head but I have suf- fered a great deal. ANNA. Yes, I see. Yes . . . calm yourself. PAOLO. Mario has no tact ... it was he who irritated me from the first. [Anna starts to go.] Do not go. Stay here a moment. [Anna sits upon the sofa.] You see the stroke of madness has passed. It was only because Mario was here. Mario is good, judicious, but his presence irritated me. Yes, yes, you were right. But you should also understand the state of my mind. [He walks up and down.] After all, what does all this disturbance mean? It means that I love you and it seems to me that is the essential thing! One must consider the source of things. It is five years that we are husband and wife and you cannot say I have ever given you the slightest reason for regret. I do not believe so. Five years are five years. I have worked up to a good posi- tion, you have always figured in society; a pastime which I would never have en- joyed alone. I had friends, the club, the other husbands after the first year of marriage, in the evenings, I renounced everything. I do not wish to praise my- self, but ANNA. Please don't walk up and down so much! PAOLO. Excuse me. Will you allow me to sit here next to you? [Long silence.] When shall I see you smile, Anna? No, do not get up. Then it is not true that you have pardoned me! ANNA. What do you wish, Paolo? What do you wish of me? Say it quickly ! PAOLO. You made me promise never to speak of it. ANNA. Oh, but I said that you would break your promise immediately. You are wrong though, believe me. Do not ask me anything. When there is no more danger I promise you, and I will keep my promise. I promise that I will tell you everything without your asking me. And it will be good for both of us. But I wish to choose the moment. PAOLO. All right then. Do not tell me anything, but come away with me, with me alone. I will attend to Mario. He was coming to please you and he will be much happier to see us leave together, as a sign of peace. I understand that it is repulsive to you to re-awaken those mem- ories; all right, instead of awakening them I will make you forget them I swear it I swear that I will never speak of them again, but come away with me and you shall see how much love . . . ANNA. Do not insist, Paolo. If you insist I shall come but PAOLO. No, no, I do not insist. You see me here begging, I do not want you by force. But listen once more, listen. I am grateful, you must understand, for that which you have done. Oh, I shall recompense you for it all my life. I real- ize there is not a more saintly woman in all the world, but you must enter into my soul and feel a little pity also for me. ANNA. Ah, ah! [Laughs bitterly.] PAOLO. Why do you prolong this tor- ment? You said when there is no more danger! What danger is there? Upon whom depends this danger from you or from me? What can time change for us? I have always loved you, I love you now, and in this moment I love you as I have never loved you ! Give me your hand only your hand. God, Anna! You are beautiful ! And you are my wife you are my wife and the oath which you took when we were married, is not only one of faithfulness, but of love. Come away come away. ANNA. No, no, no. PAOLO. No? Are you afraid? Afraid of being unfaithful to him? ANNA. Paolo Paolo! PAOLO. And if I wish it? ANNA. You cannot wish it. PAOLO. And if I want? ANNA. Paolo! PAOLO. And if I command? ANNA. You will, in one moment, de- stroy all my plan. Think your violence is a liberation for me. PAOLO. Oh, come or speak ! ANNA. Do you wish it so? We have come to that? I have done all that I could. PAOLO. Yes, go on. Speak! ANNA. I loved Luciano and I love him still. PAOLO. Oh ! ANNA. I loved him. I loved him do you hear? I loved him and I feel an 212 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS immense joy to say it here and you did not see that I was dying to say it and when I saw you nearly stifling me with your ferocious curiosity, I said to my- self: "It will -out it will out" . . . And it has come. I loved him, I love him and I have never loved any one in the world but him and I feel only remorse for my virtue. Now do you know? PAOLO. Very well! [Starts to go.} ANNA. Ah, no. Remain here now you hear me. You wished that I speak, now I do. ... It is I now who command you to stay. You must understand very well that after a scene such as this, every- thing is finished between us, so I must tell you everything. I listened to you and will listen to you again if you wish, but you also must listen to me. What have you ever done for me? What help have you given me? Have you known how to see when it was right that you should see? Have you known even how to suspect? Was it necessary that a man die. . . . Not even that ! When you were not suf- fering, as you are suffering now, did you know how to see the way I suffered? You thought that my sorrow was for a dead relative ! You did not understand that I was crazed; you slept next to me and yet you did not realize that the first few nights I bit the covers so as not to cry out. In a moment you realize all the facts. And what are these facts? That I, your wife for many years, have de- fended your peace in silence. I have ful- filled that which people call my duty. Then your curiosity is awakened and to make up for lost time you wish to violate my soul and penetrate down to its very depths. Ah Paolo, no, no; one cannot do this. No, it will not help to know everything. One does not enter into the soul by the front door; one enters by stealth. You have tried to force an en- trance; now you see there is nothing more inside for you. PAOLO. No? You think you are right, eh? You are right it is true I admit that you are right. So I have never had your love, eh? You have said so; that I never had your love! Then what? You are right. Still do you know what I shall do? I throw you out of my house ! ANNA [happily], I go, I go, I go and I shall never come back ! And do not beg me and do not come after me. I have no more strength to have pity, when I say good-by, I shall be as dead to you ! [Runs off into her room. Paolo stunned, stares after her awaiting for her return. Anna returns with her hat and cloak, crosses to exit.] PAOLO. No, Anna, no, no, no. Anna, no. For pity's sake wait ! We are both mad. What will become of us? I need you. [Paolo tries to get in her way to stop her.} Do not go. I do not want you to remain here. I was crazy do not go, you will see that for all my life [Anna tries to break away.] No, for pity's sake if you go if you break from me if you speak I feel that this will be the end of everything! Remain! Remain, Anna ! [She breaks away.} ANNA. Good-by ! [Exits.] [Curtain.] LOVE OF ONE'S NEIGHBOR A COMEDY BY LEONID ANDREYEV TRANSLATED BY THOMAS SELTZEK. Copyright, 1914, by Albert and Charles Boni. Reprinted from " The Plays of the Washington Square Players," published by Frank Shay. The professional and amateur stage rights on this play are strictly reserved by Mr. Thomas Seltzer. Applications for permission to produce the play should be made to Mr. Seltzer, 5 West 50th St., New York City. LOVE OF ONE'S NEIGHBOR A COMEDY [SCENE: A wild place in the moun- tains. A man in an attitude of despair is standing on a tiny projection of a rock that rises almost sheer from the ground. How he g-ot there it is not easy to say, but he cannot be reached either from above or below. Short ladders, ropes and sticks show that attempts have been made to save the unknown person, but without success. It seems that the unhappy man has been in that desperate position a long time. A considerable crowd has already collected, extremely varied in composi- tion. There are venders of cold drinks; there is a whole little bar behind which the bartender skips about out of breath and perspiring he has more on his hands than he can attend to; there are peddlers selling picture postal cards, coral beads, souvenirs, and all sorts of trash. One fellow is stubbornly trying to dispose of a tortoise-shell comb, which is really not tortoise-shell. Tourists keep pouring in from all sides, attracted bti the report that a catastrophe is impend- ing Englishmen, Americans, Germans, Russians, Frenchmen, Italians, etc., with all their peculiar national traits of char- acter, manner and dress. Nearly all carry alpenstocks, field-glasses and cam- eras. The conversation is in different languages, all of which, for the conven- ience of the reader, we shall translate into English. At the foot of the rock where the un- known man is to fall, two policemen are chasing the children away and partition- ing off a space, drawing a rope around short stakes stuck in the ground. It is noisy and jolly.] POLICEMAN. Get away, you loafer ! The man'Il fall on your head and then your mother and father will be making a hullabaloo about it. BY LEONID ANDREYEV BOY. Will he fall here? POLICEMAN. Yes, here. BOY. Suppose he drops farther? SECOND POLICEMAN. The boy is right. He may get desperate and jump, land beyond the rope and hit some people in the crowd. I guess he weighs at least about two hundred pounds. FIRST POLICEMAN. Move on, move on, you! Where are you going? Is that your daughter, lady? Please take her away ! The young man will soon fall. LADY. Soon? Did you say he is going to fall soon? Oh, heavens, and my hus- band's not here ! LITTLE GIRL. He's in the cafe, mamma. LADY [desperately]. Yes, of course. He's always in the cafe. Go call him, Nellie. Tell him the man will soon drop. Hurry ! Hurry ! VOICES. Waiter ! Garcon Kellner Three beers out here ! No beer ? What? Say, that's a fine bar We'll have some in a moment Hurry up Waiter ! Waiter ! Garcon ! FIRST POLICEMAN. Say, boy, you're here again? BOY. I wanted to take the stone away. POLICEMAN. What for? BOY. So he shouldn't get hurt so badly when he falls. SECOND POLICEMAN. The boy is right. We ought to remove the stone. We ought to clear the place altogether. Isn't there any sawdust or sand about? [Two English tourists enter. They look at the unknown man through field-glasses and exchange re- marks.] FIRST TOURIST. He's young. SECOND TOURIST. How old? FIRST TOURIST. Twenty-eight. SECOND TOURIST. Twenty-six. Fright has made him look older. FIRST TOURIST. How much will you bet? 215 2l6 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS SECOND TOURIST. Ten to a hundred. Put it down. FIRST TOURIST [writing tn hit note- book. To the policeman}. How did he get up there? Why don't they take him off? POLICEMAN. They tried, but they couldn't. Our ladders are too short. SECOND TOURIST. Has he been here long? POLICEMAN. Two days. FIRST TOURIST. Aha! He'll drop at night. SECOND TOURIST. In two hours. A hundred to a hundred. FIRST TOURIST. Put it down. [He shouts to the man on the rock.] How are you feeling? What? I can't hear you. UNKNOWN MAN [in a scarcely audible voice]. Bad, very bad. LADY. Oh, heavens, and my husband is not here! LITTLE GIRL [running in]. Papa said he'll get here in plenty of time. He's playing chess. LADY. Oh, heavens! Nellie, tell him he must come. I insist. But perhaps I had rather Will he fall soon, Mr. Po- liceman? No? Nellie, you go. I'll stay here and keep the place for papa. [A tall, lanky woman of unusually in- dependent and military appearance and a tourist dispute for the same place. The tourist, a short, quiet, rather weak man, feebly defends his rights; the woman is resolute and aggressive.} TOURIST. But, lady, it is my place. I have been standing here for two hours. MILITARY WOMAN. What do I care how long you have been standing here. I want this place. Do you understand? It offers a good view, and that's just what I want. Do you understand? TOURIST [weakly]. It's what I want, too. MILITARY WOMAN. I beg your pardon, what do you know about these things anyway ? TOURIST. What knowledge is required? A man will fall. That's all. MILITARY WOMAN [mimicking], "A man will fall. That's all." Won't you have the goodness to tell me whether you have ever seen a man fall? No? Well, I did. Not one, but three. Two acro- bats, one rope-walker and three aero- nauts. TOURIST. That makes six. MILITARY WOMAN [mimicking] ."That makes six." Say, you are a mathemati- cal prodigy. And did you ever see a tiger tear a woman to pieces in a zoo, right before your eyes? Eh? What? Yes, exactly. Now, I did Please! Please ! [The tourist steps aside, shrugging his shoulders with an air of injury, and the tall woman triumphantly takes possession of the stone she has won by her prowess. She nits down, spreading out around her her bag, handkerchief, peppermints, and medicine bottle, takes off her gloves and wipes her field-glass, glancing pleasantly on all around. Finally she turns to the lady who is waiting for her husband in the cafe]. MILITARY WOMAN [amiably]. You will tire yourself out, dear. Why don't you sit down? LADY. Oh, my, don't talk about it. My legs are as stiff as that rock there. MILITARY WOMAN. Men are so rude nowadays. They will never give th^ir place to a woman. Have you brought peppermints with you? LADY [frightened]. No. Why? Is it necessary? MILITARY WOMAN. When you keep looking up a long time you are bound to get sick. Sure thing. Have you spirits of ammonia? No? Good gracious, how thoughtless! How will they bring you back to consciousness when he falls? You haven't any smelling salts either, I dare say. Of course not. Have you any- body to take care of you, seeing that you are so helpless yourself? LADY [frightened]. I will tell my hus- band. He is in the cafe". MILITARY WOMAN. Your husband is a brute. POLICEMAN. Whose coat is this? Who threw this rag here? BOY. It's mine. I spread my coat there so that he doesn't hurt himself so badly when he falls. POLICEMAN. Take it away. [Two tourists armed with cameras contending for the same position.] FIRST TOURIST. I wanted this place. LOVE OF ONE'S NEIGHBOR 217 SECOND TOURIST. You wanted it, but I got it. FIRST TOURIST. You just came here. I have had this place for two days. SECOND TOURIST. Then why did you go without even leaving your shadow? FIRST TOURIST. I wasn't going to starve myself to death. COMB -VENDER [mysteriously]. Tor- toise-shell. TOURIST [savagely}. Well? VENDOR. Genuine tortoise-shell. TOURIST. Go to the devil. THIRD TOURIST, PHOTOGRAPHER. For heaven's sake, lady, you're sitting on my camera ! LITTLE LADY. Oh! Where is it? TOURIST. Under you, under you, lady. LITTLE LADY. I am so tired. Wh:it a wretched camera you have. I thought it felt uncomfortable and I was wondering why. Now I know ; I am sitting on your camera. TOURIST [agonized}. Lady! LITTLE LADY. I thought it was a stone. I saw something lying there and I thought: A queer-looking stone; I wonder why it's so black. So that's what it was; it was your camera. I see. TOURIST. [agonized}. Lady, for heaven's sake ! LITTLE LADY. Why is it so large, tell me. Cameras are small, but this one is so large. I swear I never had the faintest suspicion it was a camera. Can you take my picture? I would so much like to have my picture taken with the mountains here for a background, in this wonderful setting. TOURIST. How can I take your picture if you are sitting on my camera? LITTLE LADY [jumping up, frightened}. Is it possible? You don't say so. Why didn't you tell me so? Does it take pic- tures? VOICES. Waiter, one beer ! What did you bring wine for? I gave you my order long ago. What will you have, sir? One minute. In a second. Waiter ! Waiter Toothpicks ! [A fat tourist enters in haste, pant- ing, surrounded by a numerous family.} TOURIST [crying}. Mary! Aleck! Jim- mie ! Where is Mary? For God's sake ! Where is Mary? STUDENT [dismally]. Here she is, papa. TOURIST. Where is she? Mary! GIRL. Here I am, papa. TOURIST. Where in the world are you? [He turns around.] Ah, there! What are you standing back of me for? Look, look ! For goodness' sake, where are you looking? GIRL [dismally]. I don't know, papa. TOURIST. No, that's impossible. Imag- ine ! She never once saw a lightning flash. She always keeps her eyes open as wide as onions, but the instant it flashes she closes them. So she never saw light- ning, not once. Mary, you are missing it again. There it is ! You see ! STUDENT. She sees, papa. TOURIST. Keep an eye on her. [Sud- denly dropping into tone of profound pity.] Ah, poor young man. Imagine! He'll fall from that high rock. Look, children, see how pale he is ! That should be a lesson to you how dangerous climb- ing is. STUDENT [dismally]. He won't fall to- day, papa! SECOND GIRL. Papa, Mary has closed her eyes again. FIRST STUDENT. Let us sit down, papa ! Upon my word, he won't fall to-day. The porter told me so. I can't stand it any more. You've been dragging us about every day from morning till night visiting art galleries. TOURIST. What's that? For whose benefit am I doing this? Do you think I enjoy spending my time with a dunce? SECOND GIRL. Papa, Mary is blinking her eyes. SECOND STUDENT. I can't stand it, either. I have terrible dreams. Yester- day I dreamed of gar?ons the whole night long. TOURIST. Jimmie. FIRST STUDENT. I have gotten so thin I am nothing but skin and bones. I can't stand it any more, father. I'd rather be a farmer, or tend pigs. TOURIST. Aleck. FIRST STUDENT. If he were really to fall but it's a fake. You believe every lie told you! They all lie. Baedeker lies, too. Yes, your Baedeker lies ! MARY [dismally]. Papa, children, he's beginning to fall. [The man on the rock shouts some- thing down into the crowd. There is general commotion. (Voices.) 2l8 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS "Look, he's falling." Field-glasses are raised; the photographers, vio- lently agitated, click their cameras; the policemen diligently clean the place where he is. to fall.] PHOTOGRAPHER. Oh, hang it ! What is the matter with me? The devil! When a man's in a hurry SECOND PHOTOGRAPHER. Brother, your camera is closed. PHOTOGRAPHER. The devil take it. VOICES. Hush! He's getting ready to fall. Xo, he's saying something. No, he's falling. Hush ! UNKNOWN MAN ON THE ROCK [faintly]. Save me! Save me! TOURIST. Ah, poor young man. Mary, Jimmie, there's a tragedy for you. The sky is clear, the weather is beautiful, and has he to fall and be shattered to death? Can you realize how dreadful that is, Aleck? STUDENT [wearily]. Yes, I can realize it. TOURIST. Mary, can you realize it? Imagine. There is the sky. There are people enjoying themselves and partaking of refreshments. Everything is so nice and pleasant, and he has to fall. What a tragedy! Do you remember Hamlet? SECOND GIRL [prompting]. Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, of Elsinore. JAMES. Of Helsingfors, I know. Don't bother me, father! MARY [dUmally], He dreamed about garcons all night long. ALECK. Why don't you order sand- wiches, father. COMB -VENDER [mysteriously]. Tor- toise-shell. Genuine tortoise-shell. TOURIST [credulously]. Stolen? VENDOR. Why, sir, the idea! TOURIST [angrily]. Do you mean to tell me it's genuine if it isn't stolen? Go on. Not much. MILITARY WOMAN [amiably]. Are all these your children? TOURIST. Yes, madam. A father's duty. You see, they are protesting. It is the eternal conflict between fathers and children. Here is such a tragedy going on, such a heart-rending tragedy Mary, you are blinking your eyes again. MILITARY WOMAN. You are quite right. Children must be hardened to things. But why do you call this a terrible trag- edy? Every roofer, when he falls, falls from a great height. But this here what is it? A hundred, two hundred feet. I saw a man fall plumb from the sky. TOURIST [overwhelmed]. You don't say? ALECK. Children, listen. Plumb from the sky. MILITARY WOMAJT. Yes, yes. I saw an aeronaut drop from the clouds and go crash upon an iron roof. TOURIST. How terrible! MILITARY WOMAN. That's what I call a tragedy. It took two hours to bring me back" to consciousness, and all that time they pumped water on me, the scoundrels. I was nearly drowned. From that day on I never step out of the door without taking spirits of ammonia with me. [Enter a strolling troop of Italian- singers and musicians: a short, fat tenor, with a reddish beard and large, watery, stupidly dreamy eyes, singing with extraordinary sweetness; a skinny humpback with a jockey cap, and a screeching bar- itone; a bass who is also a mando- linist, looking like a bandit; a girl with a violin, closing her eyes when she plays, so that only the whites are seen. They take their stand and begin to sing: " Sul mare lucica Santa Lucia, Santa Lu- cia "] MARY [dismally]. Papa, children, look. He is beginning to wave his hands. TOURIST. Is that the effect the music has upon him? MILITARY WOMAN. Quite possible. Music usually goes with such things. But that'll make him fall sooner than he should. Musicians, go away from here! Go! [A tall tourist, with up-curled mus- tache, violently gesticulating, en- ters, followed by a small group at- tracted by curiosity.] TALL TOURIST. It's scandalous. Why don't they save him? Ladies and gentle- men, you all heard him shout: "Save me." Didn't you? THE CURIOUS [in chorus]. Yes, yes, we heard him. TALL TOURIST. There you are. I dis- tinctly heard these words : " Save me ! Why don't they save me? " It's scandal- ous. Policemen, policemen! Why don't LOVE OF ONE'S NEIGHBOR 219 you save him? What are you doing there? POLICEMEN. We are cleaning up the place for him to fall. TALL TOURIST. That's a sensible thing to do, too. But why don't you save him? You ought to save him. If a man asks you to save him, it is absolutely essential to save him. Isn't it so, ladies and gen- tlemen? THE CURIOUS [in chorus]. True, abso- lutely true. It is essential to save him. TALL TOURIST [with heat]. We are not heathens, we are Christians. We should love our neighbors. When a man asks to be saved every measure which the government has at its command should be taken to save him. Policemen, have yoa taken every measure? POLICEMAX. Every one ! TALL TOURIST. Every one without ex- ception? Gentleman, every measure has been taken. Listen, young man, every measure has been taken to save you. Did you hear? UNKNOWN MAN [in a scarcely audible voice]. Save me! TALL TOURIST [excitedly]. Gentlemen, did you hear? He again asked to be saved. Policemen, did you hear? ONE OF THE CURIOUS [timidly]. It is my opinion that it is absolutely necessary to save him. TALL TOURIST. That's right. Exactly. Why, that's what I have been saying for the last two hours. Policemen, do you hear? It is scandalous. ONE OF THE CURIOUS [a little bolder]. It is my opinion that an appeal should be made to the highest authority. THE REST [in chorus]. Yes, yes, a com- plaint should be made. It is scandalous. The government ought not to leave any of its citizens in danger. We all pay taxes. He must be saved. TALL TOURIST. Didn't I say so? Of course we must put up a complaint. Young man ! Listen, young man. Do you pay taxes? What?" I can't hear. TOURIST. Jimmie, Katie, listen ! What a tragedy! Ah, the poor young man! He is soon to fall and they ask him to pay a domiciliary tax. KATE [the girl with glasses, pedantical- ly]. That can hardly be called a domicile, father. The meaning of domicile is JAMES [pinching her}. Lickspittle. MARY [wearily}. Papa, children, look! He's again beginning to fall. [There is excitement in the crowd, and again a bustling and shouting among the photographers.] TALL TOURST. We must hurry, ladies and gentlemen. He must be saved at any cost. Who's going with me? THE CURIOUS [in chorus]. We are all goiig! We are all going? TALL TOURIST. Policemen, did you hear? Come, ladies and gentlemen! [They depart, fiercely gesticulating. The cafe grows more lively. The sound of clinking beer glasses and the clatter of steins is heard, and the beginning of a loud German song. The bartender, who has for- gotten himself while talking to somebody, starts suddenly and runs off, looks up to the sky with a hopeless air and wipes the pers- piration from his face with his nap- kin. Angry calls of Waiter! Waiter!] UNKNOWN MAN [rather loudly]. Can you let me have some soda water? [The waiter is startled, looks at the sky, glances at the man on the rock, and pretending not to have heard him, walks away.] MANY VOICES. Waiter ! Beer ! WAITER. One moment, one moment! [Two drunken men come out from the cafe.] LADY. Ah, there is my husband. Come here quick. MILITARY WOMAN. A downright brute. DRUNKEN MAN [waving his hand to the unknown man]. Say, is it very bad up there? Hey? UNKNOWN MAN [rather loudly]. Yes, it's bad. I am sick and tired of it. DRUNKEN MAN. Can't you get a drink? UNKNOWN MAN. No, how can I? SECOND DRUNKEN MAN. Say, what are you talking about? How can he get a drink? The man is about to die and you tempt him and try to get him excited. Listen, up there, we have been drinking your health right along. It won't hurt you, will it? FIRST DRUNKEN MAN. Ah, go on! What are you talking about? How can it hurt him? Why, it will only do him good. It will encourage him. Listen, 22O FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS honest to God, we are very sorry for you, but don't mind us. We are going to the cafd to have another drink. Good-by. SECOND DRUNKEN MAN. Look, what a crowd. FIRST DRUNKEN MAN. Come, or hell fall and then they'll close the cafe. [Enter a new crowd of tourists, a very elegant gentleman, the chief correspondent of European news- papers at their head. He is fol- lowed by an ecstatic whisper of respect and admiration. Many leave the caff, to look at him, and even the waiter turns slightly around, glances at him quickly, smiles happily and continues on his way, spilling something from his tray.] VOICES. The correspondent! The cor- respondent ! Look ! LADY. Oh, my, and my husband is gone again ! TOURIST. JimmSe, Mary, Aleck, Katie, Charlie, look! This is the chief corre- spondent. Do you realize it? The very highest of all. "Whatever he writes goes. KATE. Mary, dear, again you are not looking. ALECK. I wish you would order some sandwiches for us. I can't stand it any longer. A human being has to eat. TOURIST [ecstatically]. What a trag- edy! Katie, dear, can you realize it? Consider how awful. The weather is so beautiful, and the chief correspondent. Take out your note-book, Jimmie. JAMES. I lost it, father. CORRESPONDENT. Where is he? VOICES [obligingly]. There, there he is. There! A little higher. Still higher! A little lower ! No, higher ! CORRESPONDENT. If you please, if you please, ladies and gentlemen, I will find him myself. Oh, yes, there he is. Hm ! What a situation! TOURIST. Won't you have a chair? CORRESPONDENT. Thank you. [Sits down.] Hm! What a situation! Very interesting. Very interesting, indeed ! [Whisks ovt his note-book; amiably to the photographers.] Have you taken any pictures yet, gentlemen? FIRST PHOTOGRAPHER. Yes, sir, cer- tainly, certainly. We have photographed the place showing the general character of the locality SECOND PHOTOGRAPHER. The tragic situation of the young man CORRESPONDENT. Ye-es, very, very in- teresting. TOURIST. Did you hear, Aleck? This smart man, the chief correspondent, says it's interesting, and you keep bothering about sandwiches. Dunce ! ALECK. May be he has had his dinner already. CORRESPONDENT. Ladies and gentlemen, I beg you to be quiet. OBLIGING VOICES. It is quieter in the cafe. CORRESPONDENT [shouts to the unknown man]. Permit me to introduce myself. I am the chief correspondent of the Euro- pean press. I have been sent here at the special request of the editors. I should like to ask you several questions con- cerning your situation. What is your name? What is your general position? How old are you? [The unknown man mumbles something.] CORRESPONDENT [a little puzzled]. I can't hear a thing. Has he been that way all the time? VOICE. Yes, it's impossible to hear a word he says. CORRESPONDENT [jotting down some- thing in his note-book]. Fine! Are you a bachelor? [The unknown man mum- bles.] CORRESPONDENT. I can't hear you. Are you married? Yes? TOURIST. He said he was a bachelor. SECOND TOURIST. No, he didn't. Of course, he's married. CORRESPONDENT [carelessly]. You think so? All right. We'll put down, married. How many children have you? Can't hear. It seems to me he said three. Hm ! Anyway, we'll put down five. TOURIST. Oh, my, what a tragedy. Five children! Imagine! MILITARY WOMAN. He is lying. CORRESPONDENT [shouting]. How did you get into this position? What? I can't hear? Louder! Repeat. What did you say? [Perplexed, to the crowd.] What did he say? The fellow has a devilishly weak voice. FIRST TOURIST. It seems to me he said that he lost his way. SECOND TOURIST. No, he doesn't know himself how he got there. VOICES. He was out hunting. He was LOVE OF ONE'S NEIGHBOR 221 climbing up the rocks. No, no ! He is simply a lunatic ! CORRESPONDENT. I beg your pardon, I beg your pardon, ladies and gentlemen! Anyway, he didn't drop from the sky. However [He quickly jots down in his note-book.] Unhappy young man suffering from childhood with attacks of lunacy. The bright light of the full moon the wild rocks. Sleepy j anitor didn't notice FIRST TOURIST [to the second, in a whis- per]. But it's a new moon now. SECOND TOURIST. Go, what does a lay- man know about astronomy. TOURIST [ecstatically]. Mary, pay at- tention to this ! You have before you an ocular demonstration of the influence of the moon on living organisms. What a terrible tragedy to go out walking on a moonlit night and find suddenly that you have climbed to a place where it is im- possible to climb down or be taken down. CORRESPONDENT [shouting]. What feel- ings are you experiencing? I can't hear. Louder! Ah, so? Well, well! What a situation ! CROWD [interested]. Listen, listen! Let's hear what his feelings are. How terrible ! CORRESPONDENT [writes in his note-book, tossing out detached remarks]. Mortal terror, numbs his limbs. A cold shiver goes down his spinal column. No hope. Before his mental vision rises a pic- ture of family bliss: Wife making sand- wiches; his five children innocently lisp- ing their love. Grandma in the arm- chair with a tube to her ear,, that is, grandpa in the arm-chair, with a tube to his ear and grandma. Deeply moved by the sympathy of the public. His last wish before his death that the words he uttered with his last breath should be published in our newspapers MILITARY WOMAN [indignantly]. My! He lies like a salesman. MARY [wearily]. Papa, children, look, he is starting to fall again. TOURIST [angrily]. Don't bother me. Such a tragedy is unfolding itself right before your very eyes and you What are you making such big eyes for again? CORRESPONDENT [shouting]. Hold on fast. That's it! My last question: What message do you wish to leave for your fellow citizens before you depart for the better world? UNKNOWN MAN. That they may all go to the devil. CORRESPONDENT. What? Hm, yes [He writes quickly.] Ardent love is a stanch opponent of the law granting equal rights to negroes. His last words: " Let the black niggers " PASTOR [out of breath, pushing through the crowd]. Where is he? Ah, where is he? Ah, there! Poor young man. Has there been no clergyman here yet? No? Thank you. Am I the first? CORRESPONDENT [writes], A touching dramatic moment. A minister has ar- rived. All are trembling on the verge of suspense. Many are shedding tears PASTOR. Excuse me, excuse me ! La- dies and gentlemen, a lost soul wishes to make its peace with God [He shouts.] My son, don't you wish to make your peace with God? Confess your sins to me. I will grant you remission at once! What? I cannot hear? CORRESPONDENT [writes]. The air is shaken with the people's groans. The minister of the church exhorts the crim- inal, that is, the unfortunate man, in touching language. The unfortunate creature with tears in his eyes thanks him in a faint voice UNKNOWN MAN [faintly]. If you won't go away I will jump on your head. I weigh three hundred pounds. [All jump away frightened behind each other.] VOICES. He is falling! He is falling! TOURIST [agitatedly]. Mary, Aleck, Jimmie. POLICEMAN [energetically]. Clear the place, please! Move on! LADY. Nellie, go quick and tell your father he is falling. PHOTOGRAPHER [in despair]. Oh my, I am out of films [ tosses madly about, look- ing pitifully at the unknown man]. One minute, I'll go and get them. I have some in my overcoat pocket over there. [He walks a short distance, keeping his eyes fixed on the unknown man, and then returns.] I can't, I am afraid I'll miss it. Good heavens ! They are over there in my overcoat. Just one minute, please. I'll fetch them right away. What a fix. PASTOR. Hurry, my friend. Pull your- self together and try to hold out long 222 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS enough to tell me at least your principal sins. You needn't mention the lesser ones. TOURIST. What a tragedy? CORRESPONDENT [writes]. The criminal, that is, the unhappy man, makes a public confession and does penance. Terrible secrets revealed. He is a bank robber blew up safes. TOURIST [credulously]. The scoundrel. PASTOR [thovtt]. In the first place, have you killed? Secondly, have you stolen? Thirdly, have you committed adultery? TOURIST. Mary, Jimmie, Katie, Aleck, Charlie, close your ears. CORRESPONDENT [writing}. Tremen- dous excitement in the crowd. Shouts of indignation. PASTOR [hurriedly]. Fourthly, have you blasphemed? Fifthly, have you cov- eted your neighbor's ass, his ox, his slave, his wife? Sixthly PHOTOGRAPHER [alarmed]. Ladies and gentlemen, an ass! SECOND PHOTOGRAPHER. Where? I can't see it ! PHOTOGRAPHER [calmed]. I thought I heard it. PASTOR. I congratulate you, my son! I congratulate you ! You have made your peace with God. Now you may rest easy Oh, God, what do I see? The Sal- vation Army ! Policeman, chase them away ! [Enter a Salvation Army band, men and women in uniforms. There are on/// three instruments, a drum, a violin and a piercingly shrill trum- pet.} SALVATION ARMY MAN [frantically beating his drum and shouting in a nasal voice}. Brethren and sisters PASTOR [shouting even louder in a still more nasal voice in an effort to drown the other's]. He has already confessed. Bear witness, ladies and gentlemen, that he has confessed and made his peace with heaven. SALVATION ARMY WOMAN [climbing on a rock and shrieking]. I once wandered in the dark just as this sinner and I lived a bad life and was a drunkard, but when the light of truth A VOICE. Why, she is drunk now. PASTOR. Policeman, didn't he confess and make his peace with heaven? [The Salvation Army man continues to beat his drum frantically; the rest begin to drawl a song. Shouts, laughter, whistling. Singing in the caff,, and calls of " Waiter!'' in all languages. The bewildered police- men tear themselves away from the pastor, who is pulling them some- where; the photographers turn and twist about as if the seats were burning under them. An English lady comes riding in on a donkey, who, stopping suddenly, sprawls out his legs and refuses to go far- ther, adding his noise to the rest. Gradually the noise subsides. The Salvation Army band solemnly withdraws, and the pastor, waving his hands, follows them.] FIRST ENGLISH TOURIST [to the other]. How impolite ! This crowd doesn't know how to behave itself. SECOND ENGLISH TOURIST. Come, let's go away from here. FIRST ENGLISH TOURIST. One minute. [He shouts.] Listen, won't you hurry up and fall? SECOND ENGLISH TOURIST. What are you saying, Sir William? FIRST ENGLISH TOURIST [shouting]. Don't you see that's what they are wait- ing for? As a gentleman you should grant them this pleasure and so escape the humiliation of undergoing tortures be- fore this mob. SECOND ENGLISH TOURIST. Sir W T il- llam. TOURIST [ecstatically]. See? It's true. Aleck, Jimmie, it's true. What a trag- edy! SEVERAL TOURISTS [going for the Eng- lishman], How dare you? FIRST ENGLISH TOURIST [shoving them aside]. Hurry up and fall! Do you hear? If you haven't the backbone I'll help you out with a pistol shot. VOICES. That red-haired devil has gone clear out of his mind. POLICEMAN [seizing the Englishman's hand]. You have no right to do it, it's against the law. I'll arrest you. SOME TOURISTS. A barbarous nation ! [The unknown man shouts something. Excitement below.] VOICES. Hear, hear, hear! UNKNOWN MAN [aloud]. Take that jackass away to the devil. He wants to LOVE OF ONE'S NEIGHBOR 223 shoot me. And tell the boss that I can't stand it any longer. VOICES. What's that? What boss? He is losing his mind, the poor man. TOURIST. Aleck ! Mary ! This is a mad scene. Jimmie, you remember Ham- let? Quick. UNKNOWN MAN [angrily]. Tell him my spinal column is broken. MARY [wearily]. Papa, children, he's beginning to kick with his legs. KATE. Is that what is called convul- sions, papa? TOURIST [rapturously]. I don't know. I think it is. What a tragedy? AI.ECK [glumly]. You fool ! You keep cramming and cramming and you don't know that the right name for that is agony. And you wear eyeglasses, too. I can't bear it any longer, papa. TOURIST. Think of it, children. A man is about to fall down to his death and he is bothering about his spinal col- umn. [There is a noise. A man in a white vest, very much frightened, enters, almost dragged by angry tourists. He smiles, bows on all sides, stretches out his arms, now running forward as he is pushed, now try- ing to escape in the crowd, but is seized and pulled again.] VOICES. A bare-faced deception ! It is an outrage. Policeman, policeman, he must be taught a lesson ! OTHER VOICES. What is it? What de- ception? What is it all about? They have caught a thief ! THE MAN IN THE WHITE VEST [bowing and smiling]. It's a joke, ladies and gentlemen, a joke, that's all. The people were bored, so I wanted to provide a little amusement for them. UNKNOWN MAN [angrily]. Boss! THE MAN IN THE WHITE VEST. Wait a while, wait a while. UNKNOWN MAN. Do you expect me to stay here until the Second Advent? The agreement was till twelve o'clock. What time is it now? TALL TOURIST [indignantly]. Do you hear, ladies and gentlemen? This scoun- drel, this man here in the white vest hired that other scoundrel up there and just simply tied him to the rock. VOICES. Is he tied? TALL TOURIST. Yes, he is tied and he can't fall. We are excited and worrying, but he couldn't fall even if he tried. UNKNOWN MAN. What else do you want? Do you think I am going to break my neck for your measly ten dollars? Boss, I can't stand it any more. One man wanted to shoot me. The pastor preached me for two hours. This is not in the agreement. ALECK. Father, I told you that Bae- deker lies. You believe everything any- body tells you and drag us about without eating. MAX IN THE WHITE VEST. The people were bored. My only desire was to amuse the people. MILITARY WOMAN. What is the mat- ter? I don't understand a thing. Why isn't he going to fall? Who, then, is go- ing to fall? TOURIST. I don't understand a thing either. Of course he's got to fall ! JAMES. You never understand any- thing, father. Weren't you told that he's tied to the rock? ALECK. You can't convince him. He loves every Baedeker more than his own children. JAMES. A nice father! TOURIST. Silence ! MILITARY WOMAN. What is the mat- ter? He must fall. TALL TOURIST. The idea! What a de- ception. You'll have to explain this. MAN IN THE WHITE VEST. The people were bored. Excuse me, ladies and gen- tlemen, but wishing to accommodate you give you a few hours of pleasant ex- citement elevate your spirits inspire you with altruistic sentiments ENGLISHMAN. Is the cafe yours? MAN IN THE WHITE VEST. Yes. ENGLISHMAN. And is the hotel below also yours? GENTLEMAN. Yes. The people were bored CORRESPONDENT [writing]. The propri- etor of the cafe, desiring to increase his profits from the sale of alcoholic bev- erages, exploits the best human senti- ments. The people's indignation UNKNOWN MAN [angrily]. Boss, will you have me taken off at once or won't you? HOTEL KEEPER. What do you want up there? Aren't you satisfied? Didn't I have you taken off at night? 224 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS UNKNOWN MAN. Well, I should say so. You think I'd be hanging here nights, too ! HOTEL OWNER. Then you can stand i a few minutes longer. The people are bored TALL TOURIST. Say, have you any idea of what you have done? Do you realize the enormity of it? You are scoundrels, who for your own sordid personal ends have impiously exploited the finest human sentiment, love of one's neighbor. You have caused us to undergo fear and suf- fering. You have poisoned our hearts with pity. And now, what is the upshot of it all? The upshot is that this scamp, your vile accomplice, is bound to the rock and not only will he not fall as everybody expects, but he' can't. MILITARY WOMAN. What is the mat- ter? He has got to fall. TOURIST. Policeman ! Policeman ! [The pastor enters, out of breath.] PASTOR. What? Is he still living? Oh, there he is! What fakirs those Sal- vationists are. VOICES. Don't you know that he is bound? PASTOR. Bound! Bound to what? To life? Well, we are all bound to life until death snaps the cord. But whether he is bound or not bound, I reconciled him with heaven, and that's enough. But those fakirs TOURIST. Policeman ! Policeman, you must draw up an official report. There is no way out of it. MILITARY WOMAN [going for the hotel owner], I will not allow myself to be fooled. I saw an aeronaut drop from the clouds and go crash upon a roof. I saw a tiger tear a woman to pieces PHOTOGRAPHER. I spoiled three films photographing that scamp. You will have to answer for this, sir. I will hold you responsible. TOURIST. An official report! An offi- cial report ! Such a bare-faced decep- tion. Mary, Jimmie, Aleck, Charlie, call a policeman. HOTEL KEEPER [drawing back, in de- spair}. But, I can't make him fall if he doesn't want to. I did everything in my power, ladies and gentlemen! MILITARY WOMAN. I will not allow it. HOTEL KEEPER. Excuse me. I prom- ise you on my word of honor that the next time he will fall. But he doesn't want to, to-day. UNKNOWN MAN. What's that? What did you say about the next time? HOTEL KEEPER. You shut up there! UNKNOWN MAN. For ten dollars? PASTOR. Pray, what impudence! I just made his peace with heaven when he was in danger of his life. You have heard him threatening to fall on my head, haven't you? And still he is dissatisfied. Adulterer, thief, murderer, coveter of your neighbor's ass PHOTOGRAPHER. Ladies and gentle- men, an ass! SECOND PHOTOGRAPHER. Where, where is an ass? PHOTOGRAPHER [calmed], I thought I heard one. SECOND PHOTOGRAPHER. It is you who are an ass. I have become cross-eyed on account of your shouting: "An ass! An ass ! " MARY [wearily]. Papa, children, look ! A policeman is coming. [Excitement and noise. On one side a crowd pulling a policeman, on the other the hotel keeper; both keep crying: "Excuse me! Ex- cuse me!"] TOURIST. Policeman, there he is, the fakir, the swindler. PASTOR. Policeman, there he is, the adulterer, the murderer, the coveter of his neighbor's ass POLICEMAN. Excuse me, excuse me, la- dies and gentlemen. We will bring him to his senses in short order and make him confess. HOTEL KEEPER. I can't make him fall if he doesn't want to. POLICEMAN. Hey, you, young man out there! Can you fall or can't you? Con- fess! UNKNOWN MAN [sullenly]. I don't want to fall! VOICES. Aha, he has confessed. What a scoundrel! TALL TOURIST. Write down what I dic- tate, policeman " Desiring for the sake of gain to exploit the sentiment of love of one's neighbor the sacred feel- ing a-a-a " TOURIST. Listen, children, they are drawing up an official report. What ex- quisite choice of language ! LOVE OF ONE'S NEIGHBOR 225 TALL TOURIST. The sacred feeling which POLICEMAN [writing with painful effort, his tongue stuck out]. Love of one's neighbor the sacred feeling which MARY [wearily]. Papa, children, look ! An advertisement is coming. [Enter musicians with trumpets and drums, a man at their head carry- ing on a long pole a huge placard with the picture of an absolutely bald head, and printed underneath: " I was bald."] UNKNOWN MAN. Too late. They are drawing up a report here. You had bet- ter skidoo ! THE MAN CARRYING THE POLE [stop- ping and speaking in a loud voice]. I had been bald from the day of my birth and for a long time thereafter. That miserable growth, which in my tenth year covered my scalp was more like wool than real hair. When I was married my skull was as bare as a pillow and my young bride TOURIST. What a tragedy ! Newly married and with such a head ! Can you realize how dreadful that is, children? [All listen with interest, even the policeman stopping in his arduous task and inclining his ear with his pen in his hand.] THE MAN CARRYING THE POLE [sol- emnly]. And the time came when my matrimonial happiness literally hung by a hair. All the medicines recommended by quacks to make my hair grow TOURIST. Your note-book, Jimmie. MILITARY WOMAN. But when is he going to fall? HOTEL KEEPER [amiably]. The next time, lady, the next time. I won't tie him so hard you understand? [Curtain.] THE BOOR A COMEDY BY ANTON TCHEKOFF TRANSLATED BY HILMAR BAUKAGE. Copyright, 1915, by Samuel French. CHARACTERS HELENA IVANOVNA POPOV [a young widow, mistress of a country estate]. GBIGORJI STEPANOVITCH SMIRXOV [proprietor of a country estate], LUKA [servant of Mrs. Popov]. A GARDENER. A COACHMAN. SEVERAL WORKMEN. PLACE: The Estate of Mrs. Popov. TIME: The Present. [The stage shows an elegantly furnished reception room.] Reprinted from " The World's Best Plays by Celebrated European Authors," edited by Barrett H. Clark, and published by Samuel French, by permission of, and special arrangements with, Samuel French. THE BOOR A COMEDY [Mrs. Popov discovered in deep mourn- ing, sitting upon a sofa, gazing stead- fastly at a photograph. Luka is also present.] LUKA. It isn't right, ma'am You're wearing yourself out ! The maid and the cook have gone looking for berries, every- thing that breathes is enjoying life, even the cat knows how to be happy slips about the courtyard and catches birds; but you hide yourself here in the house as though you were in a cloister and have no pleasures Yes, truly, by actual reck- oning you haven't left this house for a whole year. MRS. POPOV. And I shall never leave it why should I ? My life is over. He lies in his grave, and I have buried my- self within these four walls. We are both dead. LUKA. There you are again! It's too awful to listen to, so it is ! Nikolai Mich- ailovitch is dead, it was the will of the Lord and the Lord has given him eternal peace. You have grieved over it and that ought to be enough. Now it's .time to stop. One can't weep and wear mourn- ing forever ! My wife died a few years ago, too. I grieved for her, I wept a whole month and then it was over. Must one be forever singing lamentations? That would be more than your husband was worth! [He sighs.] You have for- gotten all your neighbors. You don't go out and you won't receive any one. We live, you'll pardon me like the spiders, and the good light of day we never see. All the livery is eaten by the mice As though there weren't any more nice people in the world ! But the whole neighborhood is full of gentlefolk. In Riblov the regiment is stationed, officers simply beautiful ! One can't see enough of them ! Every Friday a ball, and mili- tary music every day. Oh, my dear, dear 229 BY ANTON TCHEKOFF ma'am, young and pretty as you are, if you'd only let your spirits live! Beauty can't last forever. When ten short years are over, then you'll be glad enough to go out a bit! And meet the officers and then it'll be too late. MRS. POPOV [resolutely]. Please, don't speak of these things to me again. You know very well that since the death of Nikolai Michailovitch my life is absolutely nothing to me. You think I live, but it only seems that I live. Do you under- stand? Oh, that his departed soul may see how I love him Oh, I know, it's no secret to you; he was often unjust to- wards me, cruel and he wasn't faith- ful, but I shall be faithful to the grave and prove to him how I am able to love. There, in the beyond, he'll find me the same, as I was until his death. LUKA. What is the use of all these words? When you'd so much rather go walking in the garden or order Tobby or Welikan harnessed to the trap, and visit the neighbors. MRS. POPOV [weeping]. Oh! LUKA. Madam, dear, dear Madam, what is it? In heaven's name? MRS. POPOV. He loved Tobby so! He always took him when he drove to the Kortschagins or the Vlassovs. What a wonderful horseman he was ! How fine he looked! When he pulled at the reins with all his might! Tobby, Tobby, give him an extra measure of oats to-day! LUKA. Yes, ma'am. [A bell rings loudly.] MRS. POPOV [shudders]. What's that? Say that I am receiving no one. LUKA. Yes, ma'am. [He goes out center.] MRS. POPOV [gazing at the photograph], You shall see, Nikol, how I can love and forgive My love will die only with me when my poor heart stops beating. [She smiles through her tears.] And 2JO FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS aren't you ashamed ? I have been a good, true wife, I have imprisoned myself and I shall remain true until the grave, and you you you're not ashamed of your- self, my dear monster! Betrayed me, quarreled with me, left me alone for weeks [Luka enters in great excitement.] LUKA. Oh, ma'am, some one is asking for you, insists on seeing you MRS POPOV. You told him that since my husband's death I receive no one? LCKA. I said so, but he won't listen, he says that it is a pressing matter. MRS. POPOV. I re ceive no one! LUKA. I told him that, but he's a wild- man, he swore and pushed himself into the room he's in the dining room now. MRS. POPOV [excitedly]. Good. Show him in. What an intruder! [Luka goes out center.] MRS. POPOV. What a bore people are! What can they want with me? Why do they disturb my peace? [She sighs.] Yes, it is clear I must go to a cloister. [Meditatively.} Yes, in a cloister [Smirnov enters followed by Luka.] SMIRNOV [to Luka]. Fool, you make too much noise! You're an ass! [Dis- covering Mrs. Popov politely.] Madam, I have the honor to introduce myself; Lieutenant in the Artillery, retired, country gentleman, Grigorji Stepanovitch Smirnov ! I'm forced to bother you about an exceedingly important matter. MRS. POPOV [without offering her hand]. What is it you wish? SMIRXOV. Your deceased husband, with whom I had the honor to be ac- quainted, left me two notes amounting to about twelve hundred rubles. Inasmuch as I have to meet the interest to-morrow on a loan from the Agrarian Bank, I should like to request, madam, that you pay me the money to-day. MRS. POPOV. Twelve hundred and for what was my husband indebted to you? SMIBXOV. He had bought oats from me. MRS. POPOV [with a sigh to Luka]. Don't forget to have Tobby given an extra measure of oats. [Luka goes out.] MRS. POPOV [to Smirnov]. If Nikolai Michailovitch is indebted to you, I will of course pay you, but, I am sorry, I haven't the money to-day. To-morrow my manager will be back from the city and I shall notify him to pay you what is due you, but until then I cannot satisfy your request. Furthermore to-day it is just seven months since the death of my husband and I am not in the mood to discuss money matters. SMIRNOV. And I am in the mood to fly up the chimney with my feet in the air if I can't lay hands on that interest to-morrow. They'll sequestrate my es- tate! MRS. POPOV. Day after to-morrow you will receive the money. SMIRXOV. I don't need the money day after to-morrow, I need it to-day. MRS. POPOV. I'm sorry I can't pay you to-day. SMIRXOV. And I can't wait until day after to-morrow. MRS. POPOV. But what can I do if I haven't it? SMIRXOV. So you can't pay? MRS. POPOV. I cannot. SMIRXOV. Hm. Is that your last word? MRS. POPOV. My last. SMIRNOV. Absolutely? MRS. POPOV. Absolutely. SMIRXOV. Thank you. We shan't for- get it. [He shrugs his shoulders.] And then they expect me to stand for all that. The toll gatherer just now met me in the road and asked, why are you always wor- rying, Grigorji Stepanovitch? Why in heaven's name shouldn't I worry? I need money, I feel the knife at my throat. Yesterday morning I left my house in the early dawn and called on all my debtors. If even one of them had paid his debt! I worked the skin off my fingers ! The devil knows in what sort of Jew-inn I slept, in a room with a bar- rel of brandy! And now at last I come here, seventy versts from home, hope for a little money and all you give me is moods. Why shouldn't I worry? MRS. POPOV. I thought I made it plain to you that my manager will return from town and then you will get your money? SMIRXOV. I did not come to see the manager, I came to see you. What the devil pardon the language do I care for your manager? MRS. POPOV. Really, sir, I am neither THE BOOR 231 used to such language nor such manners. I shan't listen to you any further. [She goes out left.] SMIRNOV. What can one say to that? Moods ! Seven months since her husband died ! And do I have to pay the interest or not? I repeat the question, have I to pay the interest or not? Well yes, the husband is dead and all that, the man- ager is the devil with him traveling somewhere. Now tell me, what am I to do? Shall I run away from my creditors in a balloon? Or push my head into a stone wall? If I call on Grusdev he chooses to be " not at home," Irosche- vitch has simply hidden himself, I have quarreled with Kurzin until I came near throwing him out of the window, Masu- tov is ill and this one in here has moods ! Not one of the crew will pay up ! And all because I've spoiled them all, because I'm an old whiner, an old dish rag! I'm too tender hearted with them. But you wait ! I'll show you ! I permit nobody to play tricks with me, the devil with 'em all! I'll stay here and not budge from the spot until she pays! Brrr! How angry I am, how terribly angry I am ! Every tendon is trembling with anger and I can hardly breathe- ah, I'm even growing ill. [He calls out.] Servant ! [Luka enters.] LUKA. What is it you wish? SMIRNOV. Bring me Kvas or water! [Luka goes out.] Well, what can we do? She hasn't it on hand? What sort of logic is that? A fellow stands with the knife at his throat, he needs money, he is just at the point of hanging himself, and she won't pay because she isn't in the mood to discuss money matters. See ! Pure woman's logic. That's why I never liked to talk to women and why I hate to do it now. I would rather sit on a powder barrel than talk with a woman. Brr ! I'm getting cold as ice, this affair has made me so angry. I only need to see such a romantic creature from the dis- tance to get so angry that I have cramps in the calves? It's enough to make one yell for help ! [Enter Luka,.] LUKA [hands him water]. Madam is ill and is not receiving. SMIRNOV. March! [Luka goes out.} Ill and isn't receiving! All right, it isn't necessary. I won't receive either. I'll sit here and stay until you bring that money. If you're ill a week, I'll sit here a week. If you're ill a year, I'll sit here a year. As heaven is a witness I'll get my money. You don't disturb me with your mourn- ing or with your dimples. We know these dimples! [He calls out the win- dow.] Simon, unharness. We aren't going to leave right away. I am going to stay here. Tell them in the stable to give the horses some oats. The left horse has twisted the bridle again. [Imitating him.] Stop. I'll show you how. Stop. [Leaves window.] It's awful. Unbear- able heat, no money, didn't sleep well last night and now mourning-dresses with moods. My head aches, perhaps I ought to have a drink. Ye-s, I must have a dring. [Calling.] Servant! LUKA. What do you wish? SMIRNOV. A little drink. [Luka goes out. Smirnov sits down and looks at his clothes.] Ugh, a fine figure! No use denying that. Dust, dirty boots, un- washed, uncombed, straw on my vest the lady probably took me for a high- wayman. [He yawns.] It was a little impolite to come into a reception room with such clothes. Oh well, no harm done. I'm not here as guest. I'm a cred- itor. And there is no special costume for creditors. LUKA [entering with glass]. You take a great deal of liberty, sir. SMIRNOV [angrily].' What? LUKA. I I I just SMIRNOV. Whom are you talking to? Keep quiet. LUKA [angrily]. Nice mess! This fel- low won't leave! [He goes out.] SMIHNOV. Lord, how angry I am ! Angry enough to throw mud at the whole world ! I even feel ill servant ! [Mrs. Popov comes in with downcast eyes.] MRS. POPOV. Sir, in my solitude I have become unaccustomed to the human voice and I cannot stand the sound of loud talking. I beg of you, please to cease disturbing my quiet. SMIRNOV. Pay me my money and I'll leave. MRS. POPOV. I told you once plainly in your native tongue that I haven't the money on hand; wait until day after to- morrow. 232 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS SMIRNOV. And I also have the honor of informing you in your native tongue that I need the money, not day after to- morrow, but to-day. If you don't pay me to-day I shall have to hang myself to-morrow. Mas. POPOV. But what can I do when I haven't the money? How strange! SMIRNOV. So you are not going to pay immediately? You're not? MRS. POPOV. I can't. SMIRNOV. Then I'll sit here and stay until I get the money. [He sits.] You will pay day after to-morrow? Excel- lent ! Here I stay until day after to-mor- row. [Jumps up.] I ask you: do I have to pay that interest to-morrow or not? Or do you think I'm joking? MRS. POPOV. Sir, I beg of you, don't scream! This is not a stable. SMIRNOV. I'm not asking you about a stable, I'm asking you whether I have to pay that interest to-morrow or not? MRS. POPOV. You have no idea how a lady should be treated. SMIRNOV. Oh, yes, I know how to treat ladies. MRS. POPOV. No, you don't. You are an ill-bred, vulgar person respectable people don't speak so with ladies. SMIRNOV. Oh, how remarkable! How do you want one to speak with you? In French perhaps. Madame, je vous prie how fortunate I am that you won't pay me my money! Pardon me for hav- ing disturbed you. What beautiful weather we are having to-day. And how this mourning becomes you. {He makes an ironic bow.] MRS. POPOV. Not at all funny vul- gar! SMIRNOV [imitating her]. Not at all funny vulgar. I don't understand how to behave in the company of ladies. Madam, in the course of my life I have seen more women than you have spar- rows. Three times I have fought duels over women, twelve women I threw over and nine threw me over. There was a time when I played the fool, used honeyed language, bows and scrapings. I loved, suffered, sighed to the moon, melted in love's torments. I loved passionately, I loved to madness, in every key, chattered like a magpie on emancipation, sacrificed half my fortune in the tender passion until now the devil knows I've had enough of it. Your obedient servant will let you lead him around by the nose no more. Enough! Black eyes, passionate eyes, coral lips, dimples in cheeks, moonlight whispers, soft, modest sighs, for all that, madam, I wouldn't pay a copper cent. I am not speaking of the present company but of women in general; from the tiniest to the greatest, they are all conceited, hypocritical, chattering, odious, deceitful from top to toe; vain, petty, cruel with a maddening logic and [he strikes his forehead] in this respect, please excuse my frankness, but one sparrow is worth ten of the aforementioned petticoat-phil- osophers. When one sees one of the ro- mantic creatures before him he imagines that he is looking at some holy being, so wonderful that its one breath could dis- solve him in a sea of a thousand charms and delights but if one looks into the soul it's nothing but a common croco- dile. [He seizes the arm-chair and breaks it in two.] But the worst of all is that this crocodile imagines that it is a chef- d'oeuvre and that it has a monopoly on all the tender passions. May the devil hang me upside down if there is anything to love about a woman ! When she is in love all she knows is how to complain and shed tears. If the man suffers and makes sacrifices she trails her train about and tries to lead him around by the nose. You have the misfortune to be a woman and you naturally know woman's nature; tell me on your honor, have you ever in your life seen a woman who was really true and faithful? You never saw one. Only the old and the deformed are true and faithful. It's easier to find a cat with horns or a white woodcock than a faithful woman. MRS. POPOV. But just allow me to ask, who is true and faithful in love? The man, perhaps? SMIRNOV. Yes, indeed! The man! MRS. POPOV. The man! [She laughs ironically.] The man is true and faithful in love ! Well, that is something new. [She laughs bitterly.] How can you make such a statement? Men true and faithful ! As long as we have gone as far as we have I may as well say that of all the men I have known my husband was the best I loved him passionately with all my soul, as only a young, sensible woman may love, I gave him my youth, my happiness, my fortune, rny life. I worshiped him like a heathen. And what happened? This best of all men be- trayed me right and left in every possible fashion. After his death I found his desk filled with a collection of love letters. While he was alive he left me alone for months it is horrible to even think about it he made love to other women in my very presence, he wasted my money and made fun of my feelings, and in spite of all that I trusted him and was true to him. And more than that, he is dead and I am still true to him. I have buried myself within these four walls and I shall wear this mourning to my grave. SMIRNOV [laughing disrespectfully}. Mourning! What on earth do you take me for? As if I didn't know why you wore this black domino and why you buried yourself within these four walls. As if I didn't know! Such a secret! So romantic ! Some knight will pass the castle, will gaze up at the windows and think to himself: " Here dwells the myste- rious Tamara who, for love of her hus- band, has buried herself within four walls." Oh, I understand the art ! MRS. POPOV [springing up]. What? What do you mean by saying such things to me? SMIHNOV. You have buried yourself alive, but meanwhile you have not for- gotten to powder your nose ! MRS. POPOV. How dare you speak to me so? SMIRNOV. Don't scream at me, please, I'm not the manager. Just let me call things by their right names. I am not a woman and I am accustomed to speak out what I think. So please don't scream. MRS. POPOV. I'm not screaming. It is you who are doing the screaming. Please leave me, I beg of you. SMIRNOV. Pay me my money and I'll leave. MRS. POPOV. I won't give, you the money. SMIRNOV. You won't? You won't give me my money? MRS. POPOV. I don't care what you do. You won't get a kopeck ! Leave me alone. SMIRNOV. As I haven't the pleasure of being either your husband or your fi- ance please don't make a scene. [He sits down.] I can't stand it. 233 MRS. POPOV [breathing hard]. You are going to sit down? SMIRNOV. I already have. MRS. POPOV. Kindly leave the house! SMIRNOV. Give me the money. MRS. POPOV. I don't care to speak with impudent men. Leave! [Pause.] You aren't going? SMIRNOV. No. MRS. POPOV. No? SMIRNOV. No. MRS. POPOV. Very well. [She rings the bell.} [Enter Luka.] MRS. POPOV. Luka, show the gentleman out. LUKA [going to Smirnov]. Sir, why don't you leave when you are ordered? What do you want SMIRNOV [jumping up]. W T hom do you think you are talking to? I'll grind you to powder. LUKA [puts his hand to his heart]. Good Lord! [He drops into a chair.] Oh, I'm ill, I can't breathe ! MRS. POPOV. Where is Dascha? [Call- ing.] Dascha! Pelageja! Dascha! [She rings.] LUKA. They're all gone! I'm ill. Water ! MRS. POPOV [to Smirnov]. Leave! Get out! SMIHNOV. Kindly be a little more po- lite! MRS. POPOV [striking her fists and stamping her feet]. You are vulgar! You're a boor ! A monster ! SMIHNOV. Wh at did you say? MRS. POPOV. I said you were a boor, a monster ! SMIRNOV [steps toward her quickly]. Permit me to ask what right you have to insult me? MRS. POPOV. Yes, I insult you. What of it? Do you think I am afraid of you? SMIRNOV. And you think that because you are a romantic creature that you can insult me without being punished? I challenge you ! Now you have it. LUKA. Merciful heaven! Water! SMIRNOV. We'll have a duel. MRS. POPOV. Do you think because you have big fists and a steer's neck that I am afraid of you? SMIRNOV. That is the limit ! I allow no one to insult me and I make no ex- 234 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS ception because you are a woman, one of the "weaker sex"! MRS. POPOV [trying to cry him down}. Boor, boor, boor ! SMIHNOV. It is high time to do away with the old superstition that it is only a man who is forced to give satisfaction. If there is equity at all let there be equity in all things. There's a limit ! MBS. POPOV. You wish to fight a duel? Very well. SMIRNOV. Immediately. MBS. POPOV. Immediately. My hus- band had pistols. I'll bring them. [She hurries away, then turns.] Oh, what a pleasure it will be to put a bullet in your impudent head. The devil take you ! [She goes out.] SMIHNOV. I'll shoot her down ! I'm no fledgling, no sentimental, young puppy. For me there is no weaker sex. LUKA. Oh, sir. [Falls to his knees.] Have mercy on me, an old man, and go away. You have frightened me to death already and now you want to fight a duel. SMIRNOV [paying no attention]. A duel. That's equity, that's emancipation. That way the sexes are made equal. I'll shoot her down as a matter of principle. What can a person say to such a woman? [Imitating her.] " The devil take you. I'll put a bullet in your impudent head." What can a person say to that? She was angry, her eyes blazed, she accepted the challenge. On my honor it's the first time in my life that I ever saw such a woman. LUKA. Oh, sir. Go away. Go away from here. SMIRKOV. That is a woman. I can un- derstand her. A real woman. No shilly- shallying, but fire, powder, and noise ! It would be a pity to shoot a woman like that. LUKA [weeping]. Oh, sir; go away. [Enter Mrs. Popov.] MRS. POPOV. Here are the pistols. But before we have our duel please show me how to shoot. I have never had a pistol in my hand before! LUKA. God be merciful and have pity upon us! I'll go and get the gardener and the coachman. W T hy has this horror come to us! [He goes out.] SMIRNOV [looking at the pistols]. You see there are different kinds of pistols. There are special duelling pistols with cap and ball. But these are revolvers, Smith & Wesson, with ejectors, fine pis- tols. A pair like that cost at least ninety rubles. This is the way to hold a revol- ver. [Aside.] Those eyes, those eyes! A real woman ! MRS. POPOV. Like this? SMIRNOV. Yes, that way. Then you pull the hammer back so then you aim put your head back a little just stretch your arm out, please. So then press your finger on the thing like that, and that is all. The chief thing is this: don't get excited, don't hurry your aim, and take care that your hand doesn't tremble. MRS. POPOV. It isn't as well to shoot inside, let's go into the garden. SMIRNOV. Yes. I'll tell you now that I am going to shoot into the air. MRS. POPOV. That is too much. Why? SMIRNOV. Because because That's my business why. MRS. POPOV. You are afraid. Yes. A-h-h-h. No, no, my dear sir, no welch- ing. Please follow me. I won't rest my- self, until I've made a hole in your head that I hate so much. Are you afraid? SMIHNOV. Yes, I'm afraid. MRS. POPOV. You are lying. Why won't you fight? SMIRNOV. Because because I like you. MRS. POPOV [with an angry laugh]. You like me! He dares to say that he likes me. [She points to the door.] Go. SMIRNOW [laying the revolver silently on the table, takes Ms hat and goes; at the door he stops a moment gazing at her si- lently, then he approaches her undecided- ly]. Listen? Are you still angry? I was mad as the devil, but please understand me how can I express myself? The thing is like this such things are [He raises his voice.] How is it my fault that you owe me money? [Grasps the chair back which breaks.] The devil knows what breakable furniture you have! I like you! Do you understand? I I'm almost in love ! MRS. POPOV. Leave. I hate you. SMIRNOV. Lord! What a woman! I never in my life met one like her. I'm lost, ruined! I've been caught like a mouse in a trap. MRS. POPOV. Go, or I'll shoot. SMIRNOV. Shoot ! You have no idea what happiness it would be to die in sight THE BOOR 235 of those beautiful eyes, to die from the revolver in this little velvet hand I'm mad ! Consider it and decide immediately for if I go now; we shall never see each other again. Decide speak I am a noble, a respectable man, have an income of ten thousand, can shoot a coin thrown into the air I own some fine horses. Will you be my wife? MRS. POPOV [swings the revolver an- grily ] . Shoot ! SMIRNOV. My mind is not clear I can't understand servant water ! I have fallen in love like any young man. [He takes her hand and she cries with pain.] I love you! [He kneels.] I love you as I have never loved before. Twelve women, I threw over, nine were untrue to me, but not one of them all have I loved as I love you. I am conquered, lost, I lie at your feet like a fool and beg for your hand. Shame and disgrace! For five years I haven't been in love, I thanked the Lord for it and now I am caught, like a carriage tongue in another carriage. I beg for your hand ! Yes or no? Will you? Good! [He gets up and goes to the door quickly.] MRS. POPOV. Wait a moment SMIRNOV [stopping]. Well? MRS. POPOV. Nothing. You may go. But wait a moment. No, go on, go on. I hate you. Or no. Don't go. Oh, if you knew how angry I was, how angry ! [She throws the revolver onto the chair.] My finger is swollen from this thing. [She angrily tears her handkerchief.] What are you standing there for? Get out! SMIRNOV. Farewell ! MRS. POPOV. Yes, go. [Cries out.] What are you going for ? Wait no, go ! ! Oh, how angry I am ! Don't come too near, don't come too near er come no nearer. SMIRNOV [approaching her]. How angry I am with myself. Fallen in love like a school-boy, thrown myself on my knees. I've got a chill! [Strongly.] I love you. This is fine, all I needed was to fall in love. To-morrow I have to pay my interest, the hay harvest has begun and then you appear. [He takes her in his arms.] I can never forgive myself. MBS. POPOV. Go away ! Take your hands off me ! I hate you you this is [A long kiss.] [Enter Luka with an ax, the gard- ener with a rake, the coachman with a pitch-fork, workmen with poles.] LUKA [staring at the pair}. Merciful Heavens! [A long pause.} MRS. POPOV [dropping her eyes}. Tell them in the stable that Tobby isn't to have any oats. [Curtain.} HIS WIDOW'S HUSBAND A COMEDY BY JACINTO BENEVENTE TRANSLATED BY JOHK GARKETT UNDERBILL. Copyright, 1917, by John Garrett Underbill. All rights reserved. First presented at the Teatro Principe Alfonso, Madrid, on the evening of the nine- teenth of October, 1908. CHARACTERS CAROLINA. EUDOSIA. PAQUITA. F LORE N cio. CASALONGA. ZURITA. VALDIVIESO. THE SCENE is laid in o provincial capital. Reprinted from "Plays: First Series," by permission of, and special arrangements with, Mr. John Garrett Underbill and Charles Scribner's Sons. Applications for per- mission to produce His WIDOW'S HUSBAND should be addressed to the Society of Span- ish Authors, 20 Nassau Street, New York. HIS WIDOW'S HUSBAND A COMEDY [Carolina is seated as Zurita enters.] ZURITA. My friend ! CAROLINA. My good Zurita, it is so thoughtful of you to come so promptly! I shall never be able to repay all your kindness. ZURITA. I am always delighted to be of service to a friend. CAROLINA. I asked them to look for you everywhere. Pardon the inconven- ience, but the emergency was extreme. I am in a terrible position; all the tact in the world can never extricate me from one of those embarrassing predicaments unless you assist me by your advice. ZUHITA. Count upon my advice; count upon me in anything. However, I can- not believe that you are really in an em- barrassing predicament. CAROLINA. But I am, my friend; and you are the only one who can advise me. You are a person of taste; your articles and society column are the standard of good form with us. Everybody accepts and respects your decisions. ZURITA. Not invariably, I am sorry to say especially now that I have taken up the suppression of the hips, which are fatal to the success of any toilette. So- ciety was formerly very select in this city, but it is no longer the same, as you no doubt have occasion to know. Too many fortunes have been improvised, too many aristocratic families have de- scended in the scale. There has been a great change in society. The parvenus dominate and money is so insolent ! People who have it imagine that other things can be improvised as education, for example, manners, good taste. Surely you must realize that such things cannot be improvised. Distinction is a hothouse plant. We grow too few gardenias now- adays like you, my friend. On the other hand, we have an abundance of sow-thistles. Not that I am referring to BY JACINTO BENEVENTE the Nunez family. . . . How do you sup- pose those ladies enliven their Wednes- day evenings? With a gramophone, my friend, with a gramophone just like any vulgar caf; although I must confess that it is an improvement upon the days when the youngest sang, the middle one recited, and all played together. Never- theless it is horrible. You can imagine my distress. CAROLINA. You know, of course, that I never take part in their Wednesdays. I never call unless I am sure they are not at home. ZURITA. But that is no longer a pro- tection; they leave the gramophone. And the maid invites you to wait and enter- tain yourself with the Mochuelo. What is a man to do? v It is impossible to re- sent the records upon the maid. But we are wandering from the subject. You excite my curiosity. CAROLINA. You know that to-morrow is the day of the unveiling of the statue of my husband, of my previous hus- band ZUKITA. A fitting honor to the mem- ory of that great, that illustrious man. This province owes him much, and so does all Spain. We who enjoyed the privilege of calling ourselves his friends, should be delighted to see justice done to his deserts at last, here where political jealousies and intrigues have always belittled the achievements of our eminent men. But Don Patricio Molinete could have no ene- mies. To-morrow will atone for much of the pettiness of the past. CAROLINA. No doubt. I feel I ought to be proud and happy, although you understand the delicacy of my position. Now that I have married again, my name is not the same. Yet it is impos- sible to ignore the fact that once it was mine, especially as everybody knows that we were a model couple. I might per- 239 240 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS haps have avoided the situation by leav- ing town for a few days on account of my health, but then that might have been misinterpreted. People might hav thought that I was displeased, or that I declined to participate. ZUBITA. Assuredly. Although your name is no longer the same, owing to cir- cumstances, the force of which we ap- preciate, that is no reason why you should be deprived of the honor of hav- ing borne it worthily at the time. Your present husband has no right to take offense. CAROLINA. No, poor Florencio! In fact, he was the first to realize that I ought to take a leading part in the re- joicing. Poor Florencio was always poor Patricio's greatest admirer. Their po- litical ideas were the same; they agreed in everything. ZUHITA. Apparently. CAROLINA. As I have reason to know. Poor Patricio loved me dearly; perhaps that was what led poor Florencio to imag- ine that there was something in me to justify the affection of that great-hearted and intellectual man. It was enough for me to know that Florencio was Patricio's most intimate friend in order to form my opinion of him. Of course, I recognize that Florencio's gifts will never enable him to shine so brilliantly, but that is not to say that he is wanting in ability. He lacks ambition, that is all. All his de- sires are satisfied at home with me, at his own fireside. And I am as well pleased to have it so. I am not ambitious my- self. The seasons which I spent with my husband in Madrid were a source of great uneasiness to me. I passed the week dur- ing which he was Minister of Agriculture in one continual state of anxiety. Twice he nearly had a duel over some polit- ical question. I did not know which way to turn. If he had ever become Prime Minister, as was actually predicted by a newspaper which he controlled, I should have been obliged to take to my bed for the week. ZUBITA. You are not like our senator's wife, Senora Espinosa, nor the wife of our present mayor. They will never rest, nor allow others to do so, until they see their husbands erected in marble. CABOLINA. Do you think that either Espinosa or the mayor are of a caliber to deserve statues? ZUHITA. Not publicly, perhaps. In a private chapel, in the class of martyrs and husbands, it might not be inappro- priate. But I am growing impatient. CAROLINA. As you say, friend Zurita, it might seem marked for me to leave the city. Yet if I remain I must attend the unveiling of the monument to my poor Patricio; I must be present at the memo- rial exercises to-night in his honor; I must receive the delegations from Madrid and the other cities, as well as the com- mittees from the rest of the province. But what attitude ought I to assume? If I seem too sad, nobody will believe that my feeling is sincere. On the other hand, it would not be proper to appear alto- gether reconciled. Then people would think that I had forgotten too quickly. In fact, they think so already. ZURITA. Oh, no ! You were very young when you became a widow. Life was just beginning for you. CAROLINA. It is a delicate matter, however, to explain to my sisters-in-law. Tell me, what ought I to wear? Any- thing severe, an attempt at mourning, would be ridiculous, since I am going with my husband; on the other hand, I should not like to suggest a festive spirit. What do you think, friend Zurita? Give me your advice. What would you wear? ZURITA. It is hard to say; the problem is difficult. Something rich and black, perhaps, relieved by a note of violet. The unveiling of a monument to perpetu- ate the memory of a great man is not an occasion for mourning. Your husband is partaking already of the joys of im- mortality, in which no doubt, he antici- pates you. CAROLINA. Thank you so much. ZURITA. Do not thank me. You have done enough. You have been faithful to his memory. You have married again, but you have married a man who was your husband's most intimate friend. You have not acted like other widows of my acquaintance Senora Benitez, for example. She has been living for two years with the deadliest enemy her husband had in the province, without any pretense at getting married which in her case would have been preposter- ous. MIS WIDOW'S HUSBAND 241 CAROLINA. There is no comparison. ZURITA. No, my friend; everybody sympathizes with your position, as they ought. CAROLINA. The only ones who worry me are my sisters-in-law. They insist that my position is ridiculous, and that of my husband still more so. They do not see how we can have the effrontery to present ourselves before the statue. ZURITA. Senora, I should not hesitate though it were that of the Commander. Your sisters-in-law exaggerate. Your present husband is the only one you have to consider. CAROLINA. I have no misgivings upon that score. I know that both will ap- preciate that my feelings are sincere, one in this world, and the other from the next. As for the rest, the rest ZUHITA. The rest are your friends and your second husband's friends, as we were of the tirst. We shall all take your part. The others you can afford to neglect. CAROLINA. Thanks for those words of comfort. I knew that you were a good friend of ours, as you were also of his. ZURITA. A friend to both, to all three; si, senora, to all three. But here is your husband. [Don Florencio enters.] ZURITA. Don Florencio ! My friend ! FLORENCIO. My dear Zurita! I am de- lighted to see you! I wish to thank you for that charming article in memory of our never-to-be-forgotten friend. It was good of you, and I appreciate it. You have certainly proved yourself an excel- lent friend of his. Thanks, my dear Zu- rita, thanks! Carolina and I are both indebted to you for your charming arti- cle. It brought tears to our eyes. Am I right, Carolina? CAROLINA. We were tremendously af- fected by it. FLORENCIO. Friend Zurita, I am deeply gratified. For the first time in the his- tory of the province, all parties have united to do honor to this region's most eminent son. But have you seen the monument? It is a work of art. The statue is a perfect likeness it is the man, the man himself! The allegorical features are wonderfully artistic Com- merce, Industry, and Truth taken alto- gether in the nude. Nothing finer could be wished. You can imagine the trouble, however, we had with the nudes. The conservative element opposed the nudes, but the sculptor declined to proceed if the nudes were suppressed. In the end we won a decisive victory for Art. CAROLINA. Do you know, I think it would have been just as well not to have had any nudes? What was the use of offending anybody? Several of our friends are going to remain away from the ceremonies upon that account. FLORENCIO. How ridiculous! That only shows how far we are behind the times. You certainly have no feeling of that sort after having been the companion of that great, that liberal man. I re- member the trip we took to Italy together you surely recollect it, Carolina. I never saw a man so struck with admira- tion at those marvelous monuments of pagan and Renaissance art. Oh, what a man ! What a wonderful man ! He was an artist. Ah! Before I forget it, Car- olina, Gutierrez asked me for any pictures you have for the special edition of his paper, and I should like to have him pub- lish the verses which he wrote you when you were first engaged. Did you ever see those verses? That man might have been a poet he might have been anything else for that matter. Talk about letters ! I wish you could see his letters. Caro- lina, let us see some of those letters he wrote you when you were engaged. CAROLINA. Not now. That is hardly the time. . . . FLOHENCIO. Naturally. In spite of the satisfaction which we feel, these are trying days for us. We are united by our memories. I fear I shall never be able to control myself at the unveiling of the statue. CAROLINA. Florencio, for heaven's sake, you must ! You must control your- self. ZUHITA. Yes, do control yourself. You must. FLORENCIO. I am controlling myself. ZURITA. If there is nothing further that I can do ... CAROLINA. No, thank you, Zurita. I am awfully obliged to you. Now that I know what I am to wear, the situation does not seem half so embarrassing. ZURITA. I understand. A woman's position is never so embarrassing as when she is hesitating as to what to put on. 242 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS CAROLINA. Until to-morrow then? ZURITA. Don Florencio! FLORENCIO. Thank you again for your charming article. It was admirable! Admirable ! [Zurita retires.] FLORENCIO. I see that you feel it deeply! you are touched. So am I. It is foolish to attempt to conceal it. CAROLINA. I don't know how to ex- press it, but I am upset. FLOHENCIO. Don't forget the pictures, however, especially the one where the three of us were taken together on the second platform of the Eiffel tower. It was particularly good. CAROLINA. Yes, something out of the ordinary. Don't you think, perhaps, that our private affairs, our family life. . . . How do we know whether at this time, in our situation. . . . FLORENCIO. What are you afraid of? That is the woman of it. How narrow- minded! You ought to be above such pettiness after having been the wife of such an intelligent man. Every detail of the private life of the great has its interest for history. Those of us who knew him, who in a certain sense were his colaborers you will not accuse me of immodesty his colaborers in the great work of his life, owe it to history to see that the truth be known. CAROLINA. Nevertheless I hardly think I would print those letters much less the verses. Do you remember what they said? FLORENCIO. Of course, I remember: " Like a moth on a pin I preserve all your kisses ! . . ." Everybody makes allowances for poetry. Nobody is going to take seriously what he reads in a poem. He married you anyway. Why should any one object? CAROLINA. Stop, Florencio! What are you talking about? We are making our- selves ridiculous. FLORENCIO. Why should we make our- selves ridiculous? Although I shall cer- tainly stand by you, whatever you de- cide, if for no other reason than that I am your husband, his widow's husband. Otherwise people might think that I wanted you to forget, that I was jealous of his memory; and you know that is not the case. You know how I admired him, how I loved him just as he did me. Nobody could get along with him as well as I could; he was not easy to get along with, I do not need to tell you that. He had his peculiarities they were the pe- culiarities of a great man but they were great peculiarities. Like all great men, he had an exaggerated opinion of him- self. He was horribly stubborn, like all strong characters. Whenever he got on one of his hobbies no power on earth could pry him off of it. It is only out of respect that I do not say he was pig- headed. I was the only one who had the tact and the patience to do anything with him; you know that well enough. How often you said to me: "Oh, Florencio! I can't stand it any longer ! " And then I would reason with you and talk to him, and every time that you had a quarrel I was the one who consoled you after- ward. CAROLINA. Florencio, you are per- fectly disgusting! You have no right to talk like this. FLORENCIO. Very well then, my dear. I understand how you feel. This is a time when everybody is dwelling on his virtues, his good qualities, but I want you to remember that that great man had also his faults. CAROLINA. You don't know what you are talking about. FLORENCIO. Compare me with him CAROLINA. Florencio? You know that in my mind there has never been any comparison. Comparisons are odious. FLOHENCIO. Not necessarily. But of course you have not! You have never regretted giving up his distinguished name, have you, Carolina, for this humble one of mine? Only I want you to un- derstand that if I had desired to shine, if I had been ambitious. ... I have tal- ent myself. Now admit it! CAROLINA. Of course I do, my dear, of course ! But what is the use of talking nonsense? FLORENCIO. What is the matter with you, anyway? You are nervous to-day. It is impossible to conduct a sensible con- versation. Hello ! Your sisters-in-law ! I am not at home. CAROLINA. Don't excite yourself. They never ask for you. FLORENCIO. I am delighted ! . . . Well, I wish you a short session and escape. HIS WIDOW'S HUSBAND 243 CAROLINA. I am in a fine humor for this sort of thing myself. [Florencio goes out. Eudosia and Paquita enter.] EUDOSIA. I trust that we do not in- trude? CAROLINA. How can you ask? Come right in. EUDOSIA. It seems we find you at home for once. CAROLINA. So it seems. PAQUITA. Strange to say, whenever we call you always appear to be out. CAROLINA. A coincidence. EUDOSIA. The coincidence is to find you at home. [A pause.] We passed your husband on the street. CAROLINA. Are you sure that you would recognize him? PAQUITA. Oh! he was not alone. CAROLINA. Is that so? EUDOSIA. Paquita saw him with Somo- lino's wife, at Sanchez the confectioner's. CAROLINA. Very possibly. PAQUITA. I should not make light of it, if I were you. You know what Somo- lino's wife is, to say nothing of Sanchez the confectioner. CAROLINA. I didn't know about the confectioner. EUDOSIA. No respectable woman, no woman who even pretends to be respect- able, would set foot in his shop since he married that French girl. CAROLINA. I didn't know about the French girl. EUDOSA. Yes, he married her I say married her to avoid using another term. He married her in Bayonne if you call such a thing marriage civilly, which is the way French people marry. It is a land of perdition. CAROLINA. I am very sorry to hear it because I am awfully fond of sweetmeats. I adore bonbons and marrons glaces, and nobody here has as good ones as Sanchez, nor anywhere else for that matter. PAQUITA. In that case you had as well deny yourself, unless you are prepared to invite criticism. Somolino's wife is the only woman who enters the shop and faces the French girl, who gave her a receipt for dyeing her hair on the spot. You must have noticed how she is doing it now. CAROLINA. I hadn't noticed. EUDOSIA. It is not jet-black any more; it is baby-pink so she is having the Frenchwoman manicure her nails twice a week. Have you noticed the condition of her nails? They are the talk of the town. | . / pause.] PAQUITA. Well, I trust he is satisfied. CAROLINA. Who is he? PAQUITA. I do not call him your hus- band. Oh, our poor, dear brother! CAROLINA. I have not the slightest idea what you are talking about. EUDOSIA. So he has had his way at last and desecrated the statue of our poor brother with the figures of those naked women ? PAQUITA. As large as life. CAROLINA. But Florencio is not re- sponsible. It was the sculptor and the committee. I cannot see anything objec- tionable in them myself. There are such figures on all monuments. They are alle- gorical. EunosiA. I could understand, perhaps, why the statue of Truth should be un- clothed. Something of the sort was al- ways expected of Truth. But I must say that Commerce and Industry might have had a tunic at least. Commerce, in my opinion, is particularly indecent. PAQUITA. We have declined the seats which were reserved for us. They were directly in front and you could see every- thing. EUDOSIA. I suppose you still intend to be present? What a pity that there is nobody to give you proper advice ! CAROLINA. As I have been invited, I judge that I shall be welcome as I am. PAQUITA. Possibly if it were good form for you to appear at all. But when you exhibit yourself with that man who was his best friend after only three short years! CAROLINA. Three long years. EUDOSIA. No doubt they seemed long to you. Three years, did I say? They were like days to us who still keep his memory green! PAQUITA. Who still bear his name, be- cause no other name sounds so noble in our ears. EUDOSIA. Rather than change it, we have declined very flattering proposals. CAROLINA. I am afraid that you have made a mistake. You remember that 244 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS your brother was very anxious to see you married. PAQUITA. He imagined that all men were like him, and deserved wives like us, our poor, dear brother! Who would ever have dreamed he could have been forgotten so soon? Fancy his emotions as he looks down on you from the skies. CAROLINA. I do not believe for one moment that he has any regrets. If he had, then what would be the use of being in paradise? Don't you worry about me. The best thing that a young widow can do is marry at once. I was a very young widow. EUDOSIA. You were twenty-nine. CAROLINA. Twenty-six. EUDOSIA. We concede you twenty-six. At all events, you were not a child not to speak of the fact that no widow can be said to be a child. CAROLINA. No more than a single woman can be said to be old. However, I fail to see that there would be any impropriety in my being present at the unveiling of the statue. EUDOSIA. Do you realize that the pre- mature death of your husband will be the subject of all the speakers? They will, dwell on the bereavement which we have suffered through the loss of such an emi- nent man. How do you propose to take it? When people see you standing there, complacent and satisfied, alongside of that man, do you suppose they will ever believe that you are not reconciled? PAQUITA. What will your husband do while they are extolling the genius of our brother, and he knows that he never had any? CAROLINA. That was not your brother's opinion. He thought very highly of Florencio. EUDOSIA. Very highly. Our poor, dear brother! Among his other abilities he certainly had an extraordinary aptitude for allowing himself to be deceived. CAROLINA. That assumption is offen- sive to me; it is unfair to all of us. EUDOSIA. I hope you brought it with you, Paquita? PAQUITA. Yes; here it is. [Taking out a book.] EUDOSIA. Just look through this book if you have a moment. It arrived to-day from Madrid and is on sale at Valdi- vieso's. Just glance through it. CAROLINA. What is the book? [Read- ing the title upon the cover.] " Don Pa- tricio Molinete, the Man and His Work. A Biography. Together with His Corre- spondence and an Estimate of His Life." Why, thanks PAQUITA. No, do not thank us. Read, read what our poor brother has written to the author of this book, who was one of his intimate friends. CAROLINA. Recaredo Casalonga. Ah! I remember a rascal we were obliged to turn out of the house. Do you mean to say that scamp Casalonga has any letters? Merely to hear the name makes me nervous. EUDOSIA. But go on! Page two hun- dred and fourteen. Is that the page, Paquita? PAQUITA. It begins on page two hun- dred and fourteen, but before it amounts to anything turn the page. CAROLINA. Quick, quick ! Let me see. What does he say? What are these let- ters? What is this? He says that I. . . . But there is not a word of truth in it. My husband could never have writ- ten this. EUDOSIA. But there it is in cold type. You don't suppose they would dare to print CAROLINA. But this is outrageous; this book is a libel. It invades the pri- vate life the most private part of it ! It must be stopped. EUDOSIA. It cannot be stopped. You will soon see whether or not it can be stopped. PAQUITA. Probably the edition is ex- hausted by this time. CAROLINA. Is that so? We shall see! We shall see ! Florencio ! Florencio ! Come quickly ! Florencio ! EUDOSIA. Perhaps he has not yet re- turned. PAQUITA. He seemed to be enjoying himself. CAROLINA. Nonsense ! He was never out of the house. You are two old busy- bodies ! EUDOSIA. Carolina! You said that without thinking. PAQUITA. I cannot believe my ears. Did you say busybody. CAROLINA. That is exactly what I said. Now leave me alone. I can't stand it. It is all your fault. You are insupportable ! HIS WIDOW'S HUSBAND 245 EUDOSIA and PAQUITA. Carolina ! CAROLINA. Florencio ! Florencio ! [Florencio enters.] FLORENCIO. What is it, my dear? What is the matter? Ah! You? I am delighted. . . . EUDOSIA. Yes, we ! And we are leav- ing this house, where we have been in- sulted forever ! PAQUITA. Where we have been called busybodies ! EUDOSIA. Where we have been told that we were insupportable! PAQUITA. And when people say such things you can imagine what they think ! FLORENCIO. But Eudosia, Paquita. ... I do not understand. As far as I am concerned. . . . EUUOSIA. The person who is now your wife will make her explanations to you. PAQUITA. I never expected to be driven out of our brother's house like this! EUDOSIA. Our poor, dear brother ! FLORENCIO. But, Carolina CAROLINA. Let them go! Let them go ! They are impossible. PAQUITA. Did you hear that, Eudosia? We are impossible ! EUDOSIA. I heard it, Paquita. There is nothing left for us to hear in this house. CAROLINA. Yes there is ! You are as impossible as all old maids. EUDOSIA. There was something for us to hear after all! Come, Paquita. PAQUITA. Come, Eudosia. [They go out.] FLORENCIO. What is this trouble be- tween you and your sisters-in-law? CAROLINA. There isn't any trouble. We were arguing, that was all. There is nothing those women like so much as gossip, or making themselves disagree- able in any way they can. Do you re- member Casalonga? FLORENCIO. Recaredo Casalonga? I should say I did remember him ! That man was a character, and strange to say, a profound philosopher with it all. He was quite a humorist. CAROLINA. Yes, he was. Well, this philosopher, this humorist, has conceived the terribly humorous idea of publishing this book. FLORENCIO. Let me see. " Don Pa- tricio Molinete, the Man and His Work. A Biography. Together with His Cor- respondence and an Estimate of His Life." A capital idea! They were great friends, you know, although I don't sup- pose that there can be anything partic- ular in this book. What could Casalonga tell us anyway? CAROLINA. Us? Nothing. But go on, go on. FLORENCIO. You don't say! Letters of Patricio's. Addressed to whom? CAROLINA. To the author of the book, so it seems. Personal letters, they are confidential. Go on, go on. FLOHENCIO. " Dear Friend: Life is sad. Perhaps you ask the cause of my disil- lusionment. How is it that I have lost my faith in the future, in the future of our unfortunate land?" I remember that time. He was already ill. This letter was written after he had liver complaint and took a dark view of everything. Ah ! What a pity that great men should be subject to such infirmities ! Think of the intellect being made the slave of the liver! We are but dust. "The future of this unfortunate land. . . ." CAROLINA. No, that doesn't amount to anything. Lower down, lower down. Go on. FLORENCIO. " Life is sad ! " CAROLINA. Are you beginning all over again? FLORENCIO. No, he repeats himself. What is this? "I never loved but once in my life; I never loved but one woman my wife." He means you. CAROLINA. Yes. Go on, go on. FLORENCIO. " I never trusted but one friend, my friend Florencio." He means me. CAROLINA. Yes, yes; he means you. But go on, go on. FLOHENCIO. I wonder what he can be driving at. Ah! What does he say? That you, that I. ... CAROLINA. Go on, go on. FLOHENCIO. "This woman and this man, the two greatest, the two pure, the two unselfish passions of my life, in whom my very being was consumed how can I bring myself to confess it? I hardly dare admit it to myself! They are in love they love each other madly in secret perhaps without even suspecting themselves." CAROLINA. What do you think of that? FLORENCIO. Suspecting themselves. 246 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS . . . "They are struggling to overcome their guilty passion, but how long will they continue to struggle? Yet I am sorry for them both. What ought do? I cannot sleep." CAROLINA. What do you say? FLOHENCIO. Impossible! He never wrote such letters. Besides, if he did, they ought never to have been published. CAROLINA. But true or false, they have been published, and here they are. Ah! But this is nothing! You ought to see what he says farther on. He goes on communicating his observations, and there are some, to be perfectly frank, which nobody could have made but him- self. FLORENCIO. You don't mean to tell me that you think these letters are genuine? CAROLINA. They might be for all we know. He gives dates and details. FLORENCIO. And all the time we thought he suspected nothing! CAROLINA. You do jump so at conclu- sions, Florencio. How could he suspect? You know how careful we were about everything, no matter what happened, so as not to hurt his feelings. FLORENCIO. This only goes to show all the good that it did us. CAROLINA. He could only suspect that it was the truth ; that we were loving in silence. FLOHENCIO. Then perhaps you can ex- plain to me what was the use of all this silence? Don't you see that what he has done now is to go and blurt the whole thing out to this rascal Casalonga? an unscrupulous knave whose only interest in the matter is to turn these confidences to his own advantage ! It is useless to attempt to defend it. Such foolishness was unpardonable. I should never have believed it of my friend. If he had any doubts about me about us why didn't he say so? Then we could have been more careful, and have done something to ease his mind. But this notion of run- ning and telling the first person who hap- pens along. . . What a position does it leave me in? In what light do we ap- pear at this time? Xow, when everybody is paying respect to his memory, and I have put myself to all this trouble in order to raise money for this monument what are people going to think when they read these things? CAROLINA. I always said that we would have trouble with that monument. FLORENCIO. How shall I have the face to present myself to-morrow before the monument? CAROLINA. My sisters-in-law were right. We are going to be conspicuous. FLOHENCIO. Ah ! But this must be stopped. I shall run at once to the offices of the papers, to the judicial au- thorities, to the governor, to all the book- sellers. As for this Casalonga Ah! I will settle with him ! Either he will re- tract and confess that these letters are forgeries from beginning to end, or I will kill him! I will fight with him in earnest ! CAROLINA. Florencio ! Don't forget yourself! You are going too far. You don't mean a duel? To expose your life? FLOHENCIO. Don't you see that it is im- possible to submit to such an indignity ? Where is this thing going to stop? Is nobody's private life to be secure? And this goes deeper than the private life it impugns the sanctity of our intentions. CAROLINA. No, Florencio! FLORENCIO. Let me go ! CAROLINA. Florencio! Anything but a duel ! No, no ! FLORENCIO. Ah! Either he will retract and withdraw the edition of this libel or, should he refuse. . . . CAROLINA. Zurita ! FLORENCIO. My friend. . . . You are just in time! [Zurita enters.] ZUHITA. Don Florencio. . . . Caro- lina. . . . Don't say a word ! I know how you feel. FLOHENCIO. Did you see it? Did you hear it? Is this a civilized country in which we live? CAROLINA. But surely he has not heard it already? ZURITA. Yes, at the Club. Some one had the book; they were passing it around. FLORENCIO. At the Club? ZURITA. Don't be alarmed. Every- body thinks it is blackmail a case of chantage. Don Patricio could never have written such letters. FLORENCIO. Ah! So they think that? ZURITA. Even if he had, they deal with private matters, which ought never to have been made public. HIS WIDOW'S HUSBAND 247 FLORENCIO. Exactly my idea with private matters; they are confidential. ZUHITA. I lost no time, as you may be sure, of hurrying to Valdivieso's shop, where the books are on sale. I found him amazed; he was entirely innocent. He bought the copies supposing that the subject was of timely importance; that it was of a serious nature. He hurried at once to withdraw the copies from the window, and ran in search of the au- thor. FLORENCIO. Of the author? Is the au- thor in town? ZURITA. Yes, he came with the books; he arrived with them this morning. FLORENCIO. Ah! So this scamp Casa- longa is here, is he? Tell me where I can find him! ZURITA. At the Hotel de Europa. CAROLINA. Florencio ! Don't you go ! Hold him back! He means to challenge him. ZUHITA. Never! It is not worth the trouble. Besides, you ought to hold your- self above such things. Your wife is above them. FLOHENCIO. But what will people say, friend Zurita? What will people say? ZURITA. Everybody thinks it is a huge joke. FLORENCIO. A joke? Then our posi- tion is ridiculous. ZURITA. I did not say that. What I do say. . . . FLORENCIO. No, no, friend Zurita; you are a man of honor, you know that it is necessary for me to kill this man. CAROLINA. But suppose he is the one who kills you? No, Florencio, not a duel! What is the use of the courts? FLORENCIO. No, I prefer to fight. My dear Zurita, run in search of another friend and stop at the Hotel de Europa as my representatives. Seek out this man, exact reparation upon the spot a reparation which shall be resounding, complete. Either he declares over his own signature that those letters are im- pudent forgeries or, should he refuse. CAROLINA. Florencio ! FLORENCIO. Stop at nothing! Do not haggle over terms. Let it be pistols with real bullets, as we pace forward each to each ! ZURITA. But, Don Florencio! CAROLINA. Don't go, I beg of you ! Don't leave the house ! FLOHENCIO. You are my friend go at once! CAROLINA. No, he will never go ! ZURITA. But, Don Florencio! Con- sider. . . . The situation is serious. FLORENCIO. W T hen a man is made ridic- ulous the situation ceases to be serious ! How shall I have the face to show my- self before the monument ! I his most intimate friend ! She, my wife, his widow! And everybody thinking all the while of those letters, imagining that I, that she. . . . No, no ! Run ! Bring me that retraction at once. ZURITA. Not so fast ! I 'hear the voice of Valdivieso. FLORENCIO. Eh? And Casalonga's! Has that man the audacity to present himself in my house? ZURITA. Be calm! Since he is here, perhaps he comes to explain. Let me see [He goes out.} CAROLINA. Florencio ! Don't you re- ceive him ! Don't you have anything to do with that man! FLORENCIO. I am in my own house. Never fear ! I shall not forget to con- duct myself as a gentleman. Now we shall see how he explains the matter; we shall see. But you had better retire first. Questions of honor are not for women. CAROLINA. You know best; only I think 1 might remain within earshot. I am nervous. My dear! Where are your arms? FLOHENCIO. What do I need of arms? CAROLINA. Be careful just the same. Keep cool ! Think of me. FLORENCIO. I am in my own house. Have Jio fear. CAROLINA. It upsets me dreadfully to see you in such a state. FLOHENCIO. What are you 'doing now? CAROLINA. Removing these vases in case you should throw things. I should hate awfully to lose them; they were a present. FLORENCIO. Hurry, dear! CAROLINA. I am horribly nervous. Keep cool, for heavens' sake! Control yourself. [Carolina goes out. Zurita r cen- ters.] 248 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS ZURITA. Are you calmer now? FLORENCIO. Absolutely. Is that man here? ZUHITA. Yes, Valdivieso brought him. He desires to explain. FLORENCIO. Who? Valdivieso? Natu- rally. But that other fellow, that Casa- longa what does he want? ZURITA. To have a few words with you; to offer a thousand explanations. FLOHENCIO. No more than one explana- tion is possible. ZrRiTA. Consider a moment. In my opinion it will be wiser to receive him. He appears to be innocent. FLORENCIO. Of the first instincts of a gentleman. ZURITA. Exactly. I did not venture to put it so plainly. He attaches no im- portance to the affair whatever. FLORENCIO. Of course not ! It is noth- ing to him. ZUHITA. Nothing. However, you will find him disposed to go to any length retract, make a denial, withdraw the book from circulation. You had best have a few words with him. But first promise to control yourself. Shall I ask them to come in? FLORENCIO. Yes . . . yes! Ask them to come in. ZURITA. Poor Valdivieso is awfully put out. He always had such a high opin- ion of you. You are one of the two or three persons in this town who buy books. It would be a tremendous relief to him if you would only tell him that you knew he was incapable. . . . FLOHENCIO. Thoroughly! Poor Valdi- vieso! Ask him to come in; ask them both to come in. [Zurita retires and returns presently with Valdivieso and Casalonga.] VALDIVIESO. Senor Don Florencio ! I hardly know what to say. I am sure that you will not question my good faith in the matter. I had no idea ... in fact, I never suspected. . . . FLORENCIO. I always knew you were innocent ! but this person. . . . CASALONGA. Come, come now ! Don't blame it on me. How the devil was I to know that you were here and married to his widow ! Sport for the gods ! FLORENCIO. Do you hear what he says? ZURITA. I told you that he appeared to be innocent. FLORENCIO. And I told you that he was devoid of the first instincts of a gentleman; although I failed to realize to what an extent. Sir CASALONGA. Don't be absurd! Stop making faces at me. FLORENCIO. In the first place, I don't recall that we were ever so intimate. CASALONGA. Of course we were ! Of course ! Anyhow, what difference does it make? We were together for a whole season; we were inseparable. Hard times those for us both ! But what did we care? When one of us was out of money, all he had to do was to ask the other, and be satisfied. FLOHENCIO. Yes; I seem to recall that the other was always I. CASALONGA. Ha, ha, ha ! That might be. Stranger things have happened. But you are not angry with me, are you? The thing is not worth all this fuss. FLORENCIO. Do you hear what he says? VALDIVIESO. You may be sure that if I had had the slightest idea. ... I bought the books so as to take advantage of the timeliness of the monument. If I had ever suspected. . . . CASALONGA. Identically my position to take advantage of the monument. Life is hard. While the conservatives are in power, I am reduced to extremities. I am at my wit's end to earn an honest penny. FLORENCIO. I admire your colossal im- pudence. What are you going to do with a man like this? ZURITA. Exactly the question that oc- curred to me. What are you going to do? CASALONGA. For a time I was reduced to writing plays like everybody else although mine were better. That was the reason they did not succeed. Then I married my last landlady; I was obliged to settle with her somehow. A little dif- ference arose between us, so we agreed to separate amicably after smashing all the furniture. However, that will be of no interest to you. FLORENCIO. No, no, it is of no interest to me. CASALONGA. A novel, my boy ! A ver- itable work of romance! I wandered all over the country explaining views for the cinematograph. You know what a gift I have for talk? Wherever I ap- HIS WIDOW'S HUSBAND 249 peared the picture houses were crowded even to the exits. Then my voice gave out. I was obliged to find some other outlet for my activities. I thought of my friends. You know what friends are; as soon as a man needs them he hasn't any friends. Which way was I to turn? I happened to hear that you were un- veiling a monument to the memory of friend Patricio. Poor Patricio! That man was a friend ! He could always be relied upon. It occurred to me that I might write out a few pages of remin- iscences preferably something personal and publish any letters of his which I had chanced to preserve. FLOREN cio. What luck ! CASALONGA. Pshaw ! Bread and but- ter bread and butter, man! A mere pittance. It occurred to me that they would sell better here than anywhere else this is where he lived. So I came this morning third class think of that, third class ! and hurried at once to this fel- low's shop. I placed two thousand copies with him, which he took from me at a hor- rible discount. You know what these booksellers are. . . . VALDIVIESO. I call you to witness what was customary under the circum- stances. He was selling for cash. CASALONGA. Am I the man to deny it? You can divide mankind into two classes knaves and fools. VALDIVIESO. Listen to this CASALONGA. You are not one of the fools. VALDIVTESO. I protest ! How am I to profit by the transaction? Do you sup- pose that I shall sell a single copy of this libel now that I know that it is offen- sive to my particular, my excellent friend, Don Florencio, and to his respected wife? FLORENCIO. Thanks, friend Valdivieso, thanks for that. VALDIVIESO. I shall burn the edition, although you can imagine what that will cost. FLORENCIO. The loss will be mine. It will be at my expense. CASALONGA. What did I tell you? Florencio will pay. What are you com- plaining about? If I were in your place, though, I'd be hanged if I would give the man one penny. VALDIVIESO. W T hat? When you have collected spot cash? CASALONGA. You don't call that col- lecting? Not at that discount. The paper was worth more. FLORENCIO. The impudence of the thing was worth more than the paper. CASALONGA. Ha, ha, ha! Really, I cannot find it in my heart to be angry with you. You are too clever! But what was I to do? I had to find some outlet for my activities. Are you going to kill me? FLORENCIO. I have made my arrange- ments. Do you suppose that I will sub- mit meekly to such an indignity? If you refuse to fight, I will hale you before the courts. CASALONGA. Drop that tragic tone. A duel? Between us? Over what? Be- cause the wife of a friend who at the same time happens to be your wife has been intimate with you? Suppose it had been with some one else ! FLOREHCIO. The supposition is im- proper. CASALONGA. You are the first man I ever heard of who was offended because it was said that he had been intimate with his wife. The thing is preposterous. How are we ever going to fight over it? ZURITA. I can see his point of view. FLORENCIO. Patricio could never have written those letters, much less to you. CASALONGA. Talk as much as you like, the letters are genuine. Although it may have been foolish of Patricio to have written them that is a debatable ques- tion. I published them so as to enliven the book. A little harmless suggestion people look for it; it adds spice. Aside from that, what motive could I have had for dragging you into it? FLORENCIO. I admire your frankness at least. ZUHTTA. What do you propose to do with this man? FLORENCIO. What do you propose? CASALONGA. You know I was always fond of you. You are a man of abil- ity. FLORENCIO. Thanks. CASALONGA. You have more ability than Patricio had. He was a worthy soul, no doubt, but between us, who were in the secret, an utter blockhead. FLORENCIO. Hardly that. CASALONGA. I need not tell you what 250 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS reputations amount to in this country. If he had had your brains, your transcend- ent ability. . . . FLORENCIO. How can I stop this man from talking? CASALONGA. You have always been too modest in my opinion ; you have remained in the background in order to give him a chance to shine, to attract attention. Everybody knows that his best speeches were written by you. FLORENCE. You have no right to be- tray my confidence. C ASA LONG A. Yes, gentlemen, it is only just that you should know. The real brains belonged to this man, he is the one who should have had the statue. As a friend he is wonderful, unique! FLORENCIO. How am I going to fight with this man? CASALONGA. I will give out a statement at once for public consumption de- claring that the letters are forgeries or whatever you think best; as it appeals to you. Fix it up for yourself. It is of no consequence anyhow. I am above this sort of thing. I should be sorry, how- ever, to see this fellow receive more than his due, which is two reals a copy, or what he paid me. VALDIVIESO. I cannot permit you to meddle in my affairs. You are a rogue and a cheat. CASALONGA. A rogue and a cheat? In that case you are the one I will fight with. You are no friend of mine. You are an exploiter of other men's brains. VALDIVTESO. You are willing to fight with me, are you a respectable man, the father of a family? After swindling me out of my money ! CASALONGA. Swindling? That is no language to use in this house. VALDIVIESO. I use it where I like. FLORENCIO. Gentlemen, gentlemen ! This is my house, this is the house of my wife ! ZURITA. Valdivieso ! CASALONGA [to Florencio]. I choose you for my second. And you too, my friend what is your name? VALDIVIESO. But will you listen to him? Do you suppose that I will fight with this rascal, with the first knave who happens along? I, the father of a fam- ily? CASALONGA. I cannot accept your ex- planation. My friends will confer with Bjurs and apprise us as to the details, ave everything ready for this after- noon. VALDIVIESO. Do you stand here and sanction this nonsense? You cannot be- lieve one word that he says. No doubt it would be convenient for you to retire and use me as a Turk's head to receive all the blows, when you are the one who ought to fight ! FLORENCIO. Friend Valdivieso, I can- not permit reflections upon my conduct from you. After all, you need not have purchased the book, which you did for money, knowing that it was improper, since it contained matter which was offen- sive to me. VALDIVIESO. Are you speaking in ear- nest? FLORENCIO. I was never more in ear- nest in my life. CASALONGA. Yes, sir, and it is high time for us all to realize that it is in earnest. It was all your fault. Nobody buys without spending the wares. It was your business to have pointed out to me the indiscretion I was about to commit. [To Florencio.} I am perfectly willing to withdraw if you wish to fight him, to yield my place as the aggrieved party to you. I should be delighted to act as one of your seconds, with our good friend here what is your name? ZURITA. Zurita. CASALONGA. My good friend Zurita. VALDIVIESO. Am I losing my mind? This is a trap which you have set for me, a despicable trap ! FLORENCIO. Friend Valdivieso, I can- not tolerate these reflections. I am in- capable of setting a trap. ZURITA. Ah ! And so am I ! When you entered this house you were familiar with its reputation. CASALONGA. You have forgotten with whom you are speaking. VALDIVIESO. Nonsense! This is too much. 1 wash my hands of the whole business. Is this the spirit in which my advances are received? What I will do now is sell the book and if I can't sell it, I will give it away ! Everybody can read it then and they can talk as much as they want to. This is the end ! I am through. FLORENCIO. Wait? What was that? HIS WIDOW'S HUSBAND 251 I warn you not to sell so much as one copy ? ZURITA. I should be sorry if you did. Take care not to drag me into it. CASALONGA. Nor me either. VALUIVIESO. Enough! Do as you see fit and I shall do the same. This is the end the absolute end ! It is the finish ! [Rushes out.] FLORENCIO. Stop him ! CASALONGA. It won't be necessary. I shall go to the shop and take back the edition. Whatever you intended to pay him you can hand directly to me. I am your friend; besides I need the money. This man shall not get the best of me. Oh ! By the way, what are you doing to- night? Have dinner with me. I shall expect you at the hotel. Don't forget! If you don't show up, I may drop in my- self and have dinner with you. FLORENCIO. No ! What would my wife say? She has trouble enough. CASALONGA. Nonsense ! She knows me, and we should have a good laugh. Is she as charming, as good-looking, as striking as ever? I am keen for her. I don't need to ask whether she is happy. Poor Patricio was a character ! What a sight he was ! What a figure ! And age dou- bled him for good measure. I'll look in on you later. It has been a rare pleas- ure this time. There are few friends like you. Come, shake hands ! I am touched ; you know how it is. See you later ! If I don't come back, I have killed my man and am in jail for it. Tell your wife. If I can help out in any way. . . . Good-by, my friend ah, yes ! Zurita. I have a terrible head to-day. See you later! [Goes out.] FLOHENCIO. Did you ever see anything equal of it? I never did, and I knew him of old. But he has made progress. ZURITA. His assurance is fairly epic. FLORENCIO. What are you going to do with a man who takes it like this? You cannot kill him in cold blood [Carolina, reenters.] FLORENCIO. Ah! Carolina! Were you listening? You heard everything. CAROLINA. Yes, and in spite of it I think he is fascinating. FLOHENCIO. Since Carolina feels that way it simplifies the situation. ZURITA. Why not ? She heard the com- pliments. The man is irresistible. FLORENCIO. Carolina, it comes simply to this: nobody attaches any importance to the matter. Only two or three copies have been sold. CAROLINA. Yes, but one of them was to my sisters-in-law, which is the same as if they had sold forty thousand. They will tell everybody. FLORENCIO. They were doing it any- how; there is no further cause for worry. CAROLINA. At all events, I shall not at- tend the unveiling to-morrow, and you ought not to go either. FLORENCIO. But, wife! ZURITA. Ah! The unveiling. ... I had forgotten to mention it. CAROLINA. To mention what? ZURITA. It has been postponed. FLORENCIO. How? ZURITA. The committee became ner- vous at the last moment over the pro- tests against the nudes. After seeing the photographs many ladies declined to participate. At last the sculptor was convinced, and he has consented to with- draw the statue of Truth altogether, and to put a tunic upon Industry, while Com- merce is to have a bathing-suit. CAROLINA. That will be splendid! ZUBITA. All this, however, will require several days, and by that time everything will have been forgotten. [Casalonga reenters with the books. He is completely out of breath and drops them suddenly upon the floor, where they raise a tremen- dous cloud of dust.] CAROLINA. Ay! CASALONGA. I had you scared ! At your service. . . . Here is the entire edi- tion. I returned him his thousand pesetas I declined to make it another penny. I told you that would be all that was necessary. I am a man of my word. Now it is up to you. No more could be asked! I am your friend and have said enough. I shall have to find some other outlet for my activities. That will be all for to-day. FLORENCIO. I will give you two thou- sand pesetas. But beware of a second edition ! CASALONGA. Don't begin to worry so soon. With this money I shall have enough to be decent at least at least 252 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS for two months. You know me, senora. I am Florencio's most intimate friend, as I was Patricio's most intimate friend, which is to say one of the most intimate friends you ever had. CAROLINA. Yes, I remember. CASALONGA. But I have changed since that time. FLORENCIO. Not a bit of it! He is just the same. CASALONOA. Yes, the change is in you. You are the same, only you have im- proved. [To Carolina.] I am amazed at the opulence of your beauty, which a fortunate marriage has greatly enhanced. Have you any children? CAROLINA. No. . . . CASALONOA. You are going to have some. FLORENCIO. Flatterer ! CASALONGA. But I must leave before night: there is nothing for me to do here. FLORENCIO. No, you have attended to everything. I shall send it after you to the hotel. CASALONOA. Add a little while you are about it to cover expenses by way of a finishing touch. FLORENCIO. Oh, very well! CASALONOA. That will be all. Senora, if I can be of service. . . . My good Zurita! Friend Florencio! Before I die I hope to see you again. FLORENCIO. Yes! Unless I die first. CASALONGA. I know how you feel. You take the worst end for yourself. " FLOBENCIO. Allow me that consolation. CASALONGA. God be with you, my friend. Adios ! Rest in peace. How different are our fates ! Life to you is sweet. You have everything love, riches, satisfaction. While I I laugh through my tears ! [Goes out.] CAROLINA. That cost you money. FLORENCIO. What else did you expect? I gave up to avoid a scandal upon your account. I could see that you were ner- vous. 1 would have fought if I could have had my way; I would have carried matters to the last extreme. Zurita will tell you so. CAROLINA. I always said that monu- ment would cost us dear. FLORENCIO. Obviously! Two thousand pesetas now, besides the twenty-five thou- sand which I subscribed for the monu- ment, to say nothing of my uniform as Chief of Staff which I had ordered for the unveiling. Then there are the ban- quets to the delegates. . . . ZURITA. Glory is always more expen- sive than it is worth. FLORENCIO. It is not safe to be famous even at second hand. CAROLINA. But you are not sorry? FLORENCIO. No, my Carolina, the glory of being your husband far outweighs in my eyes the disadvantages of being the husband of his widow. [Curtain.] A SUNNY MORNING A COMEDY BY SERAFIN AND JOAQUIN ALVAREZ QUINTERO TRANSLATED FROM THE SPANISH BY LUCRETIA XAVIEH FLOYD. Copyrighted, 1914, by Lucretia Xavier Floyd under the title of "A Morning of All rights reserved. CHARACTERS DONA LAURA. PETRA [her maid]. DON GONZALO. JUANITO [his servant], TIME: The Present. Published by special arrangement with Mrs. Lucretia Xavier Floyd and Mr. John Garrett Underbill, the Society of Spanish Authors. Applications for permission to produce this play must be made to the Society of Spanish Authors, Room 62, 20 Nassau Street, New York. A SUNNY MORNING A COMEDY BY SERAFIN AND JOAQUIN ALVAREZ QUINTERO [Scene laid in a retired part of a park in Madrid, Spain. A bench at right. Bright, sunny morning in autumn. Dona Laura, a handsome old lady of about 70, with white hair and of very refined ap- pearance, aUhough elderly, her bright eyes and entire manner prove her mental facilities are unimpaired. She enters ac- companied by her maid Petra, upon whose arm she leans with one hand, while the other holds a parasol which she uses as a cane.] DONA LAURA. I am so glad we have arrived. I feared my seat would he oc- cupied. What a beautiful morning ! PETRA. The sun is rather hot. DOXA LAURA. Yes, to you who are only 20 years old. [She sits down on the bench.] Oh, I feel more tired to-day than usual. [Noticing Petra, who seems impatient.} Go, if you wish to chat with your guard. PETRA. He is not my guard, Senora; he belongs to the park. DOXA LAURA. He belongs more to you than to the park. Go seek him, but re- main within calling distance. PETHA. I see him over there waiting for me. DOXA LAURA. Do not remain away more than ten minutes. PETRA. Very well, Senora. [Walks toward right, but is detained.] DOXA LAURA. Wait a moment. PETRA. What does the Senora wish? DOXA LAURA. You are carrying away the bread crumbs. PETHA. Very true. I don't know where my head is. DOXA LAURA [smiling]. I do. It is where your heart is with your guard. PETRA. Here, Senora. [She hands Dona Laura a small bag. Exit Petra.] DOXA LAURA. Adios. [Glancing to- ward trees.] Here come the rogues. They know just when to expect me. [She rises, walks toward right, throws three handfuls of bread crumbs.] These are for the most daring, these for the gluttons, and these for the little ones which are the biggest rogues. Ha, ha. [She returns to her seat and watches with a pleased expression, the pigeons feed- ing.] There, that big one is always the first. That little fellow is the least timid. I believe he would eat from my hand. That one takes his piece and flies to that branch. He is a philosopher. But from where do they all come? It seems as if the news had been carried. Ha, ha. Don't quarrel. There is enough for all. To-morrow I'll bring more. [Enter Don Gonzalo and Juanito. Don Gonzalo is an old gentleman over 70, gouty and impatient. He leans upon Juanito's arm and drags his feet along as he walks. He displays ill temper.] DON GONZALO. Idling their time away. They should be saying Mass. JUANITO. You can sit here, Senor, There is only a lady. [Dona Laura turns her head and list- ens to the dialogue.] DON GONZALO. I won't, Juanito. I want a bench to myself. JUANITO. But there is none. DON GONZALO. But that one over there is mine. JUANITO. But there are three priests sitting there. DON GONZALO. Let them get up. Have they gone, Juanito? JUANITO. No, indeed. They are in animated conversation. DON GONZALO. Just as if they were glued to the seat. No hope of their leav- ing. Come this way, Juanito. [They walk toward birds.] DONA LAURA [indignantly]. Look out! DON GONZALO [turning his head]. Are you talking to me, Senora? DONA LAURA. Yes, to you. 255 2 5 6 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS DON GONZALO. What do you wish? DONA LAURA. You have scared away the birds who were feeding on bread crumbs. DON GONZALO. What do I care about the birds. DONA LAURA. But I do. DON GONZALO. This is a public park. DONA LAURA. Then why do you com- plain that the priests have taken your bench? DON GONZALO. Senora, we have not been introduced to each other. I do not know why you take the liberty of ad- dressing me. Come, Juanito. [Both exit.] DONA LAURA. What an ill-natured old man. Why must some people get so fussy and cross when they reach a certain age? I am glad. He lost that bench, too. Serves him right for scaring the birds. He is furious. Yes, yes; find a seat if you can. Poor fellow ! He is wiping the perspiration from his face. Here he comes. A carriage would not raise more dust than he does with his feet. [Enter Don Oonzalo and Juanito.] DON GONZALO. Have the priests gone yet, Juanito? JUANITO. No, indeed, Senor. They are still there. DON GONZALO. The authorities should place more benches here for these sunny mornings. Well, I suppose I must re- sign myself and sit on the same bench with the old lady. [Muttering to him- self, he sits at the extreme end of Dona Laura's bench and looks at her indig- nantly. Touches his hat as he greets her.] Good morning. DONA LAURA. What, you here again? DON GONZALO. I repeat that we have not been introduced. DONA LAURA. I am responding to your greeting. DON GONZALO. Good morning should be answered by good morning, and that is what you should have said. DONA LAURA. And you should have asked permission to sit on this bench which is mine. DON GONZALO. The benches here are public property. DONA LAURA. Why, you said the one the priests occupied was yours. DON GONZALO. Very well, very well. I have nothing more to say. [Between his teeth.] Doting old woman. She should be at home with her knitting and counting her beads. DONA LAURA. Don't grumble any more. I'm not going to leave here just to please you. DON GONZALO [brushing the dust from his shoes with his handkerchief]. If the grounds were sprinkled more freely it would be an improvement. DONA LAURA. What an idea, to brush your shoes with your handkerchief. DON GONZALO. What? DONA LAURA. Do you use a shoe brush as a handkerchief? DON GONZALO. By what right do you criticize my actions? DONA LAUHA. By the rights of a neigh- bor. DON GONZALO. Juanito, give me my book. I do not care to hear any more nonsense. DONA LAURA. You are very polite. DON GONZALO. Pardon me, Senora, but if you did not interfere with what does not concern you. DONA LAURA. I generally say what I think. DON GONZALO. And say more than you should. Give me the book, Juan- ito. JUAXITO. Here it is, Senor. [Juanito takes book from pocket, hands it to Don Oonzalo; then exits.] [Don Gonzalo, casting indignant glances at Doiia Laura, puts on an enormous pair of glasses, takes from his pocket a reading-glass, adjusts both to suit him, opens his book.] DONA LAURA. I thought you were go- ing to take out a telescope now. DON GONZALO. What, again? DONA LAURA. Your sight must be fine. DON GONZALO. Many times better than yours. DONA LAURA. Yes, it is very evident. DON GONZALO. Many hares and part- ridges could bear testimony to my words. DONA LAURA. Do you hunt? DON GONZALO. I did, and even now DONA LAURA. Oh, yes, of course. DON GONZALO. Yes, Senora. Every Sunday I take my gun and dog, you un- derstand, and go to one of my properties near Aravaca, just to kill time. A SUNNY MORNING 257 DONA LAURA. Yes, to kill time. That is all you can kill. DON GONZALO. Do you think so? I could show you a wild boar's head in my study DONA LAURA. Yes, and I could show you a tiger's skin in my boudoir. What an argument ! DON GONZALO. Very well, Senora, please allow me to read. I do not feel like having more conversation. DONA LAURA. Well, keep quiet then. DOJT GONZALO. But first I shall take a pinch of snuff. [Takes out snuff box.] Will you have some? [Offers box to Dona Laura.] DONA LAURA. If it is good? DON GONZALO. It is of the finest. You will like it. DONA LAURA [taking pinch of snuff]. It clears my head. DON GONZALO. And mine. DONA LAURA. Do you sneeze? DON GONZALO. Yes, Senora, three times. DONA LAURA. And so do I. What a coincidence ! [After taking the snuff, they await the sneezes, making grimaces, and then sneeze alternately three times each.] DON GONZALO. There, I feel better. DONA LAURA. So do I. [Aside.] The snuff has made peace between us. DON GONZALO. You will excuse me if I read aloud? DONA LAURA. Read as you please; you will not disturb me. DON GONZALO [reading], "All love is sad, but sad and all, it is the best thing that exists." That is from Campoamor. DONA LAURA. Ah! DON GONZALO [reading]. "The daugh- ters of the mothers I once loved, kiss me now as they would kiss a wooden im- age." Those lines are in the humorous vein. DONA LAURA [laughing]. So I see. DON GONZALO. There are some beauti- ful poems in this book. Listen: "Twenty years have passed. He returns." DONA LAURA. You cannot imagine how it affects me to see you reading with all those glasses. DON GONZALO. Can it be possible that you read without requiring any? DONA LAURA.. Certainly. Dox GONZALO. At your age? You must be jesting. DONA LAURA. Pass me the book, please, [takes book, reads aloud.] " Twentv years have passed. He returns. And each upon beholding the other ex- claims Can it be possible that this is he? Merciful heavens, can this be she?" [Dona Laura returns book to Don Gonzalo.] Dox GONZALO. Indeed, you are to be envied for your wonderful eyesight. DONA LAURA [aside]. I knew the lines from memory. DON GONZALO. I am very fond of good verse, very fond. I even composed some in my youth. DONA LAURA. Good ones? DON GOXZALO. Of all kinds. I was a great friend of Espronceda, Zorrilla, Bec- quer and others. I first met Zorrilla in America. DONA LAURA. Why, have you been in America? DON GONZALO. Several times. The first time I went I was only six years old. DONA LAURA. Columbus must have carried you in one of his caravels. DON GONZALO [laughing]. Not quite as bad as that. I am old, I admit, but I did not know Ferdinand and Isabella. [They both laugh.] I was also a great friend of Campoamor. I met him in Valencia. I am a native of that city. DONA LAURA. You are? DON GONZALO. I was brought up there and there I spent my early youth. Have you ever visited that city? DONA LAURA. Yes, Senor. Not far from Valencia there was a mansion that if still there, should retain memories of me. I spent there several seasons. This was many, many years ago. It was near the sea, concealed among lemon and orange trees. They called it let me see, what did they call it? "Maricela," DON GOXZALO [startled], Maricela? DONA LAURA. Maricela. Is the name familiar to you? DON GONZALO. Yes, very familiar. If my memory serves me right, for we forget as we grow old, there lived in that mansion the most beautiful woman I have ever seen, and I assure you I have seen a few. Let me see what was her name? Laura Laura Laura Lorente. 258 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS DONA LAUHA [startled]. Laura Lor- ente? DON GONZALO. Yes. [They look at each other strangely.} DONA LAURA [recovering herself]. Nothing. You reminded me of my best friend. DON* GONZALO. How strange! DONA LAURA. It is strange. She was called " The Silver Maiden." DON GONZALO. Precisely, "The Silver Maiden." By that name she was known in that locality- I seem to see her as if she were before me now, at that window of the red roses. Do you remember that window? DONA LAURA. Yes, I remember. It was that of her room. DON GOXZALO. She spent many hours there. I mean in my days. DONA LAURA [tiaMnff], And in mine, too. DON GONZALO. She was ideal. Fair as a lily, jet black hair and black eyes, with a very sweet expression. She seemed to cast a radiance wherever she was. Her figure was beautiful, perfect. " What forms of sovereign beauty God models in human sculpture ! " She was a dream. DONA LAURA [aside]. If you but knew that dream was now by your side, you would realize what dreams are worth. [Aloud.] She was very unfortunate and had a sad love affair. DON GONZALO. Very sad. [They look at each other.] DONA LAURA. You know of it? DON GONZALO. Yes. DONA LAURA [aside]. Strange are the ways of Providence ! This man is my early lover. DON GONZALO. The gallant lover, if we refer to the same affair DONA LAURA. To the duel? DON GONZALO. Precisely, to the duel. The gallant lover was my cousin, of whom I was very fond. DONA LAURA. Oh, yes, a cousin. My friend told me in one of her letters the story of that love affair, truly romantic. He, your cousin, passed by on horseback every morning by the rose path under her window, and tossed up to her bal- cony a bouquet of flowers which she caught. DON GONZALO. And later in the after- noon, the gallant horseman would return by the same path, and catch the bouquet of flowers she would toss him. Was it not so? DONA LAURA. Yes. They wanted to marry her to a merchant whom she did not fancy. DON GONZALO. And one night, when my cousin watched under her window to hear her sing, this new lover presented himself unexpectedly. DONA LAURA. And insulted your cous- I : in. DON GONZALO. There was a quarrel. DONA LAURA. And later a duel. DON GONZALO. Yes, at sunrise, on the beach, and the merchant was badly wounded. My cousin had to conceal him- self for a few days and later to fly. DONA LAUBA. You seem to know the story perfectly. DON GONZALO. And so do you. DONA LAURA. I have told you that my friend related it to me. DON GONZALO. And my cousin to me. [A side.] This woman is Laura. What a strange fate has brought us together again. DONA LAURA [aside]. He does not suspect who I am. Why tell him? Let him preserve his illusion. DON GONZALO [aside]. She does not suspect she is talking to her old lover. How can she? I will not reveal my identity. DONA LAURA. And was it you, by chance, who advised your cousin to for- get Laura? DON GONZALO. Why, my cousin never forgot her for one instant. DONA LAURA. How do you account, then, for his conduct? DON GOZALO. I will explain. The young man first took refuge in my house, fearful of the consequences of his duel with that man, so much beloved in that locality. From my home he went to Seville, then came to Madrid. He wrote to Laura many letters, some in verse. But, undoubtedly, they were intercepted by her parents, for she never answered them. Gonzalo then, in despair, and be- lieving his loved one lost to him forever, joined the army, went to Africa, and there, in a trench, met a glorious death, grasping the flag of Spain and repeating the name of his beloved Laura Laura Laura. A SUNNY MORNING 259 DONA LAURA [aside]. What an atro- cious lie ! DON GONZALO [aside]. I could not have killed myself in a more glorious manner. DONA L.CURA. Such a calamity must have caused you the greatest sorrow. DON GONZALO. Yes, indeed, Senora. As great as if it were a brother. I pre- sume though, that on the contrary, Laura in a short time was chasing butterflies in her garden, indifferent to everything. DONA LAURA. No, Senor, no indeed. DON GONZALO. It is usually a wom- an's way. DONA LAURA. Even if you consider it a woman's way, the " Silver Maiden " was not of that disposition. My friend await- ed news for days, months, a year, and no letter came. One afternoon, just at sunset, and as the first stars were ap- pearing, she was seen to leave the house, and with quick steps, wend her way to- ward the beach, that beach where her beloved had risked his life. She wrote his name on the sand, then sat upon a rock, her gaze fixed upon the horizon. The waves murmured their eternal mono- logue and slowly covered the rock where the maiden sat. Shall I tell you the rest? The tide rose and carried her off to sea. DON GONZALO. Good heavens! DONA LAURA. The fishermen of that sea-coast who tell the story, affirm that it was a long time before the waves washed away that name written on the sand. [Aside.] You will not get ahead of me in inventing a romantic death. DON GONZALO [aside]. She lies more than I do. DONA LAURA. Poor Laura ! DON GONZALO. Poor Gonzalo ! DONA LAURA [aside] I will not tell him that in two years I married another. DON GONZALO [aside]. I will not tell her that in three months I went to Paris with a ballet dancer. DONA LAURA. What strange pranks Fate plays! Here you and I, complete strangers, met by chance, and in dis- cussing the romance of friends of long ago, we have been conversing as we were old friends. DON GONZALO. Yes, it is strange, con- sidering we commenced our conversation quarreling. DONA LAURA. Because you scared away the birds. DON GONZALO. I was in a bad temper. DONA LAURA. Yes, that was evident. [Sweetly.] Are you coming to-morrow? DON GONZALO. Most certainly, if it is a sunny morning. And not only will I not scare away the birds, but will also bring them bread crumbs. DONA LAURA. Thank you very much. They are very interesting and deserve to be noticed. I wonder where my maid is? [Dona Laura rises; Don Gonzalo also rises.] What time can it be? [Dona Laura walks toward left.] DON GONZALO. It is nearly twelve o'clock. Where can that scamp Juanito be? [Walks toward right.] DONA LAURA. There she is talking with her guard. [Signals with her hand for her maid to approach.] DON GONZALO [looking at Laura, whose back is turned. Aside], No, no, I will not reveal my identity. I am a grotesque figure now. Better that she recall the gallant horseman who passed daily under her window and tossed her flowers. DONA LAURA. How reluctant she is to leave him. Here she comes. DON GONZALO. But where can Juanito be? He has probably forgotten every- thing in the society of some nursemaid. [Looks toward right and signals with his hand.] DONA LAURA [looking at Gonzalo, whose back is turned. Aside], No, I will not tell him I am Laura, I am too sadly altered. It is better he should re- member me as the blackeyed girl who tossed him flowers- as he passed through the rose path in that garden. [Juanito enters by right: Petra by left. She has a bunch of violets in her hand.] DONA LAURA. Well, Petra, I thought you were never coming. DON GONZALO. But, Juanito, what de- layed you so? It is very late. PETRA [handing violets to Dona Laura]. My lover gave me these violets for you, Senora. DONA LAURA. How very nice of him. Thank him for me. They are very fra- grant. [As she takes the violets from her maid, a few loose ones drop to the ground.] 260 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS DON GONZALO. My dear Senora, this has been a great honor and pleasure. DONA LAURA. And it has also been a pleasure to me. DON GONZALO. Good-by until to-mor- row. DONA LAURA. Until to-morrow. DON GONZALO. If it is a sunny day. DONA LAURA. If it is a sunny day. Will you go to your bench? DON GONZALO. No, Senora, I will come to this, if you do not object? DONA LAURA. This bench is at your disposal. [Both laugh.] DON GONZALO. And I will surely bring the bread crumbs. [Both laugh again.] DONA LAURA. Until to-morrow. DON GONZALO. Until to-morrow. [Laura walks away on her maid's arm toward right. Oonzalo, before leaving with Juanito, trembling and with a great effort, stoops to pick up the violets Laura dropped. Just then, Laura turns her head and sees him pick up flowers.} JUANITO. What are you .doing, Senor? DON GONZALO. Wait, Juanito, wait. DONA LAURA [aside]. There is no doubt. It is he. DON GONZALO [walks toward left. Aside]. There can be no mistake. It is she. [Dona Laura and Don Oonzalo wave farewells to each other from a dis- tance.] DONA LAURA. Merciful heavens! This is Gonzalo. DON GONZALO. And to think that this is Laura. [Before disappearing they give one last smiling look at each other.] [Curtain.] THE CREDITOR A PLAY BY AUGUST STRINDBERG PERSONS THELKA. ADOLF [her husband, a painter], GUSTAV [her divorced husband]. Two LADIES, A WAITER. THE CREDITOR A PLAY [SCENE: A small watering-place. Time, the present. Stage directions with ref- erence to the actors. A drawing-room in a watering-place; furnished as above. Door in the middle, with a view out on the sea; side doors right and left; bii the side door on the left the button of an electric bell; on the right of the door in the center a table, with a decanter of water and a glass. On the left of the door in the center a what-not; on the right a fireplace in front; on the right a, round table and arm-chair; on the left a sofa, a square table, a settee; on the table a small pedestal with a draped figure papers, books, arm-chairs. Only the items of furniture which are introduced into the action are referred to in the above plan. The rest of the scenery re- mains unaffected. It is summer, and the day-time.] SCENE I. [Adolf sits on the settee on the left of the square table; his stick is propped up near him.] ADOLF. And it's you I've got to thank for all this. GUSTAV [walks up and down on the right, smoking a cigar]. Oh, nonsense. ADOLF. Indeed, I have. Why, the first day after my wife went .away, I lay on my sofa like a cripple and gave myself up to my depression; it was as though she had taken my crutches, and I couldn't move from the spot. A few days went by, and I cheered up and began to pull myself together. The delirious night- mares which my brain had produced, went away. My head became cooler and cooler. A thought which I once had came to the surface again. My desire 263 BY AUGUST STRINDBERG to work, my impulse to create, woke up. My eye got back again its capacity for sound sharp observation. You came, old man. GUSTAV. Yes, you were in pretty low water, old man, when I came across you, and you went about on crutches. Of course, that doesn't prove that it was simply my presence that helped so much to your recovery: you needed quiet, and you wanted masculine companionship. ADOLF. You're right in that, as you are in everything else you say. I used to have it in the old days. But after my marriage it seemed unnecessary. I was satisfied with the friend of my heart whom I had chosen. All the same I soon got into fresh sets, and made many new acquaintances. But then my wife got jealous. She wanted to have me quite to herself; but much worse than that, my friends wanted to have her quite to themselves and so I was left out in the cold with my jealousy. GUSTAV. You were predisposed to this illness, you know that. [He passes on the left behind the square table and comes to Adolf's left.] ADOLF. I was afraid of losing her and tried to prevent it. Are you sur- prised at it? I was never afraid for a moment that she'd be unfaithful to me. GUSTAV. What husband ever was afraid ? ADOLF. Strange, isn't it? All I troubled about was simply this about friends getting influence over her and so being able indirectly to acquire power over me and I couldn't bear that at all. GUSTAV. So you and your wife didn't have quite identical views? ADOLF. I've told you so much, you may as well know everything my wife is an independent character. [Oustav 264 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS laugh*.} What are you laughing at, old man? GUSTAV. Go on, go on. She's an in- dependent character, is she? ADOLF. She won't take anything from me. GUSTAV. But she does from everybody else? ADOLF [after a pause]. Yes. And I've felt about all this, that the only reason why my views were so awfully re- pugnant to her, was because they were mine, not because they appeared absurd on their intrinsic merits. For it often happened that she'd trot out my old ideas, and champion them with gusto as her own. Why, it even came about that one of my friends gave her ideas which he had borrowed direct from me. She found them delightful; she found every- thing delightful that didn't come from me. GCSTAV. In other words, you're not truly happy. ADOLF. Oh yes, I am. The woman whom I desired is mine, and I never wished for any other. Gusrxv. Do you never wish to be free either? ADOLF. I wouldn't like to go quite so far as that. Of course the thought crops up now and again, how calmly I should be able to live if I were free but she scarcely leaves me before I immediately long for her again, as though she were my arm, my leg. Strange. W T hen I'm alone I sometimes feel as though she didn't have any real self of her own, as though she were a part of my ego, a piece out of my inside, that stole away all my will, all my joie de vivre. Why, my very marrow itself, to use an anat- omical expression, is situated in her; that's what it seems like. GUSTAV. Viewing the matter broadly, that seems quite plausible. ADOLF. Nonsense. An independent person like she is, with such a tremen- dous lot of personal views, and when I met her, what was I then? Nothing. An artistic child which she brought up. GUSTAV. But afterwards you developed her intellect and educated her, didn't you? ADOLF. No; h<>r growth remained sta- tionary, and I shot up. GUSTAV. Yes; it's really remarkable, but her literary talent already began to deteriorate after her first book, or, to put it as charitably as possible, it didn't develop any further. [He sits down op- posite Adolf on the sofa on the left.} Of course she then had the most prom- ising subject-matter for of course she drew the portrait of her first husband you never knew him, old man? He must have been an unmitigated ass. ADOLF. I've never seen him. He was away for more than six months, but the good fellow must have been as perfect an ass as they're made, judging by her description you can take it from me, old man, that her description wasn't ex- aggerated. GUSTAV. Quite; but why did she marry him? ADOLF. She didn't know him then. People only get to know one another afterwards, don't you know. GUSTAV. But, according to that, peo- ple have no business to marry until Well, the man was a tyrant, obviously. A~OLF. Obviously? GUSTAV. What husband wouldn't be? [Casualty.] Why, old chap, you're as much a tyrant as any of the others. ADOLF. Me? I? Well, I allow my wife to come and go as she jolly well pleases! GUSTAV [stands up]. Pah! a lot of good that is. I didn't suppose you kept her locked up. [He turns round behind the square table and comes over to Adolf on the right.] Don't you mind if she's out all night? ADOLF. I should think I do. GUSTAV. Look here. [Resuming his earlier tone.] Speaking as man to man, it simply makes you ridiculous. ADOLF. Ridiculous? Can a man's trusting his wife make him ridiculous? Gus AV. Of course it can. And you've been so for some time. No doubt about it. ... [He walks round the round table on the right.] ADOLF [excitedly]. Me? I'd have preferred to be anything but that. I must put matters right. GUSTAV. Don't you get so excited, otherwise you'll get an attack again. ADOLF [after a pause]. Why doesn't she look ridiculous when I stay out all night? THE CREDITOR 265 GUSTAV. Why? Don't you bother about that. That's how the matter stands, and while you're fooling about moping, the mischief is done. [He goes behind the square table, and walks behind the sofa.] ADOLF. What mischief? GUSTAV. Her husband, you know, was a tyrant, and she simply married him in order to be free. For what other way is there for a girl to get free, than by getting the so-called husband to act as cover? ADOLF. Why, of course. GUSTAV. And now, old man, you're the cover. ADOLF. I ? GUSTAV. As her husband. ADOLF [looks absent]. GUSTAV. Am I not right? ADOLF [uneasily]. I don't know. [Pause. J A man lives for years on end with a woman without coming to a clear conclusion about the woman herself, or how she stands in relation to his own way of looking at things. And then all of a sudden a man begins to reflect and then there's no stopping. Gustav, old man, you're my friend, the only friend I've had for a long time, and this last week you've given me back all my life and p'luck. It seems as though you'd radiated your magnetism over me. You were the watchmaker who repairs the works in my brain, and tightened the spring. [Pause.] Don't you see your- self how much more lucidly I think, how much more connectedly I speak, and at times it almost seems as though my voice had got back the timbre it used to have in the old days. GUSTAV. I think so, too. What can be the cause of it? ADOLF. I don't know. Perhaps one gets accustomed to talk more softly to women. Thekla, at any rate, was always ragging me because I shrieked. GUSTAV. And then you subsided into a minor key, and allowed yourself to be put in the corner. ADOLF. Don't say that. [Reflective- ly.] That wasn't the worst of it. Let's talk of something else where was I then I've got it. [Gustav turns round again at the back of the square table and comes to Adolf on his right.] You came here, old man, and opened my eyes to the mysteries of my art. As a matter of fact, I've been feeling for some time that my interest in painting was lessening, because it didn't provide me with a proper medium to express what I had in me; but when you gave me the reason for this state of affairs, and explained to me why painting could not possibly be the right form for the artistic impulse of the age, then I saw the true light and I recognized that it would be from now onwards impossible for me to create in colors. GUSTAV. Are you so certain, old man, that you won't be able to paint any more, that you won't have any relapse? ADOLF. Quite. I have tested myself. When I went to bed the evening after our conversation I reviewed your chain of argument point by point, and felt con- vinced that it was sound. But the next morning, when my head cleared again, after the night's sleep, the thought flashed through me like lightning that you might be mistaken all the same. I jumped up, and snatched up a brush and palette, in order to paint, but just think of it! it was all up. I was no longer cap- able of any illusion. The whole thing was nothing but blobs of color, and I was horrified at the thought. I could never have believed I could convert any one else to the belief that painted canvas was anything else except painted canvas. The scales had fallen from my eyes, and I could as much paint again as I could become a child again. GUSTAV. You realized then that the real striving of the age, its aspiration for reality, for actuality, can only find a corresponding medium in sculpture, which gives bodies extension in the three dimensions. ADOLF [hesitating]. The three dimen- sions? Yes in a word, bodies. GUSTAV. And now you want to become a sculptor? That means that you were a sculptor really from the beginning; you got off the line somehow, so you only needed a guide to direct you back again to the right track. I say, when you work now, does the great joy of creation come over you? ADOLF. Now, I live again. GUSTAV. May I see what you're doing? ADOLF [undraping a figure on the small table]. A female figure. 266 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS GrsTAV [probing]. Without a model, and yet so lifelike? ADOLF [heavily]. Yes, but it is like somebody; extraordinary how this woman is in me," just as I am in her. GCSTAV. That last is not so extraor- dinarydo you know anything about transfusion? ADOLF. Blood transfusion? Yes. GUSTAV. It seems to me that you've allowed your veins to be opened a bit too much. The examination of this figure chars up many things which I'd pre- viously only surmised. You loved her infinitely? ADOLF. Yes; so much that I could never tell whether she is I, or I am her; when she laughed I laughed; when she cried I cried," and when just imagine it our child came into the world I suf- fered the same as she did. GUSTAV [stepping a little to the right]. Look here, old chap, I am awfully sorry to have to tell you, but the symptoms of epilepsy are already manifesting them- selves. ADOLF [crushed]. In me? What makes you say so. GUSTAV. Because I watched these symptoms in a younger brother of mine, who eventually died of excess. [He sits 'down in the arm-chair by the circular table.] ADOLF. How did it manifest itself that disease, I mean? [Gustav gesticulates vividly; Adolf watches with strained attention, and involuntarily imitates Oustav's gestures.] GUSTAV. A ghastly sight. If you feel at all off color, I'd rather not harrow you by describing the symptoms. ADOLF [nervously]. Go on; go on. GUSTAV. Well, it's like this. Fate had given the younerster for a wife a little innocent, with kiss-curls, dove-like eyes, and a baby face, from which there spoke the pure soul of an angel. In spite of that, the little one managed to appro- priate the man's prerogative. ADOLF. What is that? GUSTAV. Initiative, of course; and the inevitable result was that the angel came precious near taking him away to heaven. He first had to be on the cross and feel the nails in his flesh. ADOLF [suffocating]. Tell me, what was it like? GUSTAV [slowly]. There were times when he and I would sit quite quietly by each other and chat, and then I'd scarcely been speaking a few minutes be- fore his face became ashy white, his limbs were paralyzed, and his thumbs turned in towards the palm of the hand. [With a gesture.] Like that! [Adolf imitates the gesture.] And his eyes were shot with blood, and he began to chew, do you see, like this. [He moves his lips as though chewing; Adolf imitates him again.] The saliva stuck in his throat; the chest contracted as though it had been compressed by screws on a joiner's bench; there was a flicker in the pupils like gas jets; foam spurted from his mouth, and he sank gently back in the chair as though he were drowning. Then ADOLF [hissing]. Stop! GUSTAV. Then are you unwell? ADOLF. Yes. GUSTAV [gets up and fetches a glass of water from the table on the right near the center door]. Here, drink this, and let's change the subject. ADOLF [drinks, limp]. Thanks; go on. GUSTAV. Good ! When he woke up he had no idea what had taken place. [He takes the glass back to the table.] He had simply lost consciousness. Hasn't that ever happened to you? ADOLF. Now and again I have attacks of dizziness. The doctor puts it down to anaemia. GUSTAV [on the right of Adolf}. That's just how the thing starts, mark you. Take it from me, you're in danger of contracting epilepsy; if you aren't on your guard, if you don't live a careful and abstemious life, all round. ADOLF. What can I do to effect that? GUSTAV. Above all, you must exercise the most complete continence. ADOLF. For how long? GUSTAV. Six months at least. ADOLF. I can't do it. It would upset all our life together. GUSTAV. Then it's all up with you. ADOLF. I can't do it. GUSTAV. You can't save your own life? But tell me, as you've taken me into your confidence so far, haven't you any other wound that hurts you? some other secret trouble m this multifarious THE CREDITOR 267 life of ours, with all its numerous oppor- tunities for jars and complications? There is usually more than one motif which is responsible for a discord. Haven't you got a skeleton in the cup- board, old chap, which you hide even from yourself? You told me a minute ago you'd given your child to people to look after. Why didn't you keep it with you? [He goes behind the square table on the left and then behind the sofa.] ADOLF [covers the figure on the small table with a cloth]. It was my wife's wish to have it nursed outside the house. GUSTAV. The motive? Don't be afraid. ADOLF. Because when the kid was three years old she thought it began to look like her first husband. GUSTAV. Re-a-lly? Ever seen the first husband? ADOLF. No, never. I just once cast a cursory glance over a bad photograph, but I couldn't discover any likeness. GUSTAV. Oh, well, photographs are never like, and besides, his type of face may have changed with time. By the by, didn't that make you at all jealous? ADOLF. Not a bit. The child was born a year after our marriage, and the hus- band was traveling when I met Thekla, here in this watering-place in this very house. That's why we come here every summer. GUSTAV. Then all suspicion on your part was out of the question? But so far as the intrinsic facts of the matter are concerned you needn't be jealous at all, because it not infrequently happens that the children of a widow who mar- ries again are like the deceased husband. Very awkward business, no question about it; and that's why, don't you know, the widows are burned alive in India. Tell me, now, didn't you ever feel jealous of him, of the survival of his memory in your own self? Wouldn't it have rather gone against the grain if he had just met you when you were out for a walk, and, looking straight at Thekla, said "We," instead of "I"? "We." ADOLF. I can't deny that the thought has haunted me. GUSTAV [sits down opposite Adolf on the sofa on the left]. I thought as much, and you'll never get away from it. There are discords in life, you know, which never get resolved, so you must stuff your ears with wax, and work. Work, get older, and heap up over the coffin a mass of new impressions, and then the corpse will rest in peace. ADOLF. Excuse my interrupting you but it is extraordinary at times how your way of speaking reminds me of Thekla. You've got a trick, old man, of winking with your right eye as though you were counting, and your gaze has the same power over me as hers has. GUSTAV. No, really? ADOLF. And now you pronounce your "No, really?" in the same indifferent tone that she does. " No, really ? " is one of her favorite expressions, too, you, know. GUSTAV. Perhaps there is a distant re- lationship between us : all men and women are related of course. Anyway, there's no getting away from the strangeness of it, and it will be interesting for me to make the acquaintance of your wife, so as to observe this remarkable character- istic. ADOLF. But just think of this, she doesn't take a single expression from me; why, she seems rather to make a point of avoiding all my special tricks of speech; all the same, I have seen her make use of one of my gestures; but it is quite the usual thing in married life for a hus- band and a wife to develop the so-called marriage likeness. GUSTAV. Quite. But look here now. [He stands up.] That woman has never loved you. ADOLF. Nonsense. GUSTAV. Pray excuse me, woman's love consists simply in this in taking in, in receiving. She does not love the man from whom she takes nothing: she has never loved you. [He turns round behind the square table and walks to Adolf's right.] ADOLF. I suppose you don't think that she'd be able to love more than once? GUSTAV. No. Once bit, twice shy. After the first time, one keeps one's eyes open, but you have never been really bitten yet. You be careful of those who have; they're dangerous customers. [He goes round the circular table on the right.] ADOLF. What you say jabs a knife into my flesh. I've got a feeling as though 268 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS something in me were cut through, but I can do nothing to stop it all by myself, and it's as well it should be so, for abscesses will be opened in that way which would otherwise never be able to come to a head. She never loved me? Why did she marry me, then? G'USTAV. Tell me first how it came about that she did marry you, and whether she married you or you her? ADOLF. God knows! That's much too hard a question to be answered offhand, and how did it take place? it took more than a day. GUSTAV. Shall I guess? [He goes behind the round (able, to- ward the left, and sits on the soft.] ADOLF. You'll get nothing for your pains. GUSTAV. Not so fast! From the in- sight which you've given me into your own character, and that of your wife, I find it pretty easy to work out the se- quence of the whole thing. Listen to me and you'll be quite convinced. [Dispas- sionately and in an almost jocular tone.] The husband happened to be traveling on study and she was alone. At first she found a pleasure in being free. Then she imagined that she felt the void, for I presume that she found it pretty bor- ing after being alone for a fortnight. Then he turned up, and the void begins gradually to be filled the picture of the absent man begins gradually to fade in comparison, for the simple reason that he is a long way off you know of course the psychological algebra of distance? And when both of them, alone as they were, felt the awakening of passion, they were frightened of themselves, of him, of their own conscience. They sought for protection, skulked behind the fig-leaf, played at brother and sister, and the more sensual grew their feelings the more spiritual did they pretend their relation- ship really was. ADOLF. Brother and sister! How did you know that? GUSTAV. I just thought that was how it was. Children play at mother and father, but of course when they grow older they play at brother and sister so as to conceal what requires conceal- ment; they then discard their chaste de- sires; they play blind man's bluff till they've caught each other in some dark corner, where they're pretty sure not to be seen by anybody. [With increased severity.} But they are warned by their inner consciences that an eye sees them through the darkness. They are afraid and in their panic the absent man be- gins to haunt their imagination to as- sume monstrous proportions to become metamorphosed he becomes a night- mare who oppresses them in that love's young dream of theirs. He becomes the creditor [he raps slowly on the table three times with his finyer, as though knocking at the door] who knocks at the door. They see his black hand thrust itself between them when their own are reaching after the dish of pottage. They hear his unwelcome voice in the stillness of the night, which is only broken by the beating of their own pulses. He doesn't prevent their belonging to each other, but he is enough to mar their happiness, and when they have felt this invisible power of his, and when at last they want to run away, and make their futile efforts to escape the memory which haunts them, the guilt which they have left behind, the public opinion which they are afraid of, and they lack the strength to bear their own guilt, then a scapegoat has to be exterminated and slaughtered. They posed as believers in Free Love, but they didn't have the pluck to go straight to him, to speak straight out to him and say, " We love each other." They were cowardly, and that's why the tyrnnt had to be assassinated. Am I not right? ADOLF. Yes; but you're forgetting that she trained me, gave me new thoughts. GUSTAV. I haven't forgotten it. But tell me, how was it that she wasn't able to succeed in educating the other man in educating him into being really modern? ADOLF. He was an utter ass. GUSTAV. Right you are he was an ass; but that's a fairly elastic word, and according to her description of him, in her novel, his asinine nature seemed to have consisted principally in the fact that he didn't understand her. Excuse the question, but is your wife really as deep as all that? I haven't found anything particularly profound in her writings. ADOLF. Nor have I. I must really own that I too find it takes me all my time to understand her. It's as though THE CREDITOR 269 the machinery of our brains couldn't catch on to each other properly as though something in my head got broken when I try to understand her. GUSTAV. Perhaps you're an ass as well. ADOLF. No, I flatter myself I'm not that, and I nearly always think that she's in the wrong and, for the sake of argu- ment, would you care to read this letter which I got from her to-day? [He takes a letter out of his pocket- book.] GUSTAV [reads it cursorily]. Hum, I seem to know the style so well. ADOLF. Like a man's, almost. GUSTAV. Well, at any rate I know a man who had a style like that. [Stand- ing up.] I see she goes on calling you brother all the time do you always keep up the comedy for the benefit of your two selves? Do you still keep on using the fig leaves, even though they're a trifle withered you don't use any term of endearment? ADOLF. No. In my view, I couldn't respect her quite so much if I did. GUSTAV [hands back the letter]. I see, and she calls herself " sister " so as to inspire respect. [He turns around and passes the square table on Adolf's right.} ADOLF. I want to esteem her more than I do myself. I want her to be my better self. GUSTAV. Oh, you be your better self; though I quite admit it's less convenient than having somebody else to do it for you. Do you want, then, to be your wife's inferior? ADOLF. Yes, I do. I find pleasure in always allowing myself to be beaten by her a little. For instance, I taught her swimming, and it amuses me when she boasts about being better and pluckier than I am. At the beginning I simply pretended to be less skillful and coura- geous than she was, in order to give her pluck, but one day, God knows how it came about, I was actually the worse swimmer and the one with less pluck. It seemed as though she's taken all my grit away in real earnest. GUSTAV. And haven't you taught her anything else? ADOLF. Yes but this is in confidence I taught her spelling, because she didn't know it. Just listen to this. When she took over the correspondence of the household I gave up writing letters, and will you believe it? simply from lack of practice I've lost one bit of grammar after another in the course of the year. But do you think she ever remembers that she has to thank me really for her proficiency? Not for a minute. Of course, I'm the ass now. GUSTAV. Ah, really? You're the ass now, are you? ADOLF. I'm only joking, of course. GUSTAV. Obviously. But this is pure cannibalism, isn't it? Do you know what I mean? Well, the savages devour their enemies so as to acquire their best qualities. Well, this woman has de- voured your soul, your pluck, your knowledge. ADOLF. And my faith. It was I who kept her up to the mark and made her write her first book. GUSTAV [with facial expression], Re-a-lly? ADOLF. It was I who fed her up with praise, even when I thought her work was no good. It was I who introduced her into literary sets, and tried to make her feel herself in clover; defended her against criticism by my personal inter- vention. I blew courage into her, kept on blowing it for so long that I got out of breath myself. I gave and gave and gave until nothing was left for me my- self. Do you know I'm going to tell you the whole story do you know how the thing seems to me now? One's tem- perament is such an extraordinary thing, and when my artistic successes looked as though they would eclipse her her pres- tige I tried to buck her up by belittling myself and by representing that my art was one that was inferior to hers. I talked so much of the general insignifi- cant r61e of my particular art, and harped on it so much, thought of so many good reasons for my contention, that one fine day I myself was soaked through and through with the worthlessness of the painter's art; so all that was left was a house of cards for you to blow down. GUSTAV. Excuse my reminding you of what you said, but at the beginning of our conversation you were asserting that she took nothing from you. ADOLF. She doesn't now, at any rate; now there is nothing left to take. 270 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS GUSTAV. So the snake has gorged her- self, and now she vomits. ADOLF. Perhaps she took more from me than I knew of. GUSTAV. Oh, you can reckon on that rieht enough she took without your noticing it. [He goes behind the square table and comes in front of the sofa.] That's what people call stealing. ADOLF. Then what it comes to is that she hasn't educated me at all? GUSTAV. Rather you her. Of course she knew the trick well enough of mak- ing you believe the contrary. Might I ask how she pretended to educate you? ADOLF. Oh at first hum! GUSTAV. Well? [He leans his arms on the infill'.] ADOLF. Well, I GUSTAV. No; it was she she. ADOLF. As a matter of fact I couldn't say which it was. GUSTAV. You see. ADOLF. Besides, she destroyed my faith as well, and so I went backward until you came, old chap, and gave me a new faith. GUSTAV [he laughs}. In sculpture? [He turns round by the square table and comes to Adolf s right.} ADOLF [hesitating}. Yes. GUSTAV. And you believed in it? in that abstract, obsolete art from the child- hood of the world. Do you believe that by means of pure form and three dimen- sions no, you don't really that you can produce an effect on the real spirit of this age of ours, that you can create illusions without color? Without color, I say. Do you believe that? ADOLF [tonelessly]. No. GUSTAV. Nor do I. ADOLF. But why did you say you did? GUSTAV. You make me pity you. ADOLF. Yes, I am indeed to be pitied. And now I'm bankrupt, absolutely and the worst of it is I haven't got her any more. GUSTAV [with a few steps toward the right}. What good would she be to you? She would be what God above was to me before I became an atheist a subject on which I could lavish my rever- ence. You keep your feeling of rever- ence dark, and let something else grow on top of it a healthy contempt, for instance. ADOLF. I can't live without some one to reverence. GUSTAV. Slave ! [He goes round the table on the right.} ADOLF. And without a woman to rev- erence, to worship. GUSTAV. Oh, the deuce ! Then you go back to that God of yours if you really must have something on which you can crucify yourself; but you call yourself an atheist when you've got the superstitious belief in women in your own blood; you call yourself a free thinker when you can't think freely about a lot of silly women. Do you know what all this illu- sive quality, this sphinx-like mystery, this profundity in your wife's temperament all really comes to? The whole thing is sheer stupidity; why, the woman can't distinguish between A.B. and bull's foot for the life of her. And look here, it's something shoddy in the mechanism, that's where the fault lies. Outside it looks like a fifty-guinea hunting watch, open it and you find it's tuppenny-half- penny gun-metal. [He comes up to Adolf.} Put her in trousers, draw a mustache under her nose with a piece of coal, and then listen to her in the same state of mind, and then you'll be per- fectly convinced that it is quite a differ- ent kettle of fish altogether a grama- phone which reproduces, with rather less volume, your words and other people's words. Do you know how a woman is constituted? Yes, of course you do. A boy with the breasts of a mother, an im- mature man, a precocious child whose growth has been stunted, a chronically anaemic creature that has a regular emis- sion of blood thirteen times in the year. What can you do with a thing like that? ADOLF. Yes but but then how can I believe that we are really on an equality? GUSTAV [moves away from him again towards the right]. Sheer hallucination! The fascination of the petticoat. But it is so; perhaps, in fact you have become like each other, the leveling has taken place. But I say. [He takes out his watch.] We've been chatting for quite long enough. Your wife's bound to be here shortly. Wouldn't it be better to leave off now, so that you can rest for a little? THE CREDITOR 271 [He comes nearer and holds out his hand to say yood-by. Adolf grips his hand all the t'njhter.] ADOLF. No, don't leave me. I haven't got the pluck to be alone. GrsiAv. Only for a little while. Your wife will be coming in a minute. ADOLF. Yes, yes she's coming. [Pa-use.] Strange, isn't it? I long for her and yet I'm frightened of her. She caresses me, she is tender, but her kisses have something in them which smothers one, something which sucks, something which stupefies. It is as though I were the child at the circus whose face the clown is making up in the dressing-room, so that it can appear red-cheeked before the public. GUSTAV [leaning on the arm of Adolf's chair}. I'm sorry for you, old man. Al- though I'm not a doctor I am in a posi- tion to tell you that you are a dying man. One only has to look at your last pic- tures to be quite clear on the point. ADOLF. What do you say what do you mean? GUSTAV. Your coloring is so watery, so consumptive and thin, that the yellow of the canvas shines through. It is just as though your hollow ashen white cheeks were looking out at me. ADOLF. Ah ! GUSTAV. Yes, and that's not only my view. Haven't you read to-day's paper? ADOLF [he starts]. No. GUSTAV. It's before you on the table. ADOLF [he (/ropes after the paper with- out having the courage to take it]. Is it in here? GUSTAV. Read it, or shall I read it to you? ADOLF. No. GUSTAV [turns to leave]. If you pre- fer it, I'll go. ADOLF. No, no, no ! I don't know how it is I think I am beginning to hate you, but all the same I can't do without your being near me. You have helped to drag me out of the slough which I was in, and, as luck would have it, I just managed to work my way clear and then you knocked me on the head and plunged me in again. As long as I kept my secrets to myself I still had some guts' now I'm empty. There's a picture by an Italian master that describes a torture scene. The en- trails are dragged out of a saint by means of a windlass. The martyr lies there and sees himself getting continually thin- ner and thinner, but the roll on the wind- less always gets perpetually fatter, and so it seems to me that you get stronger since you've taken me up and that you're taking away now with you, as you go, my innermost essence, the core of my char- acter, and there's nothing left of me but an empty husk. GUSTAV. Oh, what fantastic notions; besides, your wife is coining back with your heart. ADOLF. No; no longer, after you have burnt it for me. You have passed through me, changing everything in your track to ashes my art, my love, my hope, my faith. GUSTAV [comes near to him again}. Were you so splendidly off before? ADOLF. No, I wasn't, but the situation might have been saved; now it's too late. Murderer! GUSTAV. We've wasted a little time. Now we'll do some sowing in the ashes. ADOLF. I hate you! I curse you! GUSTAV. A healthy symptom. You've still got some strength, and now I'll screw up your machinery again. I say. [He goes behind the square table on the left and comes in front of the sofa.] Will you listen to me and obey me? ADOLF. Do what you will with me, I'll obey. GUSTAV. Look at me. ADOLF [looks him in the face]. And now you look at me again with that other expression in those eyes of yours, which draws me to you irresistibly. GUSTAV. Now listen to me. ADOLF. Yes, but speak of yourself. Don't speak any more of me: it's as though I were wounded, every movement hurts me. GUSTAV. Oh no, there isn't much to say about me, don't you know. I'm a private tutor in dead languages and a widower, that's all. [He goes in front of the table.] Hold my hand. [Adolf does so.] ADOLF. What awful strength you must have, it seems as though a fellow were catching hold of an electric battery. GUSTAV. And just think, I was once quite as weak as you are. [Sternly.] Get up. ADOLF [gets up}. I am like a child 272 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS without any bones, and my brain is empty. GUSTAV. Take a walk through the room. ADOLF. I can't. GCSTAV. You must; if you don't I'll hit you. ADOLF [stands up]. What do you say? GUSTAV. I've told you I'll hit you. ADOLF [jumps back to the circular table on the riyht, beside himself}. You! GUSTAV [follows him}. Bravo! That's driven the blood to your head, and woken up your self-respect. Now I'll give you an electric shock. Where's your wife? ADOLF. Where's my wife? GUSTAV. Yes. ADOLF. At a meeting. GUSTAV. Certain? ADOLF. Absolutely. GUSTAV. What kind of a meeting? ADOLF. An orphan association. GUSTAV. Did you part friends? ADOLF [hesitating}. Not friends. GUSTAV. Enemies, then? What did you say to make her angry? ADOLF. You're terrible". I'm fright- ened of you. How did you manage to know that? GUSTAV. I've just got three known quantities, and by their help I work out the unknown. What did you say to her, old chap? ADOLF. I said only two words but two awful words. I regret them I re- gret them. GUSTAV. You shouldn't do that. Well, speak ! ADOLF. I said, " Old coquette." GUSTAV. And what else? ADOLF. I didn't say anything else. GUSTAV. Oh yes, you did; you've only forgotten it. Perhaps because you haven't got the pluck to remember it. You've locked it up in a secret pigeon- hole; open it. ADOLF. I don't remember. GUSTAV. But I know what it was the sense was roughly this: "You ought to be ashamed of yourself to be always flirting at your age. You're getting too old to find any more admirers." ADOLF. Did I say that possibly? How did you manage to know it? GUSTAV. On my way here I heard her tell the story on the steamer. ADOLF. To whom? GUSTAV [walks up and down on the left}. To four boys, whom she happened to be with. She has a craze for pure boys, just like ADOLF. A perfectly innocent penchant. GUSTAV. Quite as innocent as playing brother and sister when one is father and mother. ADOLF. You saw her, then? GUSTAV. Yes, of course; but you've never seen her if you didn't see her then I mean, if you weren't present and that's the reason, don't you know, why a husband can never know his wife. Have you got her photograph? ADOLF [takes a photo out of his pocket- book. Inquisitively]. Here you are. GUSTAV [takes it]. Were you present when it was taken? ADOLF. No. GUSTAV. Just look at it? Is it like the portrait you painted? No, the features are the same, but the expression is dif- ferent. But you don't notice that, be- cause you insist on seeing in it the pic- ture of her which you've painted. Now look at this picture as a painter, without thinking of the original. What does it represent? I can see nothing but a tricked-out flirt, playing the decoy. Ob- serve the cynical twist in the "mouth, which you never managed to see. You see that her look is seeking a man quite different from you. Observe the dress is decollete, the coiffure titivated to the last degree, the sleeves finished high up. You see? ADOLF. Yes, now I see. GUSTAV. Be careful, my boy. ADOLF. Of what? GUSTAV [gives him back the portrait]. Of her revenge. Don't forget that by saying she was no longer attractive to men you wounded her in the one thing which she took most seriously. If you'd called her literary works twaddle she'd have laughed, and pitied your bad taste, but now take it from me if she hasn't avenged herself already it's not her fault. ADOLF. I must be clear on that point. [He goes over to Gustav, and sits down in his previous place. Gus- tav approaches him.] GUSTAV. Find out yourself. ADOLF. Find out myself? GUSTAV. Investigate. I'll help you, if you like. 273 ADOLF [after a pause]. Good. Since I've been condemned to death once so be it sooner or later it's all the same what's to happen. GUSTAV. One question first. Hasn't your wife got just one weak point? ADOLF. Not that I know of. [Adolf goes to the open door in the center]. Yes. You can hear the steamer in the Sound now she'll be here soon. And I must go down to meet her. GUSTAV [holding him back]. No, stay here. Be rude to her. If she's got a good conscience she'll let you have it so hot and strong that you won't know where you are. But if she feels guilty she'll come and caress you. ADOLF. Are you so sure of it? GUSTAV. Not absolutely. At times a hare goes back in the tracks, but I'm not going to let this one escape me. My room is just here. [Points to the door on the right and goes behind Adolf's chair.] I'll keep this position, and be on the look-out, while you play your game here, and when you've played it to the end we'll exchange parts. I'll go in the cage and leave myself to the tender mercies of the snake, and you can stand at the keyhole. Afterwards we'll meet in the park and compare notes. But pull your- self together, old man, and if you show weakness I'll knock on the floor twice with a chair. ADOLF [getting up]. Right. But don't go away : I must know that you're in the next room. GUSTAV. You can trust me for that. But be careful you aren't afraid when you see later on how I can dissect a human soul and lay the entrails here on the table. It may seem a bit uncanny to beginners, but if you've seen it done once you don't regret it. One thing more, don't say a word that you've met me, or that you have made any acquaintance during her absence not a word. I'll ferret out her weak point myself. Hush! She's already up there in her room. She's whistling then she's in a temper. Now stick to it. [He points to the left.] And sit here on this chair, then she'll have to sit there [He points to the sofa on the left,.], and I can keep you both in view at the same time. ADOLF. We've still got an hour before dinner. There are no new visitors, for there has been no bell to announce them. We'll be alone together more's the pity ! GUSTAV. You seem pretty limp. Are you unwell? ADOLF. I'm all right; unless, you know, I'm frightened of what's going to happen. But I can't help its happening. The stone rolls, but it was not the last drop of water that made it roll, nor yet the first everything taken together brought it about. GUSTAV. Let it roll, then ; it won't have any peace until it does. Good-by, for the time being. [Exit on the right. Adolf nods to him, stands up for a short time, looking at the photograph, tears it to pieces, and throws the fragments behind the circular table on the right; he then sits down in his previous place, nervously arranges his tie, runs his fingers through his hair, fumbles with the lapels of his coat, etc. Thekla enters on the left.] SCENE II. THEKLA [frank, cheerful and engaging, (joes straight up to her husband and kisses him]. Good-day, little brother; how have you been getting on? [She stands on his left.] ADOLF [half overcome but jocularly re- sisting]. What mischief have you been up to, for you to kiss me? THEKLA. Yes, let me just confess. Something very naughty I've spent an awful lot of money. ADOLF. Did you have a good time, then? THEKLA. Excellent. [She goes to his right.] But not at the Congress. It was as dull as ditch-water, don't you know. But how has little brother been passing the time, when his little dove had flown away? [She looks around the room, as though looking for somebody or scenting something, and thus comes behind the sofa on the left.] ADOLF. Oh, the time seemed awfully long. THEKLA. Nobody to visit you? ADOLF. Not a soul. 274 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS THEKLA [looks him up and down and tits down on the sofa]. Who sat here? ADOLF. Here? No one. THEKLA. Strange! The sofa is as warm as anything, and there's the mark of an elbow in the cushion. Have you had a lady visitor? [She stands up.] ADOLF. Me? You're not serious? THEKLA [turns away from the square table and comes to Adolf's right]. How he blushes! So the little brother wants to mystify me a bit, does he? Well, let him come here and confess what he's got on his conscience to his little wife. [She draws him to her. Adolf lets his head sink on her breast; laugh- ing.] ADOLF. You're a regular devil, do you know that? THEKLA. No, I know myself so little. ADOLF. Do you never think about yourself? THEKLA [looking in the air, while she looks at him searchingly]. About my- self? I only think about myself. I am a shocking egoist, but how philosophical you've become, my dear. ADOLF. Put your hand on my fore- head. THEKLA [playfully]. Has he got bees in his bonnet again? Shall I drive them away? [She kisses him on the forehead.] There, it's all right now? [Pause, mov- ing away from him to the right.] Now let me hear what he's been doing to amuse himself. Painted anything pretty? ADOLF. No; I've given up painting! THEKLA. What, you've given up paint- ing! ADOLF. Yes, but don't scold me about it. How could I help it if I wasn't able to paint any more? THEKLA. What are you going to take up then? ADOLF. I'm going to be a sculptor. [Thekla passes over in front of the square table and in front of the sofa.] Yes, but don't blame me just look at this figure. THEKLA [vnwraps the figure on the table]. Hallo, I say. Who's this meant to be? ADOLF. Guess ! THEKLA [tenderly]. Is it meant to be his little wife? And he isn't ashamed of it, is he? ADOLF. Hasn't he hit the mark? THEKLA. How can I tell? the face is lacking. [She drapes the figure.] ADOLF. Quite so but all the rest? Nice? THEKLA [taps him caressingly on the cheek]. Will he shut up? Otherwise I'll kiss him. [She, goes behind him; Adolf defend- ing himself.] ADOLF. Look out, look out, anybody might come. THEKLA [nestling close to him]. What do I care! I'm surely allowed to kiss my own husband. That's only my legal right. ADOLF. Quite so; but do you know the people here in the hotel take the view that we're not married because we kiss each other so much, and our occasional quarreling makes them all the more cock- sure about it, because lovers usually carry on like that. THEKLA. But need there be any quar- rels? Can't he always be as sweet and good as he is at present. Let him tell me. Wouldn't he like it himself? Wouldn't he like us to be happy? ADOLF. I should like it, but THEKLA [with a step to the right]. Who put it into his head not to paint any more? ADOLF. You're always scenting some- body behind me and my 'thoughts. You're jealous. THEKLA. I certainly am. I was al- ways afraid some one might estrange you from me. ADOLF. You're afraid of that, you say, though you know very well that there isn't a woman living who can supplant you that I can't live without you. THEKLA. I wasn't frightened the least bit of females. It was your friends I was afraid of: they put all kinds of ideas into your head. ADOLF [probing]. So you were afraid? What were you afraid of? THEKLA. Some one has been here. Who was it? ADOLF. Can't you stand my looking at you? THEKLA. Not in that way. You aren't accustomed to look at me like that. ADOLF. How am I looking at you then? THEKLA. You are spying underneath your eyelids. THE CREDITOR 275 ADOLF. Right through. Yes, I want to know what it's like inside. THEKLA. I don't mind. As you like. I've nothing to hide, but your very manner of speaking has changed you employ expressions. [Probing.] You philosophize. Eh? [She goes toward him in a menacing manner.} Who has been here? ADOLF. My doctor nobody else. THEKLA. Your doctor! What doctor? ADOLF. The doctor from Stromastad. THEKLA. What's his name? ADOLF. Sjb'berg. THEKLA. W T hat did he say? ADOLF. Well he said, among other things that I'm pretty near getting epilepsy. THEKLA [with a step to the right}. Among other things! What else did he say? ADOLF. Oh, something extremely un- pleasant. THEKLA. Let me hear it. ADOLF. He forbade us to live together as man and wife for some time. THEKLA. There you are. I thought as much. They want to separate us. I've already noticed it for some time. [She goes round the circular table toward the right.] ADOLF. There was nothing for you to notice. There was never the slightest incident of that description. THEKLA. What do you mean? ADOLF. How could it have been pos- sible for you to have seen something which wasn't there if your fear hadn't heated your imagination to so violent a pitch that you saw what never existed? As a matter of fact, what were you afraid of? That I might borrow another's eye so as to see you as you really were, not as you appeared to me? THEKLA. Keep your imagination in check, Adolf. Imagination is the beast in the human soul. ADOLF. Where did you get this wis- dom from? From the pure youths on the steamer, eh? THEKLA [without losing her self-pos- session]. Certainly even youth can teach one a great deal. ADOLF. You seem < for once in a way, to be awfully keen on youth? THEKLA [standing by the door in the center]. I have always been so, and that's how it came about that I loved you. Any objection? ADOLF. Not at all. But I should very much prefer to be the only one. THEKLA [coming forward on his right, and joking as though speaking to a child]. Let the little brother look here. I've got such a large heart that there is room in it for a great many, not only for him. ADOLF. But little brother doesn't want to know anything about the other broth- ers. THEKLA. Won't he just come here and let himself be teased by his little woman, because he's jealous no, envious is the right word. [Two knocks with a chair are heard from the room on the right.] ADOLF. No, I don't want to fool about, I want to speak seriously. THEKLA [as though speaking to a child]. Good Lord! he wants to speak seriously. Upon my word! Has the man become serious for once in his life? [Comes on his left, takes hold of his head and kisses him.] Won't he laugh now a little? [Adolf laughs.] THEKLA. There, there ! ADOLF [laughs involuntarily]. You damned witch, you ! I really believe you can bewitch people. THEKLA [comes in front of the sofa]. He can see for himself, and that's why he mustn't worry me, otherwise I shall certainly bewitch him. ADOLF [springs up]. Thekla! Sit for me a minute in profile, and I'll do the face for your figure. THEKLA. With pleasure. [She turns her profile toward, him.] ADOLF [sits down, fixes her with his eyes and acts as though he were model- ing]. Now, don't think of me, think of somebody else. THEKLA. I'll think of my last con- quest. ADOLF. The pure youth? THEKLA. Quite right. He had the duckiest, sweetest little mustache, and cheeks like cherries, so delicate and soft, one could have bitten right into them. ADOLF [depressed]. Just keep that twist in vour mouth. THEKLA. What twist? ADOLF. That cynical insolent twist which I've never seen before. FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS THEKLA [makes a grimace]. Like that? ADOLF. Quite. [He gets up.] Do you know how Bret Harte describes the adulteress? THEKLA [laught]. No, I've never read that Bret \Vhat-do-you-call-him. ADOLF. Oh! she's a pale woman who never blushes. THEKLA. Never? Oh yes, she does; oh yes, she does. Perhaps when she meets her lover, even though her husband and Mr. Bret didn't manage to see any- thing of it. ADOLF. Are you so certain about it? THEKLA [as before]. Absolutely. If the man isn't able to drive her very blood to her head, how can he possibly enjoy the pretty spectacle? [S/ie passes by him toward the right.} ADOLF [raving]. Thekla! Thekla! THEKLA. Little fool ! ADOLF [sternly], Thekla! THEKLA. Let him call me his own dear little sweetheart, and I'll get red all over before him, shal 1 I? ADOLF [disarmed], I'm so angry with you, you monster, that I should like to bite you. THEKLA [playing with him]. Well, come and bite me; come. [She holds out her arms towards him. ] ADOLF [ takes her by the neck and kisses her]. Yes, my dear, I'll bite you so that you die. THEKLA [joking]. Look out, some- body might come. [She goes to the fireplace on the right and leans on the chimney- piece.] ADOLF. Oh, what do I care if they do. I don't care about anything in the whole world so long as I have you. THEKLA. And if you don't have me any more? ADOLF [sinks down on the chair on the left in front of the circular table]. Then I die! THEKLA. All right, you needn't be frightened of that the least bit; I'm al- ready much too old, you see, for any- body to like me. ADOLF. You haven't forgotten those words of mine? I take them back. THEKLA. Can you explain to me why it is that you're so jealous, and at the same time so sure of yourself? ADOLF. No, I can't explain it, but it may be that the thought that another man has possessed you, gnaws and con- sumes me. It seems to me at times as though our whole love were a figment of the brain a passion that had turned into a formal matter of honor. I know nothing which would be more intolerable for me to bear, than for him to have the satisfaction of making me unhappy. Ah, I've never seen him, but the very thought that there is such a rnan who watches in secret for my unhappiness, who conjures down on me the curse of heaven day by day, who would laugh and gloat over my fall the very idea of the thing lies like a nightmare on my breast, drives me to you, holds me spellbound, cripples me. THEKLA [goes behind the circular table and comes on Adolf's right]. Do you think I should like to give him that satis- faction, that I should like to make his prophecy come true? ADOLF. No, I won't believe that of you. THEKLA. Then if that's so, why aren't you easy on the subject? ADOLF. It's your flirtations which keep me in a chronic state of agitation. Why do you go on playing that game? THEKLA. It's no game. I want to be liked, that's all. ADOLF. Quite so; but only liked by men. THEKLA. Of course. Do you suggest it would be possible for one of us women to get herself liked by other women? ADOLF. I say. [Pause.] Haven't you heard recently from him ? THEKLA. Not for the last six months. ADOLF. Do you never think of him? THEKLA [after a pause, quickly and tonelessly]. No. [With a step toward the left.] Since the death of the child there is no longer any tie between us. [Pause.] ADOLF. And you never see him in the street? THEKLA. No; he must have buried himself somewhere on the west coast. But why do you harp on that subject just now? ADOLF. I don't know. When I was so alone these last few days, it just occurred THE CREDITOR 277 to me what he must have felt like when he was left stranded. THEKLA. I believe you've got pangs of conscience. ADOLF. Yes. THEKLA. You think you're a thief, don't you? ADOLF. Pretty near. THEKLA. All right. You steal women like you steal children or fowl. You re- gard me to some extent like his real or personal property. Much obliged. ADOLF. No; I regard you as his wife, and that's more than property: it can't be made up in damages. THEKLA. Oh yes, it can. If you hap- pen to hear one fine day that he has mar- ried again, these whims and fancies of yours will disappear. [She comes over to him.} Haven't you made up for him to me? ADOLF. Have I? and did you use to love him in those days? THEKLA [goes behind him to the fire- place on the right]. Of course I loved him certainly. ADOLF. And afterwards? THEKLA. I got tired of him. ADOLF. And just think, if you get tired of me in the same way? THEKLA. That will never be. ADOLF. But suppose another man came along with all the qualities that you want in a man? Assume the hypothesis, wouldn't you leave me in that case? THEKLA. No. ADOLF. If he riveted you to him so strongly that you couldn't be parted from him, then of course you'd give me up? THEKLA. No; I have never yet said anything like that. ADOLF. But you can't love two people at the same time? THEKLA. Oh yes. Why not? ADOLF. I can't understand it. THEKLA. Is anything then impossible simply because you can't understand it? All men are not made on the same lines, you know. ADOLF [getting up a few steps to the left}. 1 am now beginning to under- stand. THEKLA. No, really? ADOLF [sits down in his previous place bn the square table]. No, really? [Pause, during which he appears to be making an effort to remember something, but without success.] Thekla, do you know that your frankness is beginning to be positively agonizing? [Thekla moves away from him behind the square table and goes behind the sofa on the left.] Haven't you told me, times out of num- ber, that frankness is the most beautiful virtue you know, and that I must spend all my time in acquiring it? But it seems to me you take cover behind your frankness. THEKLA. Those are the new tactics, don't you see. ADOLF [after a pause], I don't know how it is, but this place begins to feel un- canny. If you don't mind, we'll travel home this very night. THEKLA. What an idea you've got into your head again. I've just arrived, and I've no wish to travel off again. [She sits down on the sofa on the left.] ADOLF. But if I want it? THEKLA. Nonsense! What do I care what you want? Travel alone. ADOLF [seriously]. I now order you to travel with me by the next steamer. THEKLA. Order? What do you mean by that? ADOLF. Do you forget that you're my wife? THEKLA [getting up]. Do you forget that you're my husband? ADOLF [foUotaing her example}. That's just the difference between one sex and the other. THEKLA. That's right, speak in that tone you have never loved me. [She goes past him to the right up to the fireplace.] ADOLF. Really? THEKLA. No, for loving means giv- ing. ADOLF. For a man to love means giv- ing, for a woman to love means taking and I've given, given, given. THEKLA. Oh, to be sure, you've given a fine lot, haven't you? ADOLF. Everything. THEKLA [leans on the chimney piece]. There has been a great deal besides that. And even if you did give me everything, I accepted it. What do you mean by coming now and handing the bill for your presents? If I did take them, I proved to you by that very fact that I 278 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS loved you. [She approaches him.] A girl only takes presents from her Inver. ADOLF. From her lover, I agree. There you spoke the truth. [ With a step to the left.} I was just your lover, but never your husband. THEKLA. A man ought to be jolly grateful when he's spared the necessity of playing cover, but if you aren't satis- fied with the position you can have your conge. I don't like a husband. ADOLF. No, I noticed as much, for when I remarked, some time back, that you wanted to sneak away from me, and get a set of your own, so as to be able to deck yourself out with my feathers, to scintillate with my jewels, I wanted to remind you of your guilt. And then I changed from your point of view into that inconvenient creditor, whom a wo- man would particularly prefer to keep at a safe distance from one, and then you would have liked to have canceled the debt, and to avoid getting any more into my debt; you ceased to pilfer my coffers and transferred your attention to others. I was your husband without having wished it, and your hate began to arise; but now I'm going to be your husband, whether you want it or not. I can't be your lover any more, that's certain ! [He nits down in his previous place on the right.] THEKLA [half joking, she moves away behind the table and goes behind the sofa]. Don't talk such nonsense. ADOLF. You be careful! It's a dan- gerous game, to consider every one else an ass and only oneself smart. THEKLA. Everybody does that more or less. ADOLF. And I'm just beginning to sus- pect that that husband of yours wasn't such an ass after all. THEKLA. Good God! I really believe you're beginning to have sympathy for him? ADOLF. Yes, almost. THEKLA. Well, look here. Wouldn't you like to make his acquaintance, so as to pour out your heart to him if you want to? What a charming picture! But I, too, begin to feel myself drawn to him somehow. I'm tired of being the nurse of a baby like you. [She goes a few steps forward and passes by Adolf on the right.} He at any rate was a man, even though he did make the mis- take of being my husband. ADOLF. Hush, hush! But don't talk so loud, we might be heard. THEKLA. What does it matter, so long as we're taken for man and wife. ADOLF. So this is what it comes to then? You are now beginning to be keen both on manly men and pure boys. THEKLA. There are no limits to my keenness, as you see. And my heart is open to the whole world, great and small, beautiful and ugly. I love the whole world. ADOLF [standing up]. Do you know what that means? THEKLA. No, I don't know, I only feel. ADOLF. It means that old age has ar- rived. THEKLA. Are you starting on that again now? Take care! ADOLF. You take care! THEKLA. What of? ADOI.F. Of this knife. [Goes toioards her.} THEKLA [flippantly]. Little brother shouldn't play with such dangerous toys. [She passes by him behind the sofa.] ADOLF. I'm not playing any longer. THEKLA [leaning on the arm of the sofa]. Really, he's serious, is he, quite serious? Then I'll jolly well show you that you made a mistake. I mean you'll never see it yourself, you'll never know it. The whole world will be up to it, but you jolly well won't, you'll have suspicions and surmises and you won't enjoy a single hour of peace. You will have the consciousness of being ridiculous and of being deceived, but you'll never have proofs in your hand, because a hus- band never manages to get them. \She makes a few steps to the right in front of him and toward him.] That will teach you to know me. ADOLF [sits down in his previous placs by the table on the left}. You hate me. THEKLA. No, I don't hate you, nor do I think that I could ever get to hate you. Simply because you're a child. ADOLF. Listen to me! Just think of the time when the storm broke over us. [Standing up.] You lay there like a new-born child and shrieked; you caught hotd of my knees and I had to kiss your eyes to sleep. Then I was your nurse, THE CREDITOR 279 and I had to be careful that you didn't go out into the street without doing your hair. I had to send your boots to the shoe-maker. I had to take care there was something in the larder. I had to sit by your side and hold your hand in mine by the hour, for you were fright- ened, frightened of the whole world, de- serted by your friends, crushed by public opinion. I had to cheer you up till my tongue stuck to my palate and my head ached; I had to pose as a strong man, and compel myself to believe in the fu- ture, until at length I succeeded in breathing life into you while you lay there like the dead. Then it was I you admired, then it was I who was the man; not the athlete like the man you deserted, but the man of psychic strength, the man of magnetism, who transferred his moral force into your enervated muscles and filled your empty brain with new elec- tricity. And then I put you on your feet again, got a small court for you, whom I jockeyed into admiring you, as a sheer matter of friendship to myself, and I made you mistress over me and my home. I painted you in my finest pictures, in rose and azure on a ground of gold, and there was no exhibition in which you didn't have the place of honor. At one moment you were called St. Cecelia, then you were Mary Stuart, Karm Mansdotier, Ebba Brahe, and so I succeeded in awak- ening and stimulating your interests and so I compelled the yelping rabble to look at you with my own dazzled eyes. I im- pressed your personality on them by sheer force. I compelled them until you had won their overwhelming sympathy so that at last you have the free entree. And when I had created you in this way it was all up with my own strength I broke down, exhausted by the strain. [He sits down in his previous place. Thekla turns toward the fireplace on the right.} I had lifted you up, but at the same time I brought myself down; I fell ill; and my illness began to bore you, just because things were beginning to look a bit rosy for you and then it seemed to me many times as though some secret desire were driving you to get away from your creditor and accomplice. Your love became that of a superior sister, and through want of a better part I fell into the habit of the new role of the little brother. Your tenderness remained the same as ever, in fact it has rather in- creased, but it is tinged with a grain of pity which is counterbalanced by a strong dose of contempt, and that will increase until it becomes complete, even as my genius is on the wane and your star is in the ascendant. It seems, too, as though your source were likely to dry up, when I leave off feeding it, or, rather, as soon as you show that you don't want to draw your inspiration from me any longer. And so we both go down, but you need somebody you can put in your pocket, somebody new, for you are weak and in- capable of carrying any moral burden yourself. So I became the scapegoat to be slaughtered alive, but all the same we had become like twins in the course of years, and when you cut through the thread of my longing, you little thought that you were throttling our own self. You are a branch from my tree, and you wanted to cut yourself free from your parent stem before it had struck roots, but you are unable to flourish on your own, and the tree in its turn couldn't do without its chief branch, and so both perish. THEKLA. Do you mean, by all that, that you've written my books? ADOLF. No; you say that so as to pro- voke me into a lie. I don't express my- self so crudely as you, and I've just spoken for five minutes on end simply so as to reproduce all the nuances, all the half-tones, all the transitions, but your barrel organ has only one key. THEKLA [walking up and down on the right]. Yes, yes; but the gist of the whole thing is that you've written my books. ADOLF. No, there's no gist. You can't resolve a symphony into one key; you can't translate a multifarious life into a single cipher. I never said anything so crass as that I'd written your books. THEKLA. But you meant it all the same. ADOLF [furious]. I never meant it. THEKLA. But the result ADOLF [wildly]. There's no result if one doesn't add. There is a quotient, a long infinitesimal figure of a quotient, but I didn't add. THEKLA. You didn't, but I can. 280 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS ADOLF. I quite believe you, but I never did. THEKLA. But you wanted to. ADOLF [ exhausted, shutting his eyes]. No, no, no don't speak to me any more, I'm getting convulsions be quiet, go away ! You're flaying my brain with your brutal pinchers you're thrusting your claws into my thoughts and tearing them. [He loses consciousness, stares in front of him and turns his thumbs inwards. ] THEKLA [tenderly coming towards him]. What is it, dear? Are you ill? [Adolf beats around him. Thekla takes her handkerchief, pours water on to it out of the bottle on the table right of the center door, and cools his forehead with it.] Adolf! ADOLF [he shakes his head]. Yes. THEKLA. Do you see now that you were wrong? ADOLF [after a pause]. Yes, yes, yes I see it. THEKLA. And you ask me to forgive you? ADOLF. Yes, yes, yes I ask you to forgive me; but don't talk right into my brain any more. THEKLA. Now kiss my hand. ADOLF. I'll kiss your hand, if only you won't speak to me any more. THEKLA. And now you'll go out and get some fresh air before dinner. ADOLF [getting up]. Yes, that will do me good, and afterwards we'll pack up and go away. THEKLA. No. [She moves away from him up to the fireplace on the right.] ADOLF. Why not? You must have some reason. THEKLA. The simple reason that I've arranged to be at the reception this evening. ADOLF. That's it, is it? THEKLA. That's it right enough. I've promised to be there. ADOLF. Promised? You probably said that you'd try to come; it doesn't prevent you from explaining that you have given up your intention. THEKLA. No, I'm not like you: my word is binding on me. ADOLF. One's word can be binding without one being obliged to respect every casual thing one lets fall in conversation ; or did somebody make you promise that you'd go? In that case, you can ask him to release you because your husband is ill. THEKLA. No, I've no inclination to do so. And, besides, you're not so ill that you can't quite well come along too. ADOLF. Why must I always come along too? Does it contribute to your greater serenity? THEKLA. I don't understand what you mean. ADOLF. That's what you always say when you know I mean something which you don't like. THEKLA. Re-a-lly? And why shouldn't I like it? ADOLF. Stop ! stop ! Don't start all over again good-by for the present I'll be back soon; I hope that in the meanwhile you'll have thought better of [Exit through the central door and then toward the right. Thekla ac- companies him to the back of the stage. Gustav enters, after a pause, from the right.] SCENE III. [Oustav goes straight up to the table on the left and takes up a paper without apparently seeing Thekla.] THEKLA [starts, then controls herself]. You? [She comes forward.] GUSTAV. It's me excuse me. THEKLA [on his left]. Where do you come from? GUSTAV. I came by the highroad, but I won't stay on here after seeing that THEKLA. Oh, you stay Well, it's a long time. GUSTAV. You're right, a very long time. THEKLA. You've altered a great deal, Gustav. . GUSTAV. But you, on the other hand, my dear Thekla, are still quite as fasci- nating as ever almost younger, in fact. Please forgiveme. I wouldn't for any- thing disturb your happiness by my pres- ence. If I'd known that you were staying here I would never have THE CREDITOR 281 THEKLA. Please please, stay. It may be that you find it painful. GUSTAV. It's all right as far as I'm concerned. I only thought that what- ever I said I should always have to run the risk of wounding you. THEKLA [passes in front of him toward the right}. Sit down for a moment, Gus- tav; you don't wound me, because you have the unusual gift which always distinguished you of being subtle and tactful. GUSTAV. You're too kind; but how on earth can one tell if your husband would regard me in the same light that you do. THEKLA. Quite the contrary. Why, he's just been expressing himself with the utmost sympathy with regard to you. GUSTAV. Ah ! Yes, everything dies away, even the names which we cut on the tree's bark not even malice can per- sist for long in these temperaments of ours. THEKLA. He's never entertained mal- ice against you why, he doesn't know you at all and, so far as I'm concerned, I always entertained the silent hope that I would live to see the time in which you would approach each other as friends or at least meet each other in my presence, shake hands, and part. GVSTAV. It was also my secret desire to see the woman whom I loved more than my life in really good hands, and, as a matter of fact, I've only heard the very best account of him, while I know all his work as well. All the same, I felt the need of pressing his hand before I grew old, looking him in the face, and asking him to preserve the treasure which providence had entrusted to him, and at the same time I wanted to extinguish the hate which was burning inside me, quite against my will, and I longed to find peace of soul and resignation, so as to be able to finish in quiet that dismal portion of my life which is still left me. THEKLA. Your words come straight from your heart; you have understood me, Gustav thanks. [She holds out her hand.] GUSTAV. Ah, I'm a petty man. Too insignificant to allow of your thriving in my shadow. Your temperament, with its thirst for freedom, could not be sat- isfied by my monotonous life, the slavish routine to which I was condemned, the narrow circle in which I had to move. I appreciate that, but you understand well enough you who are such an ex- pert psychologist what a struggle it must have cost me to acknowledge that to myself. THEKLA. How noble, how great to ac- knowledge one's weaknesses so frankly it's not all men who can bring them- selves to that point. [She sighs.]. But you are always an honest character, straight and reliable which I knew how to respect, but GUSTAV. I wasn't not then, but suf- fering purges, care ennobles and and I have suffered. THEKLA [comes nearer to him]. Poor Gustav, can you forgive me, can you? Tell me. GUSTAV. Forgive? What? It is I who have to ask you for forgiveness. THEKLA [striking another key*\. I do believe that we're both crying though we're neither of us chickens. GUSTAV [softly sliding into another tone]. Chickens, indeed! I'm an old man, but you you're getting younger every day. THEKLA. Do you mean it? GUSTAV. And how well you know how to dress ! THEKLA. It was you and no one else who taught me that. Do you still re- member finding out my special colors? GUSTAV. No. THEKLA. It was quite simple, don't you remember? Come, I still remember distinctly how angry you used to be with me if I ever had anything else except pink. GUSTAV. I angry with you? I was never angry with you. THEKLA. Oh yes, you were, when you wanted to teach me how to think. Don't you remember? And I wasn't able to catch on. GUSTAV. Not able to think, everybody can think, and now you're developing a quite extraordinary power of penetra- tion at any rate in your writings. THEKLA [disagreeably affected, tries to change the subject quickly]. Yes, Gus- tav dear, I was really awfully glad to see you again, especially under circumstances so unemotional. GUSTAV. Well, you can't say at any 282 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS rate that I was such a cantankerous cuss: taking it all round, you had a pretty quiet time of it with me. THEKLA. Yes; if anything too quiet. GUSTAV. Really? But I thought, don't you see, that you wanted me to be quiet and nothing else. Judging by your ex- pressions of opinion as a bride, I had to come to that assumption. THEKLA. How could a woman know then what she really wanted? Besides, mother had always drilled into me to make the best of myself. GUSTAV. Well, and that's why it is that you're going as strong as possible. There's such a lot always doing in artist life your husband isn't exactly a home- bird. THEKLA. But even so one can have too much of a good thing. GUSTAV [suddenly changing his tone]. Why, I do believe you're still wearing my earrings. THEKLA [embarrassed]. Yes, why shouldn't I? We're not enemies, you know and then I thought I would wear them as a symbol that we're not enemies besides, you know that earrings like this aren't to be had any more. [She takes one off.] GUSTAV. Well, so far so good; but what does your husband say on the point? THEKLA. W r hy should I ask him? GUSTAV. You don't ask him? But that's rubbing it in a bit too much it could quite well make him look ridicu- lous. THEKLA [simply tn an undertone], If it only weren't so pretty. [She has some trouble in adjusting the earring.] GUSTAV [who has noticed it]. Perhaps you will allow me to help you? THEKLA. Oh, if you would be so kind. GUSTAV [presses it into the ear], Little ear! I say, dear, supposing your husband saw us now. THEKLA. Then there'd be a scene. GUSTAV. Is he jealous, then? THEKLA. I should think he is rather ! [Noise in the room on the right.] GUSTAV [passes in front of her toward the right]. Whose room is that? . THEKLA [stepping a little toward the left], I don't know tell me how you are now, and what you're doing. [She goes to the table on the left.] GUSTAV. You tell me how you are. [He goes behind the square table on the left, over to the sofa. Thekla, embar- rassed, takes the cloth off the figure ab- sentmindedly.] No! who is that? Why it's you ! THEKLA. I don't think so. GUSTAV. But it looks like you. THEKLA [cynically]. You think so? GUSTAV [sits down on the sofa]. It re- minds one of the anecdote: "How could your Majesty say that?" THEKLA [laughs loudly and sits down opposite him on the settee]. What fool- ish ideas you do get into your head. Have you got by any chance some new yarns? GUSTAV. No; but you must know some. THEKLA. I don't get a chance any more now of hearing anything which is really funny. GUSTAV. Is he as prudish as all that? THEKLA. Rather ! GUSTAV. Never different? THEKLA. He's been so ill lately. [Both stand up.] GUSTAV. Well, who told little brother to walk into somebody else's wasps' nest. THEKLA [laughs]. Foolish fellow, you ! GUSTAV. Poor child ! do you still re- member that once, shortly after our en- gagement, we lived in this very room, eh? But then it was furnished differ- ently, there was a secretary for instance, here, by the pillar, and the bed [With delicacy.] was here. THEKLA. Hush ! GUSTAV. Look at me! THEKLA. If you would like me to. [They keep their eyes looking into each other's for a minute.] GUSTAV. Do you think it is possible to forget a thing which has made so deep an impression on one's life? THEKLA. No; the power of impres- sions is great, particularly when they are the impressions of one's youth. [She turns toward the fireplace on her right.] GUSTAV. Do you remember how we met for the first time? You were such an ethereal little thing, a little slate on which your parents and governess had scratched some wretched scrawl, which I had to rub out afterwards, and then I wrote a new text on it, according to what THE CREDITOR 283 I thought right, till it seemed to you that the slate was filled with writing. [He follows her to the circular table on the right.] That's why, do you see, I shouldn't like to be in your husband's place no, that's his business. [Sits down in front of the circular table.] But that's why meeting you has an especial fascination for me. \Ve hit it off to- gether so perfectly, and when I sit down here and chat with you it's just as though I were uncorking bottles of old wine which I myself have bottled. The wine which is served to me is my own, but it has mellowed. And now that I intend to marry again, I have made a very care- ful choice of a young girl whom I can train according to my own ideas. [Get- tiny up.] For woman is man's child, don't you know; if she isn't his child, then he becomes hers, and that means that the world is turned upside down. THEKLA. You're going to marry again? GUSTAV. Yes. I'm going to try my luck once more, but this time I'll jolly well see that the double harness is more reliable and shall know how to guard against any bolting. THEKLA [turns and goes over toward him to the left]. Is she pretty? GUSTAV. Yes, according to my taste, but perhaps I'm too old, and strangely enough now that chance brings me near to you again I'm now beginning to have grave doubts of the feasibility of playing a game like that twice over. THEKLA. What do you mean? GUSTAV. I feel that my roots are too firmly embedded in your soil, and the old wounds break open. You're a danger- ous woman, Thekla. THEKLA. Re-a-lly? My young hus- band is emphatic that is just what I'm not that I can't make any more con- quests. GUSTAV. That means he's left off lov- ing you. THEKLA. What he means by love lies outside my line of country. [She goes behind the sofa on the left. Gustav goes after her as far as the table on the left.] GUSTAV. You've played hide and seek so long with each other that the " he " can't catch the she, nor the she the " he," don't you know. Of course it's just the kind of thing one would expect. You had to play the little innocent, and that makes him quite tame. As a matter of fact a change has its disadvantages yes, it has its disadvantages. THEKLA. You reproach me? GUSTAV. Not for a minute. What al- ways happens, happens with a certain inevitability, and if this particular thing hadn't happened something else would, but this did happen, find here we are. THEKLA. You're a broad-minded man. I've never yet met anybody with whom I liked so much to have a good straight talk as with you. You have so little patience with all that moralizing and preaching, and you make such small de- mands on people, that one feels really free in your presence. Do you know I'm jealous of your future wife? [She comes forward and passes by him toward the right.] GUSTAV. And you know I'm jealous of your husband. THEKLA. And now we must part! Forever ! [She goes past him till she ap- proaches the center door.] GUSTAV. Quite right, we must part but before that, we'll say good-by to each other, won't we? THEKLA [uneasily]. No. GUSTAV [dogging her]. Yes, we will; yes, we will. We'll say good-by; we will drown our memories in an ecstasy which will be so violent that when we wake up the past will have vanished from our recollection forever. There are ecstasies like that, you know. [He puts his arm around her waist.] You're being dragged down by a sick spirit, who's infecting you with his own consumption. I will breathe new life into you. I will fertilize your genius, so that it will bloom in the autumn like a rose in the spring, I will [Two lady visitors appear on the right behind the central door.] SCENE IV. [The previous characters; the Ladies. ] [The ladies appear surprised, point, laugh, and exeunt on the left.] 284 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS SCENE V. THEKLA [disengaging herself]. Who was that? GUSTAV [casually, while he doses the central door]. Oh, some visitors who were passing through. THEKLA. Go away! I'm afraid of you. [She goes behind the sofa on the left.] GUSTAV. Why? THEKLA. You've robbed me of my soul. GUSTAV [comes forward]. And I give you mine in exchange for it. Besides, you haven't got any soul at all. It's only an optical illusion. THEKLA. You've got a knack of being rude in such a way that one can't be angry with you. GUSTAV. That's because you know very well that I am designated for the place of honor tell rne now when and where? THEKLA [coining toward him]. No. I can't hurt him by doing a thing like that. I'm sure he still loves me, and I don't want to wound him a second time. GUSTAV. He doesn't love you. Do you want to have proofs? THEKLA. How can you give me them? GUSTAV [takes vp from the floor the fragments of photograph behind the cir- cular tabU on the right}. Here, look at yourself! [He gives them to her.] THEKLA. Oh, that is shameful! GUSTAV. There, you can see for your- self well, when and where? THEKLA. The false brute! GUSTAV. When? THEKLA. He goes away to-night by the eight-o'clock boat. GUSTAV. Then THEKLA. At nine. [A noise in the room on the right.} Who's in there mak- ing such a noise? GUSTAV [goes to the right at the key- hole]. Let's have a look the fancy table has been upset and there's a broken water-bottle on the floor, that's all. Per- hnps some one has shut a dog up there. [lie goes again toward her.] Nine o'clock, then? THEKLA. Right you are. I should only like him to see the fun such a piece of deceit, and what's more, from a man that's always preaching truthful- ness, who's always drilling into me to speak the truth. But stop how did it all happen? He received me in almost an unfriendly manner didn't come to the pier to meet me then he let fall a remark over the pure boy on the steam- boat, which I pretended not to under- stand. But how could he know anything about it? Wait a moment. Then he be- gan to philosophize about women then you began to haunt his brain then he spoke about wanting to be a sculptor, because sculpture was the art of the pres- ent day just like you used to thunder in the old days. GUSTAV. No, really? [Thekla moves away from Gustav behind the sofa on the left.} THEKLA. "No, really?" Now I un- derstand. [To Gustav.] Now at last I see perfectly well what a miserable scoundrel you are. You've been with him and have scratched his heart out of his body. It's you you who've been sitting here on the sofa. It was you who've been suggesting all these ideas to him: that he was suffering from epi- lepsy, that he should live a celibate life, that he should pit himself against his wife and try to play her master. How long have you been here? GUSTAV. Eight days. THEKLA. You were the man, then, I saw on the steamer? GUSTAV [frankly]. It was I. THEKLA. And did you really think that I'd fall in with your little game? GUSTAV [firmly]. You've already done it. THEKLA. Not yet. GUSTAV [firmly]. Yes, you have. THEKLA [comes forward]. You've stalked my lamb like a wolf. You came here with a scoundrelly plan of smash- ing up my happiness and you've been try- ing to carry it through until I realize what you were up to and put a spoke in your precious wheel. GUSTAV [vigorously]. That's not quite accurate. The thing took quite another course. That I should have wished in my heart of hearts that things should go badly with you is only natural. Yet I was more or less convinced that it would THE CREDITOR 285 not be necessary for me to cut in actively; because, I had far too much other busi- ness to have time for intrigues. But just now, when I was loafing about a bit, and happened to run across you on the steamer with your circle of young men, I thought that the time had come to get to slightly closer quarters with you two. I came here and that lamb of yours threw himself immediately into the wolfs arms. I aroused his sympathy by methods of reflex suggestion, into details of which, as a matter of good form, I'd rather not go. At first I experienced a certain pity for him, because he was in the very con- dition in which I had once found myself. Tlien, as luck would have it, he began unwittingly to probe about in my old wound you know what I mean the book and the ass then I was over- whelmed by a desire to pluck him to pieces and to mess up the fragments in such a tangle that they could never be put together again. Thanks to the con- scientious way in which you have cleared the ground, I succeeded only too easily, and then I had to deal with you. You were the spring in the works that had to be taken to pieces. And, that done, the game was to listen for the smash-up. When I came into this room I had no idea what I was to say. I had a lot of plans in my head, like a chess player, but the character of the opening depended on the moves you made; one move led to an- other, chance was kind to me. I soon had you on toast and now you're in a nice mess. THE K LA. Nonsense. GUSTAV. Oh yes; what you'd have prayed your stars to avoid has happened: society, in the persons of two lady vis- itors I didn't commandeer their ap- pearance because intrigue is not in my line society, I say, has seen your pa- thetic reconciliation" with your first hus- band, and the penitent way in which you crawled back into his faithful arms. Isn't th;;t enough? THEKLA [she goes over to him toward the right]. Tell me you who make such a point of being so logical and so intellectual how does it come about that you, who make such a point of your maxim that everything which happens happens as a matter of necessity, and that all our actions are determined G0STAV [corrects her]. Determined up to a certain extent. THEKLA. It comes to the same thing. GrsTAv. No. THEKLA. How does it come about that you, who are bound to regard me as an innocent person, inasmuch as nature and circumstances have driven me to act as I did, could regard yourself as justified in revenging yourself on me. GUSTAV. Well, the same principle ap- plies, you see that is to say, the prin- ciple that my temperament and circum- stances drove me to revenge myself. Isn't it a case of six of one and half-a- dozen of the other? But do you know why you've got the worst of it in this struggle? [Thekla looks contemptuous.] Why you and that husband of yours man- aged to get downed? I'll tell you. Be- cause I was stronger than you, and smarter. It was you, my dear, who was a donkey and he as well! So you see that one isn't necessarily bound to be quite an ass even though one doesn't write any novels or paint any pictures. Just remember that ! [He turns away from her to the left.] THEKLA. Haven't you got a grain of feeling left? GUSTAV. Not a grain that's why, don't you know, I'm so good at thinking, as you are perhaps able to see by the slight proofs which I've given you, and can play the practical man equally well, and I've just given you something of a sample of what I can do in that line. [lie strides round the table and sofa on the left and turns again to her.} THEKLA. And all this simply because I wounded your vanity? GUSTAV [on her left]. Not that only, but you be jolly careful in the future of wounding other people's vanity it's the most sensitive part of a man. THEKLA. What a vindictive wretch! Ugh! GUSTAV. What a promiscuous wretch. Ugh! THEKLA. Do you mean that's my tem- perament? GUSTAV. Do you mean that's my tem- perament? THEKLA [goes over toward him to the left]. You wouldn't like to forgive me? GUSTAV. Certainly, I have forgiven you. 2 86 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS THEKLA. You? GUSTAV. Quite. Have I ever raised my hand against you two in all these years? No. But when I happened to be here I favored you two with scarce a look and the cleavage between you is already there. Did I ever reproach you, moralize, lecture? No. I joked a little with your husband and the accumulated dynamite in him just happened to go off, biit I, who am defending myself like this, am the one who's really entitled to stand here and complain. Thekla, have you nothing to reproach yourself with? THEKLA. Not the least bit the Christians say it's Providence that guides our actions, others call it Fate, aren't we quite guiltless? GUSTAV. No doubt we are to a certain extent. But an infinitesimal something remains, and that contains the guilt, all the same, and the creditors turn up sooner or later! Men and women may be guilt- less, but they have to render an account. Guiltless before Him in whom neither of us believes any more, responsible to themselves and to their fellow-men. THEKLA. You've come, then, to warn me? GrsTAv. I've come to demand back what you stole from me, not what you had as a present. You stole my honor, and I could only win back mine by tak- ing yours wasn't I right? THEKLA [after a pause, going over to him on the right]. Honor! Hm! And are you satisfied now? GUSTAV [after a pause], I am satis- fied now. [He presses the bell by the door L. for the Waiter.] THEKLA [after another pause]. And now you're going to your bride, Gustav? GUSTAV. I have none and shall never have one. I am not going home because I have no home, and shall never have one. [Waiter comes in on the left.] SCENE VI. [Previous characters Waiter standing back.] GCSTAV. Bring me the bill I'm leav- ing by the twelve-o'clock boat. [ Waiter bows and exit left.] SCEXE VII. THEKLA. Without a reconciliation? GUSTAV [on her left]. Reconciliation? You play about with so many words that they've quite lost their meaning. We reconcile ourselves? Perhaps we are to live in a trinity, are we? The way for you to effect a reconciliation is to put matters straight. You can't do that alone. You have not only taken some- thing, but you have destroyed what you took, and you can never put it back. Would you be satisfied if I were to say to you: "Forgive me because you mangled my heart with your claws; forgive me for the dishonor you brought upon me; forgive me for being seven years on end the laughing-stock of my pupils, forgive me for freeing you from the con- trol of your parents; for releasing you from the tyranny of ignorance and super- stition; for making you mistress over my house; for giving you a position and friends, I, the man who made you into a woman out of the child you were? For- give me like I forgive you? Anyway, I now regard my account with 'y u as squared. You go and settle up your ac- counts with the other man. THEKLA. Where is he? What have you done with him? I've just got a sus- picion a something dreadful! GUSTAV. Done with him ? Do you still love him? THEKLA [goes over to him toward the left]. Yes. GUSTAV. And a minute ago you loved me? Is that really so? THEKLA. It is. GUSTAV. Do you know what you are, then? THEKLA. You despise me? GUSTAV. No, I pity you. It's a char- acteristic I don't say 'a defect, but cer- tainly a characteristic that is very fatal, by reason of its results. Poor Thekla! I don't know but I almost think that I'm sorry for it, although I'm quite innocent like you. But anyway it's perhaps all for the best that you've now got to feel what I felt then. Do you know where your husband is? THEKLA. I think I know now. [She points to the right.] He's in your room just here. He has heard eVerything, seen everything, and you know they say THE CREDITOR 287 that he who looks upon his vampire dies. SCEXE VIII. [Adolf appears on the right, deadly pale, a streak of blood on his left cheek, a fijced expression in his eyes, white foam on his mouth.} GTSTAV [moves back]. No, here he is settle with him now ! See if he'll be as generous to you as I was. Good-hy. [lie turns to the left, stops after a few steps, and remains standing. \ THEKLA [floes toward Adolf with out- stretched arms], Adolf! [Adolf sinks down in his chair by the table on the left. Thekla throws herself over him and caresses him.] Adolf! My darling child, are you alive? Speak! Speak! Forgive your wicked Thekla ! Forgive me ! For- give me! Forgive me! Little brother must answer. Does he hear? My God, he doesn't hear me ! He's dead ! Good God! O my God! Help! Help us! GUSTAV. 'Quite true, she loves him as well poor creature ! [Curtain.] AUTUMN FIRES A COMEDY BY GUSTAV WIED TRANSLATED BY BENJAMIN F. Copyright, 1920, by Benjamin F. Glazer. All rights reserved. PERSONS HELMS, KBAKAU, HAXSEN, JOH xsrox, HAMMER, BUFFE, BELLING, KSUT [An eighteen-year-old boy}. [Old Men, inmates of an old men's home}. The professional and amateur stagre rights are reserved by the translator, Mr. Ben- jamin F. Glazer, Editorial Department, The Press, Philadelphia, Pa., to whom all requests for permission to produce the play should be made. AUTUMN FIRES A COMEDY IN ONE ACT [The room of Helms and Krakau in the Old Men's Home. The time is after- noon of a late September day. There is a window at right looking out on the street and another at left overlooking a courtyard. There is a single door back center which opens into a corridor on both sides of which are similar doors in long regular rows and at the end of which is a stairway from the lower floors. An imaginary line divides the room into two equal parts. Helms lives on the street side and Krakau on the side nearest the courtyard. In each division there is a bed, chiffonier, a cupboard, a table, a sofa and several chairs. The stove is on Krakau's side, but by way of compensation Helms has an uphol- stered arm chair with a tall back. A lamp hangs in the exact center of the celling. Though there is a low screen which can be used as partial partition between the two divisions it is now folded and standing against the back wall, and the two tables are placed down center, end to end, so that the place is for all present purposes a single room. Helms' side is conspicuously ill kept and in disorder; Krakau's side is spick and span. On Helms' table there ii a vase filled with flowers and near it a pair of gray woolen socks and a pair of heavy mittens. There is also a photo- graph of a boy in a polished nickel stand- ing-frame. Helms, his spectacles on his nose, sits in his great arm chair at the table and reads a newspaper. Krakau sits next to him working out a problem on a chess board. There is a short pause after the curtain rises.] KRAKAU. There, I've done it again. HELMS [without looking up from his paper]. It's easy enough if one cheats. BY GUSTAV KRAKAU. Who cheats? HELMS. Well, year after year you work out the same problem. Anybody can do that. KRAKAU [rearranging the chessmen]. You can't. HELMS. Just try another problem once, then see how smart you are. KRAKAU. I'm quite satisfied with this one. [Moves a piece.] Going to have chocolate to-day? HELMS [contemptuously]. Chocolate! What for? KRAKAU. I thought on account of it being your birthday HELMS. Chocolate ! That's a drink for women. On my birthday I serve wine. KRAKAU. Hmmm! Wine, eh? Who's coming? HELMS. Just one floor. KRAKAU. Boiling too? HELMS. I suppose Buffe will bring him along. KRAKAU. And he won't have a word to say. HELMS. He never has a word to say. KRAKAU. No, never. HELMS. Must you rattle those pieces like that? KRAKAU. Can I help it if they are heavy? [Moves them more carefully.] You are always complaining about noise. You only do it to remind me how well you can hear. HELMS. Your hearing has gotten a good deal worse this year, hasn't it? Hansen says so, too. KRAKAU. Hansen! A lot he knows! [Moves a piece.] Is there anything about you in the paper? HELMS. Nonsense ! What should there be? KHAKAU. Your eightieth birthday. They put all kinds of foolishness in the papers these days. 291 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS HELMS. Didn't you hear what I said? There is nothing. KHAKAU. I heard you. HELMS [regards him distrustfully over his spectacles]. Have you been reading this paper while I was out? KHAKAU [loftily]. I always read the paper at night, you know. Newspaper ought to be read by lamplight. HELMS. Boasting about your eyesight again. KRAKAU. Yes, I have excellent eyes. [Knocks solemnly on wood.} HELMS. Did you read the "personal notes " ? KHAKAU [indignantly}. I told you I haven't touched your old paper. HELMS. My son-in-law has been ap- pointed postal inspector. KRAKAU. Postal Inspector! That's not a very high office. I suppose that is why Knut hasn't turned up to-day. HELMS [resentfully}. You haven't con- gratulated me. KRAKAU. Because he's a postal inspec- tor? Hump! Congratulations. [Pushes aside the chessboard and rises.] HELMS [ironically]. Thanks. Ah, if my daughter had lived, she would be proud. KRAKAU [over his shoulder]. If Mary's gray cat had been a horse she could have gone riding in the park. HELMS [regarding him sharply over his glasses]. Do you know what I have noticed, Krakau? [Krakau does not an- swer.} I have noticed that whenever I mention my son-in-law you get mad. KRAKAU. So? HELMS [querulously}. Yes you do. I noticed it long ago. I don't see what you've got against him. His son Knut is your godson, too. KRAKAU. We'll not talk about that, Helms. HELMS. But I want to talk about it. We have been friends for sixty years, you and me, and KRAKAU [suddenly]. Why didn't Knut send regards to me in his birthday letter? HELMS. Ha, you're jealous, that's what you are. After all, it's my birthday, not yours. KRAKAU. He never forgot to send re- gards to you on my birthday. HELMS [beating his breast]. Well, he's my grandson and he's only your godson. KHAKAU [incredulously]. So e? HELMS. Well, isn't he your godson? KRAKAU. Yes. HELMS. Then why do you say so e like that? KRAKAU [restraining himself]. We'd better not talk about that. I told you so before. HELMS. But, damn it, I insist upon talking about it. I want to know what you mean. KRAKAU. That's all right. HELMS. It isn't the first time you've made the same stupid remark. . . . Do you mean to insinuate that he isn't my grandson? Is that what you're driving at? KRAKAU. For the third time, let's drop the subject. [Down in the court- yard a hand organ begins to play.] There's the old organ grinder. . . . This is Thursday. HELMS. You needn't tell me. I can hear for myself. KRAKAU. It's your turn to give him something. HELMS. I have no small change. Lay it out for me. KRAKAU. Remember you owe me for the pack of matches. HELMS. This will make seventeen. KRAKAU. [Wraps a coin in a bit of paper.] I just want to make sure you've got it right. You always argue about it afterwards. HELMS. Hmm ! KRAKAU. [Opens the window, throws out the coin. The music plays more vig- orously, then suddenly stops.] The por- ter is chasing him away. ... I suppose it's because Larsen is sick downstairs. HELMS [laughs angrily]. Huh! You were in an awful hurry about throwing that money down, weren't you? Well, I won't pay you for that. KRAKAU [hastily closing the window]. What kind of a way is that? HELMS. You should have waited until he'd played a few tunes. KRAKAU. How was I going to know the porter would chase him away? HELMS. That's your- lookout. You should have waited, then you would have seen, I won't pay you back. KRAKAU. You're a damned old swind- ler, Helms, and you always were. [Turns away and putts out his pipe.] AUTUMN FIRES 293 HELMS [sees the pipe]. I can't bear tobacco smoke to-day; my throat's too bad. KRAKAU. Let me tell you something; I take no orders from you. HELMS. I'll complain to the superin- tendent. Smoke hurts my throat, and you know it. KRAKAU. Huh! Won't you complain to your postal clerk son-in-law, too? HELMS. No, but I'll tell Knut when he comes. I don't see why I let you be his godfather anyway. They wanted some one else, but I said : " No, let's ask Krakau; it will please him." I was a fool. KRAKAU. You asked me because you knew I'd give him a handsome present. Old miser that you are ! HELMS. But you've always been jeal- ous because I am his grandfather while you are only his godfather. KRAKAU. So ! HELMS [furious]. Don't you dare to smoke, do you hear ! KRAKAU. Who's smoking? [Puts the pipe back in his pocket.] HELMS. You needn't pretend you are not jealous. Why, when my daughter was alive and came to visit me here you used to crawl over to your own side and hide your envious face. KRAKAU. She didn't come to see me. HELMS. Well, you might at least have been polite. . . . But you were always a false friend. You never forgave me for having a wife and family while you were a lonely old bachelor. KRAKAU. So e ! HELMS. Don't make that nasty noise ! It's true; you know it's true. To this day I remember how angry you were when Andrea was born. For two years you didn't set foot in my house. You said you couldn't bear children about. . . . But if she had been your own child KRAKAU. Can't you talk about any- thing else? HELMS. And you wouldn't come to my wife's funeral either. I shall never for- give you that, Krakau, the wife of your best friend and now you want to smoke though you know I have a weak throat. KRAKAU. Why will you talk like an idiot? Don't you see the pipe is in my pocket. HELMS. Well, you were going to smoke, weren't you? And there's another thing: It never occurred to you to con- gratulate me when I told you my son-in- law had been made a postal clerk. KRAKAU [ironically]. I do congratu- late you. But you needn't be so stuck up about it. He's not the only postal in- spector in the world. HELMS. Who's stuck up? Not a bit of it ! I was thinking of Knut. He'll be better provided for now his father has a good position. Isn't it natural for me to think of Knut's welfare? I am his grandfather. KRAKA u. So o ? HELMS. There you go again with your So o ! My daughter's son is my grand- son. Any fool knows that. KRAKAU. Many a fool has believed he was a daughter's father and wasn't. HELMS. What's that? My daughter . . . ? You are an idiot. KRAKAU. Do you remember what hap- pened to Adam Harbee? HELMS. That has nothing to do with the case. My wife was not that sort of a woman. You'll concede that. KRAKAU. Ye-es. HELMS. Well, then but what can an innocent old bachelor like you know of such things. KRAKAU. Are you going to talk stuck up again, Helms? HELMS. Sure I will: I am too stuck up to let an ignorant bachelor like you teach me what's what about married life. What do you know about it? Virgin! KRAKAU [infuriated]. I'll tell you what I know about it. You are not An- drea's father at all. HELMS [laughs incredulously]. Ain't I? Well, if I may take the liberty to ask, who is her father? KRAKAU. That's all right. We'll not talk about it any more. HELMS. Oh yes, we will! Who is her father, if I am not? KRAKAU. That's all right. HELMS. Just empty talk, eh? I might have known it. You just say such tilings because I owe you seventeen pfennig. KRAKAU. Twenty-seven! I laid out ten for cake last Friday. HELMS. Twenty-seven, then. And that's why you make up these stories to annoy me. KHAKAU. Have it your way. 294 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS HELMS [whimpering]. Why don't you speak out, then? If I am not Andrea's father, who is? You can't leave it like this. Who is the man you accuse, eh? Was it Axel? KRAKAU [scornfully]. No. HELMS. Or Summensen? KRAKAU. Do you suppose Caroline would mix up with a couple of swine like that? HELMS. Of course I don't. It's you that's been putting such things in my head. You don't know what you are talking about. KRAKAU. I know what I know. HELMS [pound* on the table]. Who was he then? Speak up or admit that you are a filthy liar. KRAKAU [with sudden determination]. I was her father. Now you know it. HELMS [derisively]. You! . . . Ha, ha, ha ! ... You ! God knows how you hit on that idea. Do tell us about it. KRAKAU [savagely; he is on his own tide of the room now]. Yes, I'll tell you about it. ... With pleasure, my dear Helms! ... I had made up my mind to carry the secret with me to the grave . . . but I can't stand your overbearing ways any more. . . . Now it comes out. . . . And thank God for it. ... You were a devil to your wife and you have been a devil to me, Helms, all the fifteen years we have lived in this room. HELMS. Ha, ha! So I've been a devil, eh? The things one lives and learns! KRAKAU. Yes, a devil a devil on wheels. You whine and crow and fuss and scold . . . nothing suits you ... no matter how hard I try . . . and you are mean and niggardly. . . . Every pfennig must be pulled out of you like a tooth. HELMS. I don't throw my money in the street. KRAKAU. Nobody throws his money in the street, but you can't get along with- out spending money, can you? HELMS. No. KRAKAU. No, but you expected Caro- line to. Instead of money you gave her compliments. Naturally she came to me for help. She had to have pin money and clothes. HELMS. And you gave her money. KRAKAU. Of course I did. HELMS. Yes, what then? KRAKAU. Of course it was humiliating to her. She was very unhappy. I did my best to console her. HELMS. And then Andrea was born. KRAKAU. Yes. HELMS [bitterly]. That was . . . that was powerful consolation, Krakau, I must say. . . . But tell me how you are so sure that Andrea was your daughter. KRAKAU. Caroline told me herself. Besides, didn't I know that she had lived with you ten years before and never had a child. HELMS [pathetically]. No. [With a flash of anger.] Why didn't you tell me this before? KRAKAU [who is half sorry now], Why should I have told you? HELMS [without heeding him; mumbles half to himself, shaking his head]. And if she was your daughter, then Knut is your grandson and you are also his god- father . . . and to me he is nothing [bows his head], I am eighty years old to-dav, Krakau. ... It is hard to be told such a thing when you are eighty. . . . KHAKAU [has gone over to him, sym- pathetically touching his shoulder], I'm sorry, Helms. I wish I hadn't told you. But you made me so angry it just popped out. . . . But don't worry . . . every- thing will be just the same as be- fore HELMS [shakes his head mournfully]. No. KRAKAU. But yes ! I don't want him all for myself. We can share him, can't we? HELMS. Share him? KRAKAU. Of course. Instead of being your grandson Knut will be our grand- son, that's all. HELMS [sits up proudly]. Knut is nothing to me. KRAKAU. But nobody knows that. HELMS. He is a perfect stranger. KRAKAU. But nobody knows it except you and me don't you see ? HELMS. You would throw it up to me every day. KRAKAU. Never ! We should be equal partners. And oh, the long talks we could have about him ! . . . Before it was different . . . you were so stuck up about your grandson, I couldn't bear it any longer. . . . But now we can both be stuck up. HELMS [hotly]. No. . . . Go over on AUTUMN FIRES 295 your own side. I don't want you here. ... I want to be alone. KRAKAU. Helms . . . HELMS. Get out of here, I say. . . . And take your flowers with you I ac- cept no presents from the like of you. KRAKAU. The flowers ? HELMS. Yes, take them away. And take [chokes over the word] take Knut's picture, too, and the stockings his father sent. ... I guess they're yours by right. KRAKAU [indignantly]. I'll do noth- ing of the kind. My name's not Carl Helms. HELMS. Well, take the flowers then. KRAKAU [takes the flowers]. I can do that, all right. HELMS. And see that you don't come on my side again without asking permis- sion. KRAKAU [walks a few paces; turns around]. Hadn't I better straighten up a bit before your guests come? HELMS. You leave my things alone . . . and mind your business. [Krakau goes with the flowers to his own side.] HELMS. You've got the best of every- thing anyhow. The stove is on your side andlhe morning sun. Wouldn't you like to take my arm chair too, and my pic- tures? Don't mind me, you know. [Krakau does not answer. There is a pause. A clock outside strikes five.] KRAKAU. The clock's striking five. HELMS. Let it strike. [There is another pause. A knock on the door is heard. Neither an- swers it. There is a louder knock.] KRAKAU. [Impatiently.] Why don't you answer the door? HELMS. I'm not in the humor for com- pany. KRAKAU. But some one is knocking. HELMS. What's that to me? [There is a third knock.] KRAKAU. Obstinate old fool. [Loud- ly.] Come in. [Hansen and Johnston enter. Be- hind them in the hatlway Bujfe can be seen with Boiling on his arm. Farther buck Hammer is seen. [Krakau rises, goes to the window and stands there, looking gloomily out into the courtyard.] HANSEN [leaving the door open]. The others are coming. Well, congratula- tions, Helms. HELMS. Thank you. JOHNSTON. Many happy returns. [They shake hands.] BUFFE [entering with Boiling]. I'll have to put him in your arm chair. HELMS. Right over there. BUFFE. [Helping Boiling to the chair.] Our heartiest congratulations, eh, Boll- ing? BOLLING. Hey? BUFFE [speaking close to his ear]. I say we congratulate Helms on his birth- day. BOLLING. No. It's nothing to boast about. HAMMER [entering]. Congratulations! HAXSEN. Now we're all here. HELMS. Make yourselves comfortable. [They all take seats.] [Boiling sits rigid in the arm chair absently twirling his fingers. Kraukau, who has once or twice shown the impulse to go over to Helms, stirs uneasily but turns his back to his window. A silence falls. Suddenly Hansen begins to whistle, a tuneless mournful strain.] JOHNSTON [whispering confidentially], My dear Peter, one doesn't whistle at a birthday party. HANSEN [mocking him]. My dear Henry, mind your own affairs. JOHNSTON. You have the soul of a greengrocer. HANSEN. You have the manners of a barber. BUFFE [laughing]. Those boys are al- ways fighting. HAMMER. But they can't live without each other. BUFFE [ to Hammer] . Aren't you lone- ly since Kruger died? HAMMER. It is lonesome sometimes, but I have more room now. BUFFE. My wrists are so full of rheumatism I can hardly bend them any more. HAMMER. There's something the mat- ter with all of us. How is your throat, Helms? HELMS. Pretty good. [There is si- lence again.] HANSEN. Fine weather to-day. JOHNSTON. Regular birthday weather. 296 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS HAMMER. On my birthday it always rains. HAXSEX [points to the window]. You. can see the sun from here. BUFFE. I read in the papers about your son-in-law's appointment. HELMS [shortly]. Yes? JOHNSTON. Yes, we must congratulate you over again. HANSEX. Helms is the luckiest man in the place. HAMMER. Has your grandson been here yet? HELMS. No. BUFFE. Of course he's coming. HELMS. I don't know. JOHNSTON. Of course he'll come on your birthday. He's a fine young fel- low. HANSEN. Yes, indeed, Helms, you should be proud of him. HAMMER [sees Knut's portrait]. There he is. [All except Helms and Boiling look at the picture.] HANSEN. Looks something like his grandfather. JOHXSTOX. Yes, it's a striking resem- blance. HAMMER. The nose. JOHNSTON. And the eyes look at the eyes. HANSEN. Yes. BUFFE. We are looking at his grand- son's picture, Boiling. [Boiling stares indifferently. Helms casts apprehensive glances at Kra- kau.] HAMMER. Look at the gifts. HANSEN. He's a lucky man. JOHNSTON [with a sigh]. Ah yes, when you have your family BUFFE [showing fhe stockings]. Helms got some wonderful birthday presents, Boiling. BOLLING [feeling them]. Good wool. HAXSEN [suddenly]. What is Krakau doing over there? HELMS [angrily]. Yes, why don't you stop skulking over there like a homeless dog. BUFFE [to Hammer], They have quar- reled. HAMMER. I guess so. [To Hansen.] Have they had a fight? HANSEN. I don't know. JOHNSTOX. That's right, be sociable, Krakau. HELMS [irritably]. Why don't you get the wine, Krakau? KRAKAU. How should I know HELMS [interrupts]. You know it is in the closet. [Krakau takes bottle and glasses from the cupboard.] HAMMER [delighted]. Did you say wine? BUFFE. Wine! Did you hear? HANSEN. You might think Helms was a postal inspector himself. JOHNSTON. More than that! He's a millionaire in disguise. Krakau can tell you he has stockings full of good red gold. [Krakau pours the wine. All watch with eager eyes. The sun now shines full in the room.] KRAKAU. Hadn't we better push the tables together. HELMS [petulantly]. No. It's my birthday. And we can do very well with- out your table. HAMMER. There'd be more room with both tables. BUFFE. We can't all sit around one table. HELMS. All right push them to- gether. [They do so.] JOHNSTON. We must fix our tables this way, too, Peter. HANSEN. All right. BUFFE [to Boiling]. Come over to the table; we are going to have wine. [Boiling stands up. They move his chair to the table. He sits again.] HAXSEX. Why are you so quiet, Boll- ing? BOLLING. Everything there is to say has been said. JOHNSTON. He's a smart man. [Nods admiringly.] HANSEX. Ha, ha, ha! BOLLIXO [suddenly to Krakau]. What's that you are pouring? KRAKAU. Sherry. BOLLIXG [angrily], I can't stand port wine. KRAKAU. Yes, but this is sherry. BOLLING. Port wine is poison. HAMMER. But this is sherry. BOLLIXG. Port wine is poison. BUFFE. Yes, Boiling; but this is sher- ry; it won't hurt you. BOLLIXG. Poison port wine is. JOHXSTOX [raising his glass.] Many happy returns! AUTUMN FIRES 297 HAMMER. Many future birthdays ! HANSEN. Happy ones ! BUFFE. Boiling, we are drinking to Helms. BOLLING. It isn't port wine, is it? BUFFE. No, indeed, sherry. BOLLING. I da'sn't drink port. BUFFE. It's a toast to Helms. BOLLING. Why? BUFFE. He's eighty years old to-day. BOLLING. I am ninety-two. That's nothing; to be glad about. [All except Boiling raise their glass- es. They vtter cheery exclama- tions and drink.] HELMS. Thanks; thank you! BOLLIXG [raising his glass]. Con- gratulations, Helms. I hope you never get as old as me. HAMMER [angrily]. That's no way to talk, Boiling. HANSEN. He's spoiling the whole party. BUFFE [apologetically]. Boiling's tired of living. JOHNSTON. You're joking. BUFFE. No; really he is. He wants to die. JOHNSTON. Nonsense ! How can any one want to die? It's against human na- ture. KRAKAU [who has taken cigars from the cupboard]. Who wants to smoke? HANSEN [with delight.] Cigars too! [Krakau passes the cigars. Hansen, Hammer and Johnston each take one. The sun now shines on the table and men.] BUFFE. The sun is as red as wine. HANSEN [with a sigh]. Autumn is coming. HANSEN. We've had Autumn weather for two weeks past. HELMS. Unseasonable weather! I hate it. [During the entire scene he has been ill at ease, casting frequent appre- hensive glances at Krakau, who avoids his gaze.] BUFFE. It isn't like it used to be. HAMMER. No. When the calendar said Summer we had Summer. BOLLING [apropos of nothing]. I am ninety-two. BUFFE [explaining apologetically]. He always says that. It's on his mind. KRAKAU. I hear that the nurse down- stairs is engaged to be married. HANSEN. Yes, with the doctor. JOHNSTON. The hospital doctor? KRAKAU. Yes; he's a sick man him- self. HAMMER. Then it's a good thing she's a nurse. HELMS. Every young woman ought to be trained as a nurse. BUFFE [to Boiling]. The nurse in the hospital is going to marry the doctor. BOLLING. I was married, too. HELMS. Fill the glasses, Krakau. {Krakau does.] BUFFE. How is Larsen's brain fever getting along? HANSEN. He must be worse. The porter chased the organ grinder away. HAMMER. I thought I heard the or- gan. Is this Thursday? KRAKAU. Thursday, September twen- tieth. HELMS [testily]. Don't show off, Kra- kau. JOHNSTON [raises his glass]. Here's health. Splendid sherry. KRAKAU [to Buffe}. Why aren't you drinking? BUFFE. Thanks. I never take more than one glass. This sunshine warms you as much as wine. HAMMER. I have the morning sun in my window. HANSEN. So have I. It wakes me up every morning. It's supposed to be healthy. HELMS. Krakau stole it from me. KRAKAU. You know very well that HELMS. Yes you did. And the stove, too. KRAKAU. The stove HELMS. Isn't the morning sun on your side? KRAKAU. Yes, but HELMS. And the stove, too? KHAKAU. Didn't you HELMS. Nothing of the kind. You live on the east side, and the morning sun is healthiest. KHAKAU. We can change, for my part. HELMS. Do you hear that? Now he wants to steal my view of the street, too? HAMMER. What do you old friends want to quarrel for? JOHNSTON. And on your birthday. HELMS. Who is quarreling? BUFFE. You may be well satisfied with the afternoon sun, Helms. See how 298 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS beautifully it shines in the window. Look at the sun, Boiling. BOLLING. I've seen it before. BUFFE [explaining with pride]. Boll- ing used to be a carpenter, you know. He traveled all over the world. BOLLINO. I have seen everything. [There is a rap at the door. Silence. Krakau opens it, Knut enters.} KNUT [to Krakau]. Hello, Grandpop ! [To Helms, shaking his hand.] Con- gratulations, grandfather. [To the oth- ers.] Hello, everybody. [The old men nod their heads, de- lighted. Buffe whispers to Boll- ing.} BUFFE. It's Knut. The son of Helms' daughter. BOLLING. I had a son. HELMS. I'm glad you came my my son [glares at Krakau defiantly.} KNUT. I can only stay a minute. Have you heard about father's appoint- ment? JOHNSTON. He's been bragging to us about it, sonny. HAMMER. And treated us to sherry. BOLLINO. Port wine is poison. HANSEN. And cigars. KNUT. Not really! HELMS. Why don't you hang up your cap? KNUT. I must be off in a minute. Back to school. I had only an hour's leave, and it takes half an hour to ride each way. BUFFE. How old are you, my boy? KNUT. Seventeen. BUFFE. It's sixty-one years since I was that young. He's only seventeen, Boiling. BOLLING. I was seventeen once. Now I'm ninety-two. HAMMER. I am seventy-three. KNUT. Let's add up the number of years in this room. HELMS. There's too many. It can't be done. KNUT [with a laugh]. Let's try. [Rapidly.] Mr. Boiling is 92 and grand- father is 80; that's 172. HELMS. There's quick counting for eou! KNUT. How old are you, Mr. Buffe? BUFFE. Seventy-eight. KNUT. That's 250. HAMMER [in wonderment]. Two hun- dred and fifty! KNUT. And you, grandpop? KRAKAU. Seventy. KNUT. 320. And you, Mr. Hammer? HAMMER. Seventy-three. KNUT. 393. JOHNSTON. Think of that! KNUT. And Mr. Hansen? [All the old people except Boiling and Hansen. snigger. Hansen turns away, offended.] KNUT. Don't you know how old you are, sir? HANSEN. Of course, I know. HELMS. He's ashamed to tell you. Ha, ha! BUFFE. He's afraid. Ha, ha ! HANSEN. Who's afraid? [Reluctant- ly-] I'm only sixty. THE OLD PEOPLE. "Only a boy." "Not dry behind the ears." "He'll grow." " Poor child." KNUT. That makes 453. JOHNSTON [beats his chest]. I am seventy-five. KNUT. That gives us 528 altogether. HAMMER. Five hundred and twenty- eight! What a head the boy has on him. BUFFE [to Boiling], All together we are 528 years old. BOLLING. What does it matter? HELMS. We'd be older still if there weren't a boy among us. JOHNSTON. Yes, Hansen spoils it by being so young. KRAKAU. You'll have to hurry, Han- sen. HAMMER. Yes, so you will. BUFFE. Why don't you take something to make you grow? HANSEN. Oh, let me alone! KNUT. Well, I must be going. THE OLD PEOPLE. "What a pity." "Can't you be late for once?" "The teacher won't mind." KNUT. I really must. Good-by, grand- father. . . . Hope you live eighty years more. . . . Good-by, grandpop. . . . Good- by, everybody. Good luck! [He exits.] HAMMER. You can see him go from liere. [Goes to the window.] HANSEN. Can you? [Joins him.] [All go to the window except Boiling, who sits stiff and abstracted in his chair.] AUTUMN FIRES 299 HELMS. Open it. [He helps Johnston do so.] JOHNSTON. There he goes. KRAKAU. He is waving to us. [All wave back.] BUFFE. What a fine lad ! KRAKAU. Good-by. [All shout good- by. Boiling does not stir.] BUFFE [turning away from the window, with a sigh]. He's gone. HANSEN [low]. Yes, he's gone. JOHNSTON. It's nice to have young people around once in a while. BUFFE [nods sadly]. Yes. JOHNSON. You have a fine young grandson, Helms. HELMS [with an uneasy glance at Kra- kau]. Yes, I can't complain of him. BUFFE. It's good to have a family that look after you. HANSEN. It's good to have a family at all. Many people haven't. HAMMER. No. BOLLING. No. They die. HELMS [sharply]. Close the window, Krakau. There's a draught. [Krakau closes the window.] HAMMER. Yes, the sun is down. BUFFE. Yes. HANSEN. Isn't it time we were going? JOHNSTON. These young people should be early to bed. [Laughter.] BUFFE. It really is time to go. Thank you, Helms. It was a nice party. HELMS. Going already? [Glances un- easily at Krakau.] BUFFE. It's near supper time, you know. We are going, Boiling. HAMMER. Then we'll go too. . . . We enjoyed your party, Helms. HELMS. The pleasure was mine. JOHNSTON. Good night, Helms. Next time it's my party. HELMS. When? JOHNSTON. October 23rd. HANSEN. Good-by and many thanks. HELMS. Not at all, not at all. BUFFE. Are you ready, Boiling? BOLLING. Hum! [He rises.] BUFFE. Good-by, everybody. [To Boi- ling.] Say good-by. BOLLING. Good-by. [Krakau holds open the door. The guests file out talking gayly. He closes the door and their voices are faintly heard outside.] [Helms bustles about uneasily.] KHAKAU [on his own side]. Well, it went off very nicely. HELMS. Yes, very well very well. KRAKAU. Want me to help you straighten up? HELMS. No I can do it myself. [There is a pause. Krakau takes back his chairs.] KRAKAU. We'll want to move my table back. HELMS [seizing one end of it]. Well, come on! Where are you? KRAKAU [taking the other end hastily]. Coming, coming ! [The table moved, there is another pause. Each is on his own side. Helms potters helplessly with the bottles and glasses.] KRAKAU. Need any help? HELMS. You stand there doing nothing and you ask me [ The rest is a sullen growl.] [Krakau takes the glasses, puts them on a tray and carries them across to left.] HELMS. Where are you going with my glasses? KRAKAU [stops]. I was going to wash them. HELMS. Well, don't forget whom they belong to. KRAKAU. Don't worry. [Puts the glasses on the wash stand.] Shall I light the lamp? HELMS. You can't see in the dark, can you? KRAKAU [lighting the hanging lamp]. Knut behaved very nicely, didn't he? HELMS [moodily]. Yes. KRAKAU. He made everybody happy with his high spirits. HELMS. Not me. KHAKAU [hastily changing the subject], It's funny about old Boiling. How he s changed in the last year ! He never talks any more. HELMS. When you get to be ninety- two and not a relation in the world [Hit voice breaks in self-pity.] KRAKAU [finished with the lamp, makes a little solicitous gesture behind his friend's back, but immediately busies him- self with putting things to right]. Where do you want these things to go? HELMS. On the chiffonier . . . next to the other . . . Boiling is so old he feels superfluous ... I am getting like that 300 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS KBAKAU [haitily]. Where do these stockings and things go? HELMS. Next to the last drawer. KRAKAU. I guess you are all fixed now. . . . There's nothing else? [Turns from the chiffonier, having closed the drawer, and starts for his own side of the room.] HELMS [suddenly]. It's a terrible thing you've done to me, Krakau! KHAKAU [in surprise]. What now? HELMS [his voice trembling]. You have made my dead wife a strumpet and my dead daughter a bastard. [Krakau bridles and turns to him with clenched fists. Helms continues pitifully.] And you have robbed me in my old age of a grandson ... all I have in the world. [Querulously musing.] When men are young they see red and kill for that sort of thing ... yes ... they kill. . . But when you are old it's different. ... I can't even be very angry with you, Kra- kau. . . . Isn't it queer? . . . It's all so far back ... in the past . . . imper- sonal . . . and blurred like a half-remem- bered dream. KRAKAU [with contrition]. I shouldn't have told you. HELMS. You shouldn't have told me. . . . No . . . but you did . . . and I can't be angry with you. . . I am an old fool. . . . After all ... honor . . . fidelity . . . marriage vows . . . what do they matter when there is nothing to do but to sit and count the days until you die? KRAKAU [chokingly]. Helms! HELMS [with a flash of anger}. But Knut matters. He is my grandson . . . in spite of you. . . . You shan't take him away from me. KRAKAU. I don't want to take him away from you. HELMS. Your blood . . . perhaps . . . but my grandson KRAKAU [eagerly]. Of course, he is, Helms. We can share him between us. Don't you see? He need never know. No one need know . . . just you and I. . . . We can have him together . . . our own little secret. HELMS [looks at him]. Nobody else will know? KRAKAU [solemnly]. Not a soul. I swear it. HELMS. Nobody? KRAKAU. Nobody. HELMS [a faint smile dispels his frown}. And when we talk about Knut you won't say " So-o " any more? KRAKAU. Never . . . for hereafter he'll be our Knut . . . just as if you were his father and I his mother. HELMS [the idea pleases him, considers it, then gives his assent like a child piny- ing a game]. No, I'll be the mother. And we can quarrel about him ... of course, in a friendly way. KRAKAU. Always friendly. HELMS. And just think we shall have something to talk about all the time. KRAKAU. Especially at night . . . after supper . . . under the lamp. HELMS. And when we are in bed in the dark and cannot sleep. KRAKAU. Always about our Knut. HELMS. Ha, ha ... Do you know, Krakau, I think you should have told me long ago. KRAKAU. I was afraid. HELMS. Afraid ! Absurd. What was there to be afraid about? You can see for yourself that we are better friends since you told me. [Goes to the chiffon- ier and gets the photograph.] He does look something like you. KRAKAU [magnanimously]. Oh, no! He's your wife's son all over. HELMS [with equal magnanimity}. He looks a good deal like you just the same. . . . Don't you want to borrow this for a few days? KRAKAU. Why, you only got it this morning. HELMS. Never mind. Take it. ... Saturday I'll get it back from you. Then in a few days I'll lend it to you again. KRAKAU. Thanks. [Takes the photo- graph]. Can I borrow the paper, too? HELMS. Sure, take it with you. . . . And lend me your chess men, will you? KHAKAU [with animation]. I'll get it for you. [Goes to his own chiffonier for it.] HELMS. We might '-as well move the tables together. It's more comfortable that way. KRAKAU. Certainly. [Comes down with the chessboard and helps move the tables.] HELMS. Now you take my arm chair and read your paper. I'll play over here. KRAKAU. I wouldn't think of taking your chair. AUTUMN FIRES 301 HELMS. You do as you are told. [Sits on an ordinary chair.] I can reach bet- ter from one of these anyway. KRAKAU. Oh, well. [Sits in the arm. chair and unfolds the newspaper. There is a pause.] HELMS. Why don't you light your pipe? KRAKAU. Your throat HI:LMS. My throat is all right. Go on and smoke. KRAKAU [comfortably lights his pipe, relaxes]. Well, now we'll see how good you are at working out problems. HELMS. I don't think I can do it. KRAKAU [reading]. Sure you can. HELMS. Look here. Would you check with the bishop? KRAKAU [studies the board]. No . . . that loses you the queen. . . . Hum . . . you've sort of mixed it up. . . . Back with that rook. HELM. How's that? KRAKAU. Brilliant! HELMS. Knut is back at school by this time. KRAKAU. Yes, probably studying his lessons. HELMS. He's a boy. KRAKAU. None better. HELMS. Isn't it nice to talk about him like this . . . calm and friendly? . . . You have no cause to be jealous any more, ha, ha! KRAKAU. And you needn't be stuck up any more, ha, ha! HELMS. No, ha, ha ! There, I've mud- dled it again. KRAKAU. No, you haven't. . . . Just move here . . . and here. HELMS [suddenly takes out his purse]. By the way, I owe you twenty-seven pfennig. KRAKAU. There's no hurry. HELMS. Take it! KRAKAU. All right. [He rises.] HELMS. Where are you going? KRAKAU [at the chiffonier]. We for- got the flowers. HELMS. Oh, yes! KRAKAU. They smell so fragrant. [Puts them on the table.] HELMS [takes a flower and puts it in Krakau's buttonhole]. You must wear one. KRAKAU [overcome]. Thank you, Helms, thank you. [They bend over the chessboard again.] HELMS [rubs his hands with delight], Now white moves. KHAKAU [considering]. White moves. ... I should say . . . there . . . that pawn . . . I'd sacrifice it. HELMS [picks it up with playful ten- derness]. Poor little white pawn! [Places it on the board.] [They study the next move absorb- edly as the curtain falls.] [Curtain.] BROTHERS A SARDONIC COMEDY BY LEWIS BEACH Copyright, 1920, by Frank Shay. All rights reserved. CHARACTERS SETH. LON. PA. BHOTHERS was first presented by the Provincetown Players, New York. Applications for permission to produce BROTHERS should be addressed to Frank Shay, Four Christopher Street, New York City. No performance may take place without his consent. BROTHERS A SARDONIC COMEDY [SCEXE: A very small room in a tar- papered shanty, reeking poverty. The entrance is center-back, a few boards nailed together for a door. A similar door, opening into the bedroom of the shack, upstage right. Downstage left, a broken window. Left center, a rusty cooking stove. Above it, a series of shelves holding a few dishes and cooking utensils. Rough board table in the center of the room. A kitchen chair at the right of the table. A large wooden rocker near the stove; rope and wire hold it to- gether. An arm-chair, below the bed- room door is full of newspapers. Sev- eral heterogeneous colored prints culled from out-of-date newspapers and calen- dars are tacked on the rain-stained walls. When the entrance door is open we see a cleared, sandy spot with a background of scrub oaks and jack pines. ' The curtain rises on the late afternoon of a spring day. A man of forty enters, leaving the bed- room door open behind him. His small head and childish face, on a tall, thin, and extremely erect body, resemble those of a species of putty-like rubber doll whose head may be reshaped by the hand. He wears a winter cap, blue flannel shirt, well-worn trousers with suspenders, and sneakers that were once white. Outside shirt sleeves are rolled to the elbow; un- dershirt sleeves are not. His shoes make no noise; nevertheless, he comes on tip- toe, his eyes fixed on the shelves. For a moment he stops and glances into the room he has just quitted. Satisfied, he squats before the shelves. He hesitates, then quickly lifts from a lower shelf an inverted cookinrj vessel, and grasps a small tin box which was hidden under it. He inspects the box, trying to decide whether he can pry open its lock.] [The voice of an old, infirm man in the adjoining room] : Seth? BY LEWIS BEACH SETH [alarmed; starts to return the box to the shelf]. Yes, Pa? [His voice is pitched high.] PA [querulously]. What yuh doin'? SETH. Jest settin'. PA. Don't yuh go near my tin box 'til I'm dead. [Seth makes no answer.] PA. D'yuh hear? SETH. I hear. PA. I won't heve no one know nothin' 'bout my last will an' testament 'til I'm dead. [There is a pause. Seth is regarding the box intently.] PA. Seth? SETH [peevishly]. What d'yuh want? PA. Bring me a drink. SETH. There ain't no more water in the pail. PA. There's lots in the well this spring. [A pause. Seth continues his scrut- iny of the lock.] PA. My throat's burnin' up. SETH. Well, maybe I kin find a drop. [Puts the box on the shelf and re-covers it; in doing so makes a slight noise.] PA. What's that noise? SETH. I'm gettin' yuh a drink ! [Seth strolls to the stove, lifts the top from the kettle, and looks in- side. He finds a tin cup and fills it with water. Looking into the kettle again, he sees there is little water left. Why make a trip to the pump necessary? Back into the kettle goes some of the water. Cup in hand, he moves toward the bedroom. He reaches the door when a sagging bellied man enters from the yard. It is Lon, the elder, shorter brother. His face has become molded into an ex- pressionless stare, and his every movement seems to be made with an effort. An abused man, Lon, 305 306 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS the most ill-treated fellow in the world. At least, so he is ever at pains to have all understand. He wears an old felt hat, cotton shirt, badly patched trousers, suspenders attached to the buttons of his trousers with string, and shoes that are almost soleless. His shirt, stained with sweat, is opened at the throat, revealing red flannel underwear. When Seth sees Lon he immediately closes the bedroom door, silently turns the key in the lock, and puts the key in his pocket. For a moment the men stand look- ing at each other, reminding one of two roosters. Then Seth strolls to the stove, pours the water into the kettle, and planks himself down in the rocker. Lon glances once or twice at the bedroom door, but moves not to it. He watches Seth suspiciously. Finally he speaks.] LON [in an expressionless drawl], I hear Pa's dyin'. SETH. Yuh hear right. LON [with a motion of his head toward the bedroom]. Is he in there? SETH. Yes. [Lon hesitates, then moves slowly to- ward Pa's room. An idea strikes Seth suddenly and he interrupts Lon's progress.] SETH. He's asleep. [Lon stops. Seth fills his pipe and lights it. Lon takes his corncob from his pocket and coughs mean- ingly. Seth looks at Lon, sees what he wants, but does not offer him tobacco. Lon puts his pipe back in his pocket, moves to the table, sits, and sighs. He crosses his right foot so Seth sees what was once the sole of his shoe.] SETH. What did yuh come here fur? LON. 'Cause Pa's dyin'. SETH. Yuh never come when he was about. LON. Wall, no one ever seed yuh a settin' here much. SETH [fteeringly]. Suppose yuh want t' know what he's left yuh. LON. W r all, ... it warn't comfortable comin' three miles an' a quarter on a day like this un. SETH [cackles]. Sand's hot on yer bare naked feet, ain't it? LON [moves his feet], Yuh kin talk about my holey boots. If I didn't heve no mouths but my own t' feed I guess I could buy new ones too. So there, Seth Polland ! SETH. Jacobs offered yuh a job at the fisheries same as me. LON. It's too fur t' hoof it twict a day. SETH. Yuh could sleep at the fisher- ies. LON. I got t' look after my kids. SETH [grins], 'Tain't my fault yuh've kids. LON [threateningly]. Don't yuh talk 'bout that! [Pause.] Yer woman had t' leave yuh. [Laughs.] Yuh didn't give her 'nough t' eat. SETH [indifferently]. She warn't no good. LON. She had t' leave yuh same as Ma left Pa twenty years ago. Pa's dyin' fur sure? SETH. Who told yuh? LON. Ma. SETH [greatly surprised}. Ma? [sus- piciously J What you got t' do with her? LON. I was passin' her place this mornin'. Furst time I spoke t' her in a year. SETH. I ain't in two. LON [in despair]. Seth, she's cut twenty cords o' wood t' sell. SETH [shaking his head]. An' me without a roof o' my own. LON. Me an' the kids wonder some- times where our next meal's comin' from. SETH [as though there were something better in store for Aim]. Oh, wall. LON [pricks up his ears; coughs]. If I had this house I could work at the fish- eries. SETH. But yuh ain't a goin' t' git it. LON [alarmed]. Pa ain't gone an' left it t' yuh? SETH. Pa deeded this t' Doc last win- ter. LON [amazed and angered]. He did? SETH. Doc said he could live here 'till he died. But it's Doc's. LON. It warn't right. SETH. Wall, he had t' pay fur his physics some way. He told me yuh wouldn't help him out. LON. And Pa told me yuh wouldn't. An' yuh ain't got two kids t' feed. [Pause.] There's Pa's old shanty down BROTHERS 307 the road. If I had that I could work at the fisheries. [Seth'a smile is his only response.] Pa still owns it, don't he? SETH. There warn't no call fur him t' make his last will an' testament if he don't. LON [brightens]. He's left his last will an' testament? SETH. Yes. I'm figgerin' on sellin' the place t' Doc. LON [emphatically]. Pa ain't a left it t' yuh! SETH. Doc'll want it. LON [forcefully]. Where's the will an' testament ? SETH [with a gesture]. In the tin box under that there kittle. [Lore hurries to the shelves, picks -up the dish, and grasps the box.] LON [disappointed]. It's locked. SETH. An' the key's round Pa's neck. LON. Let's git it. SETH. Pa won't give it t' us. LON. Yuh said he was sleepin'. SETH. I mean he might wake up. [Lon inspects the box further,] LON. I think I could open it. SETH. Pa might ask t' see it. LON. Hell. [Puts the box back on the shelf.] SETH. Doc'll want the place seein' as how it's right next t' this un. [Lon is very nervous.] Yuh might jest as wall go home. LON. No, yuh don't ! Yuh can't make me believe Pa's left it t' yuh. [Takes of his hat and mops his brow with his sleeve. The top of his head is very bald.] SETH. Then what yuh gettin' so ex- cited 'bout? LON. I ain't excited. [Puts his hat on.] It jest makes me mad 'cause yuh say Pa's left it t' yuh, an' I know he ain't. See? There warn't no call fur him t' heve willed an' testamented it t' yuh. Yuh've only yerself t' look after an' I've two motherless kids. SETH. Every one knows how much Pa thought o' them. LON. It warn't my fault if they thumbed their noses at him. SETH. Yuh could o' basted 'em. LON. They's like their Ma. Bastin' never done her no good, God rest her soul. All the same, Pa knowd how hard it is fur me t' keep their bellies full. Why, when we heve bread Alexander never wants less than half the loaf! An' all the work I gits t' do is what the city folks who come t' the Beach in the sum- mer gives me. SETH. Huh! Jest as though I didn't know 'bout yuh. Mr. Breckenridge told me yuh wouldn't even contract t' chop his wood fur him. An' there yuh sits all winter long in that God-fursaken shanty o' yourn, with trees all round yuh, an' yuh won't put an ax t' one 'til yer own fires dies out. LON. My back ain't never been strong. Choppin' puts the kinks in it. Yuh kin talk, yuh kin, Seth Polland, with a soft job at the fisheries an' three squares a day which yuh don't heve t' cook your- self. Nothin' t' do all winter but walk round them cottages an' see that no one broke in. An' I'm the one who knows how often yuh walk round them cottages. I wish I hed yer snap. [Sits.] But I ain't never had no luck. SETH [defending himself]. I walk round them cottages jest as often as I need t' walk round them cottages. Lox. Huh ! I could tell a tale. Who was it set with his feet in the oven last winter, an' let Jack Tompkins break into them cottages with keys? [Seth does not answer.] I could tell, I could. But I ain't a goin' t' 'til they put me on the witness-stand. [Pause.] But the furst initials o' his name is Seth Polland. SETH [rising instantly]. Lon Polland, yuh ever tell an' I'll skin yuh alive. LON. Huh ! SETH. Skin yuh like a pole-cat. LON. Huh ! [Seth turns, knocks the ashes from his pipe into the stove. Lon rises; takes Seth's chair and rocks vigor- ously.] SETH. Yuh know what I got on yuh. [Lon's bravado is short-lived. He rocks less strenuously] SETH. Yuh thought I didn't see yuh, but I was right on the spot when yuh set fire t' Mr. Rogers' bath-house. [Lon stops rocking.] SETH. Right behind a jack pine I was an' seed yuh do it. An' yuh done it 'cause Mr. Rogers leaved Jessup paint the house when yuh thought yuh ought t' had the job. FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS Lox [rises]. I got t' be a gcttin' home a fore dark an' tend t' my stock. SETH. Stock? [Cackles. Pulls out his tobacco-pouch and fills his pipe. Lon shows his pipe again.] A blind mare an' a rooster. [Drops pouch on the table as he lights his pipe.] Lox. Rooster's dead. [Moves stealth- ily toward the table.] SETH. What of? LON. Pip. SETH. Starvation. Lox. I would a killed him this long time, but Victoria howled so when I threatened. The fowl used t' wake me in winter same as summer with his crowin'. [As Lon finishes his speech he reaches for the pouch. But Seth's hand is quicker. Seth moves to the rocker and sits, dangling the pouch tempt- ingly by one finger. Lon puts his pipe in his pocket.] SETH. Should think yuh'd want t' set round 'til Pa dies, bein' as yer so sure he's left yuh his property. LON. He oughter a left it t' me. SETH. Well, I'm a tellin' yuh it's mine. Lox. Yuh ain't got no right t' it. [Mops his head again.] Pa begged yuh t' come an' live with him, offered yuh this fine roof over yer head, an' yuh was too cussed even t' do that fur him. An' now yuh expect he's made yuh his heir. SETH. I've treated him righter 'an yuh. Lox. Yuh ain't. [Suddenly something seems to snap in Seth's brain. He looks as though he were in intense pain.] SETH [gasping]. Maybe he's left it t' the two o' us! Lox. What? SETH. Maybe he's divided the place a 'tween us. Lox [shakes his head]. Oh, he wouldn't be so unhuman as that. SETH. He would. He was always set- tin' one agin' t' other. Lox. He used t' tell me I had t' figger how t' git the best o' yuh or he'd baste me. SETH. He was all the time whettin' us on when we was kids. Lox. It was him showed me how t' shake my old clock so it'd run fur five minutes, an' then you'd swop that pail yuh found fur it. SETH. Huh! He give me his gum t' stop up the hole in that pail. Yuh wouldn't know it leaked an' we could laugh at yuh when you had t' carry water in it. Lox [pathetically]. There warn't never rrjore 'an a pint left when I got t' the house. An' fa. always hed such a thirst. SETH. He'd like t' laugh at us in his grave. Lox. It jest tickled him t' raise hell a 'tween us. SETH [rises], I'll take my oath he's divided the old shanty an' the two acres a 'tween us. [Drops into his chair like a condemned man.] An' I figgered I'd be sellin' them t' Doc t'morrow. Lox. Me an' the kids was a goin' t' heve a garden on the cleared spot. SETH. A garden in that sand? Lox. Radishes an' rutabagas. SETH [persuasively; his manner be- comes kind]. Lon, what yuh need is the shanty. Lox [droning]. The shanty ain't no good t' me without I hes the ground fur it t' set on. SETH. Yuh can tear it down an' use the lumber t' mend yer old leaky one. Lox. I want the shanty t' live in so I kin git a soft job at the fisheries. [Sym- pathetically.] You ought t' have a shanty, Seth. Supposin' yuh was t' take sick. They wouldn't keep yuh at the fisheries then. Yuh take my place an' give me Pa's. SETH [flashing into anger]. I want the two acres t' sell Doc. Yer old place leaks like a net ! [ Then, fearing he has been too disparaging:] But yuh could make it real comfortable with the lumber in Lox [cutting in]. I'll make a bargain. I'll leave yuh a bed-stead an' a table if yuh'll take my place. SETH. I don't want it! I want Pa's old place. Lox. An' I want it. I'm older 'an yuh. SETH. I got the best claim t' it. Lox. Yuh ain't. We with three mouths t' feed. Yer a swindler, yuh are. Yuh always tried t' cheat me. SETH. No one kin say that t' me. I'm an honest man. But I'm a goin' 't heve the two acres if I heve t' go t' law. BROTHERS 309 LON. Wall, yuh ain't a goin' t' wreck me. SETH [calmly; philosophically again]. Maybe yer right, Lon, when yuh say I ought t' have a roof. I'll tell yuh what I'll do, seein' as how yer my brother. Yuh give me the ground an' the house on it, an' I'll make yuh a present o' twenty- five dollars. LON. That's a lie ! Yuh ain't got twenty-five dollars t' yer name. SETH. Yuh think so. LON. Every one in these parts knows yuh owes Hawkins forty-three dollars an twenty-nine cents he kin't collect. Give me the house an' ground, an' I'll give yuh my own house an' my note fur twenty-five dollars. SETH. Yer note! I'm a goin' t' heve Pa's old place. LOK. An' I say that yuh or no swind- ler like yuh is a goin' t' cheat me out o' it. SETH. I ain't a swindler, yuh wall-eyed son LOK [advancing]. Take it back. Don't yuh call me dissipated names. SETH. I'll never take it back ! [Lon doubles his fists and strikes; but the blow lands in the air as Scth grabs Lon. They fight furi- ously and in dead earnest, though there is no ethics to the struggle. The rickety furniture trembles as they advance and retreat. Seth is quicker and lighter and less easily winded; but Lon's bulk is not read- ily moved, and, despite his " weak back," he can still wield his arms. It looks like a fight to the finish. Isn't their ftiture at stake? And they are giving vent to a hatred bred by their father. But sud- denly Pa's voice is heard, calling . wildly to Seth. The men do not move: the voice seems to have par- alyzed their muscles. For a mo- ment they sland dazed. Then con- sciousness comes to them: they re- alize that the waiting is over. They tear to the bedroom. A si- lence follows. They must be fas- cinated by the ghost of the old man.] SETH [in the bedroom; quietly]. He's gone, Lon. LON [in the bedroom]. Yer rieht Seth. [Then their voices rise in dispute.] Don't yuh take it! SETH. I've got it! . LON. It's mine! SETH. It ain't! LON. Yuh kin't SETH. Shut up ! [They rush into the kitchen, Seth in advance, Lon close on his heels. The younger throws the cooking- dish to the floor, grabs the box, and hurries to the table. As though they were about to discover a world's secret, they unlock the box, each as near to it as possible, his arms tense, fingers itching, ready to ward off a blow or seize the treasure. From the box, Seth takes an old tobacco-pouch, a jack- knife, a bit of heavy cord, a couple of letters. These are contemp- tuously thrown on the table. The will lies at the bottom of the box. Lon snatches it. Seth would take it from him.] LON. Hold off! I'm jest a goin' t' read it. [Seth curbs his impatience. Lon opens the document and reads, slowly and haltingly.] " I, Nathaniel Polland, o' Sandy Point in the County o' Rhodes an' State o' Michigan, bein' o' sound mind an' mem- ory, do make, publish, an' declare this t' be my last Will an' Testament in manner followin', viz ." What does " viz "mean? [Unable to bear the suspense longer, Seth seizes the paper. He scans it until his eyes catch the all-im- portant paragraph.] SETH. " Bequeath all my earthly possessions to my wife, Jennie Polland." [Their thunderbolt has descended. They stand like two men suddenly deprived of thought and motion. Medusa's victims could not have been more pitiable. They have been hurled from their El Dorado, which, at the worst, was to have been their common property. Then Seth's voice comes to him, and sufficient strength to drop into a chair.] SETH. The damned old critter. 3io FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS LON. I'll be swaned. SETH [blazing out]. That's grati- tude. LON. After all we done fur him. SETH [pathetically]. An' me a ^lan- nin' these last five years on gettm that house an' ground. LON. My kids are packm' our furni- ture this afternoon, gettin' ready t' move in. . , SETH [with supreme disgust]. Leavin it t' Ma. LON. Her who he ain't hardly spoke t' in twenty years. SETH. Jest as though yuh an me wasn't alive. LON. We'd a given him our last pipe- ful. SETH. His'own flesh an' blood. LON. Why, he told me more 'an a thousand times he hated Ma. SETH. She don't need it. LON. She's ready fur the grave-yard SETH. She's that stingy, cuttin' an' choppin' wood, sellin it t' the city folks. We might a knowd. LON. An' me a comin' all the three miles an' a quarter t' see him a fore he died. SETH. I been settin' here two days a waitin'. LON. An' then t' treat us like that. [Wipes his mouth.] Why, the hull place ain't worth a damn ! SETH. A cavin'-in shanty an' two acres yuh couldn't grow weeds on. LON. A pile o' sand. SETH [rising; bursting into fire like an apparently dead rocket]. She ain't a goin' t' heve it ! LON. What? SETH. I won't let Ma heve it! LON. But how yuh goin' f'stop her? 'Twon't do no good t' tear up the will an' testament. It's rec-ord-ed. SETH. Don't make no difference. She ain't a goin' t' heve that place. LON [eagerly]. But how yuh goin' ? SETH. I don't know. But I'm a goin' t'. LON. It ain't hers by rights. SETH. Didn't she leave him twenty years ago ? LON. Why, she ain't even expectin' it! SETH. She'll never miss it if she don't pit it. LON [shaking his head]. Me an' the kids packed up, ready t' move in. [There is a silence. Lon deep in his disappointment, Seth making his brain work as it has never worked before. And he is rewarded for his diligence. A suggestion of hit sneering smile comes to his face.] SETH. Lon? LON. Yes? SETH [looks about, making sure that only his brother is listening]. Yuh 'mem- ber what yuh done t' Rogers when he didn't leave yuh paint his bath-house? LON [his eyes open wide]. Burn it? SETH. Sh ! LON. Oh, no! SETH. Yuh don't want Ma t' heve it, does yuh? LON. When I burned that bath-house I didn't sleep good fur a couple o' nights. I dreamed o' the sheriff. SETH. Nobody knows but me. An' nobody'll know yuh an' me set fire t' Pa's old place. LON. Yuh swear yuh won't never tell? SETH [raising his right hand]. I swear. LON. Yuh won't never try an' make out I done it next time we run agin each other fur district school-inspector? SETH [raising his right hand]. I swear. 'Cause if I kin't have Pa's old place, no one kin. LON. Got matches? SETH. Yes. An' Pa's kerosene-can's got 'bout a pint in it. [Takes the can from the bottom shelf.] LON. I may as wall take these papers along with me. [Picks up the newspa- pers.] [Seth moves to the table. Begins to fill his pipe. Lon takes his corn- cob from his pocket and coughs. Seth looks at Lon, meditates, then speaks.] SETH. Heve a smoke, Lon? LON. Maybe I will. [Lon fills his pipe. Seth strikes a match, lights his own pipe first, then hands the match to Lon.] SETH. We're brothers. LON. The same flesh an' blood has got t' treat each other right. [Lon starts to put Seth's tobacco- pouch in his pocket, but Seth stops him. ] BROTHERS SETH. An' we wouldn't be treatin' each other right if we let Pa's property come into Ma's hands. [Seth carries the kerosene, Lon ths papers. They go out the back door and disappear. Thus, in disgust and rage, the brothers are united. Then Seth's voice is heard.] SETH [in the yard]. Wait a minute, Lon. [Seth returns. He picks up Pa's tobacco-pouch, knife and scissors, glances toward the door to see that Lon isn't watching, and sticks them into his pocket.] LON [in the yard]. What yuh doin', Seth? [Appears at the door.] SETH. I thought I left somethin' val- uable. But I ain't. [He leaves.] [Lon and Seth pass out of sight.] [Curtain.] IN THE MORGUE A PLAY BY SAD A COWAN Copyright, 1920, by Stewart & Kidd Company. All rights reserved. IN THE MOBGTTE is reprinted from " The Forum " by special permission of Miss Sada Cowan. Application for right of performing IN THE MORGUE must be made to Miss Sada Cowan, The Authors' League, New York City. A PLAY [PLACE: In the morgue of a foreign city.} [SCENE: A small almost empty room with the rear wall of glass. Before this glass black curtains are drawn. An old man . . . Caren . . , sits at a low table, well forward, sorting and arranging pa- pers, writing from time to time. A lamp vpon the table, is so shaded as to concen- trate the light and throws C aren't wicked face into sharp relief. The room conveys a feeling of unfriendliness, coldness and gloom. Caren is old, so old he is some- vhat decrepit . . . hard, shrill and tot- tering. His features are sharp, his fin- gers are as talons. He seems almost as a vulture . . . perhaps for hovering too long among the unbeloved dead.] CAREN [calling to some one behind the black curtain]. What was the number of that last one? HELPER [putting out his head]. Thir- teen. [He disappears.] CAREN [writes and repeats]. Thirteen. VOICES [are heard, rough and harsh, from in back of the curtains]. Shove that stiff up! He's got more room than what's coming to him. CAREN [calling, without rising]. Who is it you're moving? VOICE. Thirteen. Any reason why he should sprawl? CAHEN. Not a bit. Shove him along. [The curtains part. There is a swift vision of brilliant light within, and bodies laid out upon tables of ice.] KRAIG [a man, scarcely more than a boy, over-wrotight and hysterical, with his hands pressed close to his throbbing temples, bursts out]. Oh . . . Oh! Let me stay here just a moment away from that horror. CAREN [glancing up from his writing and smiles]. You're all the same the first day. BY SADA COWAN KRAIG. Oh ... Oh! CAREN. That last one got you ... eh? KRAIG [bitterly]. So young ... so young! CAREN. Must have been a good looker. Much as you can tell the way his face is banged up. I'll bet his own mother wouldn't know him. KRAIG [turning aside]. Don't! CAREN [titter*]. He ... he ... he! Number thirteen . . .! I hope he ain't superstitious. KRAIG. He has nothing more to fear. CAREN [with dread]. There's no tell- in'. KRAIG. He's dead. . \Enviouslv.] . . . Dead! CABEN [angry]. Fool! KRAIG [watching through the glass at the placid figure, enviously]. Dead! CAREN [exasperated]. Bah! KRAIG [suddenly has a hideous thought and turns swiftly to Caren]. You think it was fair . . .? He went of his own free will? CAHEN. Eh . . .? What put that into your head? KRAIG. No clothes . . . naked ! CAREN. A lot of them do that when they take the plunge. It ain't so easy to identify them. It saves a lot of bother, too. We stick 'em on the slabs a while and then . . . KRAIG [shuddering]. Don't! It makes me cold . . . cold! [Again he parts the curtains and looks through the glass.] He's so calm ... so still. I wonder if he suffered first ! [ With a clutch of hatred in his voice.] I wonder if he starved ! CAREN. That soft white kitten? Not much. Did you get a squint at his hands? He's never even tied his own tie. KRAIG [laughs]. And he's here! CAHEN [looking at Kraig], This is a funny job for a kid like you to pick. 315 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS KRAIO [turning away]. I'm not as young as I look. I've got three little ones already. [With deep anguish.] And another on the way. CAREN. It's a queer hang out for a kid like you, j ust the same. KRAIG [hysterically, almost beside him- self]. I tell you . . . there's another on the way CAREX. What do you mean by that? KRAIG. Nothing! [A pause, then bit- terly.] Oh there's one joy down here. You can burrow and hide like a rat from it all. The damn carriages don't roll by before your eyes. The women don't! . . . Oh, those women, how I hate them. Their silks, their jewels, their soft white skins. Fed! Clothed! Housed! . . . [Clenching his fists.] While Martha starves! Oh, God! They drive by laughing and I could choke them ! Lis- ten what happened. [He comes closer to Caren and speaks fanatically.] Yester- day in the park I stood there . . . shiv- ering . . . wondering! And all at once the mad hate came into my heart and I felt that I could kill. [Caren looks alarmed.] And then . . . Ha ... ha ... ha! Then. . . . The King. . . . The King drove by. [Laughing bitterly, and with a great flourish.] And off came my hat! [Making fun of himself.] My hat came off my head, Old Man, and 1 bowed and cringed [vehemently] WITH THE HATE IX MY HEART. I Could haVC torn the warm furs from his throat and wrapped my fingers in their place [his hands clench spasmodically]. Ugh! CAREX [thoroughly alarmed]. Hush. . . . Hush! You mustn't talk so of our King. A nice young boy he is. KRAIG. Oh the hate . . . the hate. Perhaps it will leave me here in this hall of the dead. [Olancing about.] It all seems so level here. So level. CAREX [with the first faint touch of sympathy]. You're right. Here's the one spot on earth where you get fair play. That's what I like. There ain't no rich and there ain't no poor. And there ain't no class nor nothing. Every man gets a square deal here ... a square deal. KRAIG. Perhaps that's worth dying for a square deal. CAREX. Dying . . . bah! Wait until you've seen a few more of them slung on the slabs. You'll lose your longing for death. I'm an old man, but . . . KRAIG. If only I can see more of it. If only I can bear it. CAREX. The pay's not bad? KRAIG. It would be bad at any price. CAHEX [shaking his finger childishly], Tut ... tut ! We're fair here . . . fair. There ain't no flowers ... he ... he ... he ... and there ain't no song [he chuckles], but . . . KHAIG [with intense passion, pacing to and fro, and never pausing, while he speaks very rapidly]. If only the living could have what is spent on the dead. All the waste . . . the hateful waste. Flowers wilting in dead hands. Stones weighing down dead hearts. While liv- ing bodies famish and living eyes burn for the sight of beauty. Oh, I wonder the dead don't scream out at our mad- ness. I wonder the graves don't burst with the pain of it all. CAREX. Have they shut me up with a maniac? Have you gone stark out of your mind? [There is a loud knocking on the door, to the right.] CAREN [opens it a crack and peeps out cautiously]. What do you want? VOICE. Let me in. CAHEX. Get away. VOICE [piteously, clamoring]. Let me look once . . . just once. CAHEX [harshly]. Got a pass? VOICE. No . . . no. Oh, let me in. CAREN [bangs the door shut]. Get away. VOICE [brokenly]. Let me look once . . . just once. [Caren opens the door a crack.] Are there any . . . women? CAREN. Women? Of course, there's women . . . always women. What is it you've craving? The sight of the beau- ties or the smell of their stinking flesh? Go on ... get out. This isn't a bawdy house. [lie slams the door to and walks away.] KRAIG. What is it he wants? CAREX. A peep at the stiffs. Prob- ably looking for his girl. [lie passes out of sight, behind the black curtain.] KRAIG. Oh! [Cautiously he peeps after Caren, then opens the door a crack and calls in a whisper]. Man! . . . You IN THE MORGUE can see the new ones through the panel there. Lift up the curtain. There's two. A blond haired girl and a boy. [He turns swiftly as the curtains part and Caren reenters. Softly he shuts the door, then stands watching into the hallway through a glass partition.] Poor soul! CAHEX [mumbles as he returns], There's something queer about that last young stiff. KRAIG. Number thirteen? CAREN, Yes, number thirteen. You may have been right after all. Perhaps it wasn't fair play to put him in the river. There's some mystery . . . some- thing wrong. [Tittering.] He ... he ... he ! Not number thirteen for noth- ing. KRAIG [watching outside]. How do you know there's anything wrong? CAHEN. That's telling, Sonny. [With deep meaning.] But you get wise quick . . . looking at the dead. KRAIG. Ugh ! CAREN. People are telephoning and messengers are on the way. Pah . . . things like this are a nuisance. They keep one late. What are you watching? KRAIG. That man who was here at the door. He doesn't go away. I wonder what keeps him here. CAHEN. Conscience ! Scared to death he'll find his girl. Afraid not to look for her. KRAIG. You mean? . . . CAREN. Oh, there's just two things drives people into the water. The men . . . 'cause they've got too little inside 'em. . . . The women. . . . KRAIG [furious]. Stop! CAHEN [alarmed, yet brazen . . . scratching his head]. He ... he ... he! Pretty clever little joke. He ... he! [Kraig begins to pace the room, his hands pressed to his temples.] CAREN. I must tell that to the boys inside. [lie starts to go.] Pretty clever little joke! . . . KRAIG [watching, excitedly]. There's something wrong with the fellow. I'd better see. CAREN [pausing]. You'd better shut your eyes and see nothing. KRAIG. He is staggering. CAREN. Let him stagger. KRAIG. He may be ill. He may be starving. CAHEN. He's come to a good place to lose his appetite. KRAIG. Oh, let me see what's wrong with him . . . please. CAHEN. You go out that door and you don't come back. [A pause.] I guess you'll stay. KHAIG [looks his hatred]. Just as you say. [Outside the door there is a short, sharp scream.] VOICE. Maria! KRAIG. He's fallen. CAREN. He'll get up. KRAIG. I wonder what happened. CAREN. Perhaps he got a peep at the new blonde. [There is now a violent bant/ing on the door.] KRAIG. He's here. [Caren opens the door cautiously a crack. ] VOICE [outside]. My woman! . . . Maria ! CAREN. If you can identify her shut up your racket. Go to the first door at the right and make arrangements to take her away. VOICE [crushed and broken], Maria. CAREN. Shut up ! Bottle the tears until you get home. The first door to the right. VOICE [pleading]. Cover her. For the love of the Lord . . cover her. Don't let her lie like that. CAREN. Ain't she covered enough to suit you? VOICE. Cover her . . . cover her. CAREN. Afraid she'll catch cold? Go on ... get out! [He slams the door.] KRAIG [walks to the black curtains and parts them slightly]. His woman . . . his LOVE. [Sighing and glancing towards the door.] Poor devil! CAREN. What's the matter with you, Softy? KRAIG. Nothing. I was just think- ing. CAHEX. Don't be a fool. KRAIG [again walking back and looking at the woman}. Couldn't we cover her just a little? The sheet seems to have slipped. CAREX. And no harm done. Meat's meat. 3i8 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS KRAIO [dreamily]. Her hair would cover her like a mantle. How soft and white she is. And how happy she seems. I wonder just when that look came into her face. It surely wasn't there when she plunged into the river. CAREN [annoyed]. You ought to be nurse maid to a doll baby. What are you anyway ? KRAIO [indifferently]. A dreamer . . . a creator ... a starver! CAREN. Well, you're the wrong sort for in here. This is one place where you get down to facts; truth. No lies, no frills, no dreams. Dreams don't count [bang- ing his fist for emphasis]. Money don't count. Power don't count . . . beauty don't count. Nothing counts. KRAIG [hotly]. Then it's not truth if beauty and dreams don't count. That's what we starved for, Martha and I. CAREN [softening a little]. Well, you won't starve here. It's a fair place . . . fair. The King himself wouldn't be treated no different than a beggar. The man with brains and the man without. .... [The curtains part and a helper enters.] HELPER. Some one wants to blink at number thirteen. He's got two swell dames with him. Can they go in? CAREN. If their permit's all right. Yes. Bring them in. HELPER. They won't come in here. They want to go in the private way. CAREN. I know there's some mystery about number thirteen. . . . HELPER. Yes, there is. He's a swell ... a big one. I shouldn't wonder if. CAREN. Go on. Get out [The helper goes.] KRAIG. Aren't you going to cover the boy before you let them enter? CAHEN. If they can't see him how are they going to know him? He ain't a tailor's dummy. KRAIG. It all seems horrible. CAREN. I guess you'll never see a second day at this. KRAIG. Oh. . . . Oh, I don't know. CAREN. You think I'm going to tuck on a few extras just because he's a swell. [Yelling.] Don't I keep telling you 'til there's not a breath left in my body, that there ain't no class here? [The helper reenters and hears the last words. He stands breathless.] Tramp or gentleman, they're all alike. Now get that into your head and let it grow. HELPER [has been stammering tn/ing to speak]. I oughtn't to tell, they'd kill me if they knew. It's to be kept a secret, but ... CAHEN. What's the matter? HELPER. Number thirteen . . . [Stam- mering.] He ... he. ... CAHEN. Well, what about him? HELPER. He ain't a loafer. He ain't a tramp. He ain't even a gentleman. He . . . CAHEN. Who is he? Quick! HELPER. Our . . . [Exultantly.] Our King! CAREN [ open-mouthed, aghast]. Our . . . King! KRAIG [laughing triumphantly]. Ha ... ha ... ha ... ha HERE! [He clasps his hands together.] CAREN [excited]. Are you mad, Boy, mad? Our King! Oh! [Kraig . laughs. Both men stare at him horrified.] HELPER [to Caren], Ain't you got a flag or something . . . some little mark of respect to cover his nibs? CAREN [to Kraig]. Run upstairs and get that big silk flag that ... [as Kraig does not move]. Go. KRAIG [ immovable, abruptly ceasing to laugh]. No. CAREN [threateningly]. What do you mean? No? KRAIG [hysterically]. This is one place in the world where all are treated fair. Dreams don't count. POWER don't count. There's no rich, no poor. . . . CAREN. Shut up and get that flag. KRAIG. You're going to cover him . . . but she . . . Oh! [Both men dis- appear behind the curtains, cringing and boicing to people within. Caren, with his back to the curtains, does not realize that he is alone.] Even death can't level. No . . . not even death. [For a second he stares ahead of him piercingly into space, standing taut and rigid. Then commences to laugh in pure hysteria as [The Curtain Slowly Falls.] A DEATH IN FEVER FLAT A PLAY BY GEORGE W. CEONYN Copyright, 19 19, by Shadowland. Copyright, 19:20, by George W. Cronyn. All rights reserved. Reprinted from Shadowland, a magazine, by permission of the publishers and the author. The professional and amateur stage rights of this play are strictly reserved by the author. Applications for permission to produce this play should be made to Frank Shay, Care Stewart & Kidd Company, Cincinnati, Ohio. SCENE: In the great Far West, i. e,, far from the "Movie" West. HANK {proprietor of the Good Hope Roadhonse}. LON PUHUY [about irhom the play is concerned], MIZPAH [his irife, called " Padie"}. THE STAGE DRIVER. THE GHOST OF HARVEY MACE. THE GHOST OF THE OTHER MAN. THE TIME is the present, about 11 P. M. This is not a Bret Harte play, nor is it designed for W. S. Hart. And it should be performed with none of that customary and specious braggadoccio of western plays. A DEATH IN FEVER FLAT A PLAY [THE SCENE is laid in the so-called dining-room of one of those forlorn hos- telries of the yreat Plains, which noes by the name of Mace's Good Hope Road- house, a derisive title evidently intended to signify the traveler's hope of early escape from its desiccated hospitality. This room is sometimes reluctantly frequented by a rare guest, usually a passenger on his way via auto stage, to some place else, whom delays en route hare reduced to this last extremity of lodging for the niyht. The room is a kind of lumber yard of disused cheap hotel furniture. Nothing can be drearier. Most of this junk is heaped along the left (stage) wall, and it has a settled look of confusion which the processes of grad- ual decay will, apparently, never disturb. Tables tip crazily against the plaster of the greasy wall. Chairs upturned on these, project thin legs, like the bones of desert places, toward a ceiling fantas- tically stained. One table smaller than the rest, sees occasional use, for it stands someii'hat out of the debris and has about it three chairs reasonably intact. A pack of cards and several dirty glasses adorn the top. A stairway rises along the right wall, beginning at the rear, and attaining to a rickety landing, supported by a single post of doubtful strength, to which is affixed a glass lamp in a bracket. (Inas- much as the stairway is turned away from the audience, those who ascend are com- pletely hidden until their heads top the last riser.) At the right front, between the landing and the proscenium, a door (now shut) leads to the Bar, the one spot of brightness in this lump, the shining crack at its sill bespeaking the good cheer beyond. And that crack is the only il- lumination to this morgue of defunct ap- BY GEORGE W. CRONYN petites, for the moonlight, which enters by way of a small window at the right, is rather an obscuration, inasmuch as it heightens the barren mystery of the room's entombing shadows. Double doors center of rear wall lead to the outside. A window on either side of the door. So much for the melancholy set. From the Bar percolates the lubricated melodiousness of the few regular cus- tomers who constitute the population of Fever Flat, with the exception of three worn-out women folks, two haggard cows and three hundred or so variegated dogs. The female element are to home, the dogs, astray and astir, with lament- able choruses. Sounds from the Bar, samples only.] A JOLLY SOUL [hoarsely]. Pitch into her, boys ! Tune up your gullets ! [ With quavering pathos.] "She was born in old Kentucky "- ANOTHER SUCH [with peeve]. Aw, shet up, that's moldy! Giv's that Tennessee warble, Hank ! VOICE OF HANK [rather rich and fine], "When your heart was mine, true love, And your head lay on my breast, You could make me believe By the falling of your arm That the sun rose up in the west " [There is a momentary pause, filled in by A VOICE. Y'oughter go courtin' with that throat o' yourn, Hank. MACE [as if misanthrope]. Aw, women [During the laugh that follows, an auto horn blares outside and a bright shaft is visible through the rear windows.] VOICES. Stage's come! Stage's come! [There are sounds indicating the 321 322 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS rapid evacuation of the Bar, and a moment later one of the rear doors is jerked open and the Stage Driver enters, dragging in two heavy suit- cages which he deposits near the tmall table with appropriate grunts, meanwhile encouraging the passengers to enter.] STAGE DRIVER. Uh! perty lumpy bags come in, folks, come in! Seems like you mieht he carry in' all your b'longings. [The two passengers enter; the man, quickly, nervously, almost fur- tively; the woman, with that weari- ness which ignores everything ex- cept its own condition.] STARE DRIVER. Come in and set, lady; don't be skcered. Looks a little spooky, but Hank'll have a glim fer ye in two shakes. [Places a chair for her.] Here, I know you're plumb tuckered. Make y'self t'home. f Looking around at the drear surroundings.] 'S fer 's yer able. THE MAN. I thought the stage went through to Hollow Eye to-night? DRIVER. Well, sir, she do, but this time she don't. I've been havin' to run ten miles on low already and I jest don't dast take her across that thirty miles of sand the way she is. She'll drink water like a thusty hoss and like as not lay down and die on us half way out. Then where'd we be? No sir; you folks'll just have to camp here at Fever Flat till I kin do a tinkerin' job to-morrow mornin'. So I'll step into the Bar and tell Hank you're here. [At the door to the Bar.] Hank'll do the best he kin fer ye. He's a squ'ar man. Good-night to ye! [Goes out, leaving the door half open.] THE MAN [briefly]. Good-night. [Look- ing about.] What a hole! Like some- body died here and they'd gone off and left it all stand just the way it was. [He goes to the open door at the rear and stares at the naked moonlit buttes.] Them hills gits my goat. They're nothin' but blitherin skeletons, and this bunch of shacks they call Fever Flat looks like no more'n a damn bone yard to me. [Shut- ting the door.] Ugh! it's cold in here. Feel like I was sittin' on my own grave's edge. THE WOMAN [scarcely raining her head, and speaking with no emotion, in a dead dry voice.} You didn't use to be so per- nickety, when you was punchin' on the range, Lon. LON [waspishly]. And you didn't use to look like a hag, neither, Padie. PAIHE [with a momentary flash], Drink's poisoning your tongue, too. Lox [viciously]. Who's drinking? Cain't I take a thimbleful now'n then without all this jawin'? PADIE. You ain't takin' thimblefuls. You're just soakin' it up. You'll be get- tin' snakes if you keep on. 'n then, what'll / do? [Returning her air of weary indifference.] Not 'that I rare so much what you do with yourself or what becomes of me. Nothing matters. LON [petulent and aggrieved]. There you go, actin' abused. How 'bout my rights 'n pleasures? Ain't got none, I s'pose. PADIE. Oh, shut up, you make me sick. [Hank enters; a ruddy, vigorous, young man, strangely out of place among all this rubbish. He wears a barkeeper's apron and speaks cordially.] HANK. Howdyedo, folks! Howdye do! Well, this is a kinda rough lay-out fer you-all. Y'see the Stage is due here at five, and stops fer grub, then makes Hollow Eye by about nine, but here 'tis . . . \pulls out watch] half an hour of midnight an' I s'pose you ain't et, yet, eh? [Lights the glass lamp.] PADIE. Thanks. We've had sandwiches, but maybe my husband'd like something. LON [significantly]. Wet. [Padie shrugs indifferently, and fi.res her hair. As she turns toward Hank, the light for the first time falls full on his face. Padie stares fixedly at him, and half rises, with a little cry.] LON I id th a quick, startled glance at Hank, speaks to her in a sharp, threaten- ing voice}. Padie! Sit down! Are you gittin' plumb loco drivin' out so late in autymobiles? [To Hank, apologetically.] You kinda flustered us, mister, cause you have a little the look a friend of ourn that died suddint. Mournful case. Pardner o'mine. No, you're not much like. He was tall, heavy-built and lighter complected. Must a been consid'ble older, too. PADIE [almost in a whisper]. No. A DEATH IN FEVER FLAT 323 Lox. Older, I say. My wife's kinda wrought up by this here 'little spell of travelin'. HAXK [sympathetically]. Oh, you're not used to it, eh? PADIE [slowly and deliberately]. We've been at it [draws out the word into a burden] years. Lox [impatiently]. That is, off'n on, m'dear. Only off'n on. PADIE [monotonously]. All the time. HAXK [trying to be a little jocose to break the oppressive atmosphere}. Should think you might hanker after yer own nest, lady. PADIE [rising rudely]. Well, just keep your thoughts ! HAXK [completely abashed]. Yes, ma'am. Your room is just at the top of the landin'. I'll make ye a light. [He hustles away upstairs to cover his embar- rassment, taking the suitcases with him.] Lov [irritably]. You're always tryin' to belittle me in public. Is that any waj fer a wife to act? I wanta know. PADIE. What do you always lie so fer? Lox [with rising voice]. That's my business. I'll do as I damn please. And don't you go too fer, crossin' me. I won't stand it. Some day I'll up, an PADIE [contemptuously]. Beat me. That's all that's left to you, wife-beater. [Lon raises his hand as though to strike her, but lets it fall as Hank reappears on the landing.] HAXK. Excuse me, m'am. Have you your own towels by you? Ourn is pretty scaly. It's been so long since we've had in women folks, at least, ladies. PADIE [moving toward the stair], Thanks, we have some. [Lon to Padie as Hank, hidden from audience, descends.] Lox. You might as well be decent, Padie. You ain't got none other but me. PADIE [bitterly]. Yes, you've took me from 'em. We've been trapsin and trapsin till I'm plumb sick. Yes, I'm [Her voice breaks and she runs blindly toward the stair, almost into the arms of Hank, which fur- ther increases his consternation.] HAXK [holding her off]. Stidy, stidy. There's the ladder, m'am. Can't I fetch you somethin'? Toddy? [Padie shakes her head, runs up, and slams her door.] HAXK [to Lon in friendly fashion]. Women folks is cur'us, cur'us. Lox [surlily]. Take my advice and keep free from 'em. HAXK. It was a woman did fer my brother. Lox [with increased interest]. Oh, you've got a brother, eh? HAXK [simply]. Had. Lox. Where is he? HAXK. Down at Laguna Madre, Ari- zony. Lox [leaning forward and gripping the edge of the table]. Ranchin'? HAXK. Buried. Lox [haltingly]. How what were you saying about a woman? HAXK. A woman done fer him. That's what they said, I don't know. I didn't git there fer a long time. There was a mix-up. Lox. Well, well. That's strange. HAXK [eagerly]. I s'pose you heard of it? It was in all the papers. It even got as fer as Denver. Lox. No, I don't remember. But I've read of similar cases. HAXK. You've been to Arizony, I s'pose. Lox. No, not quite. I've been all around them parts, but never Arizony. HAXK. 'Tain't what you'd call a perty country, but it's mighty satisfyin'. Too blame cold up here. Lox. Why don't you move? HAXK. I'm agoin' to, but you see my brother had half interest in this here tav- ern and there was some litigation about it. Case's just finished. I been here three years, ever since he went. But I'm pullin' my stakes, you bet. I wouldn't be buried here! Would you? Lox [dryly], I'd rather not. HAXK. So she took me fer a friend that'd croaked, eh? That's cur'us. Lox. Eh? What's that? Who? HAXK. Your wife. Lox. Oh, yes. Well, he was a good ten years older. And dark-complected. HAXK. Thought you said he was light. Lox. Mebbe I did. Well, he nibught lave been a trifle lighten'n you, but then, size him up by the average, he was dark. Let's fergit him. Bring us a bottle of 324 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS your best and see that the glass is clean. HANK. To be sure. [Goes out.] [Lon sits with his head between his hands, brooding. The voice of Hank rises from the Bar, render- ing the second verse of the Ten- nessee "warble."] HANK [in the Bar]. There's many a girl can go all round about And hear the small birds sing. And many a girl that stays at home alone, And rocks the cradle and spins. [As the song ends, the door at the rear opens soundlessly, revealing the vast expanse of moonlit plains and desolate buttes. Lon shivers and turns up his coat collar, finally facing about to discover the cause of the chill. Observing the open door, he goes to it, closes and locks it, the click of the key being dis- tinctly audible. He then returns and sits as before, and again the song comes.] HANK [in the Bar]. There's many a star shall jangle in the west ; There's many a leaf below. There's many a damn that will light upon the man For treating a poor girl so. [JYozo both of the double doors siting open, "without sound. Lon shivers, then, looking over his shoulder, sud- denly gets up, glares about him and makes hastily for the door to the Bar, where he almost collides with Hank entering with bottle and glass.] HANK. Here, mister, I was just comin'. Lox. What the devil's the matter with your doors? HAXK. Them? Oh, the lock's no good. When the wind's southwest they fly right open. Got to be wedged with a shingle. [He goes over to the doors, slams them shut, picks up a shingle from the floor and inserts firmly between them.] LON [relieved]. H'm. Well, that's all right. HAXK. Now it's blame cur'us the way old places gits. You'll hear these floor boards creak at times like as if som'un was sneakin' over 'em b'ar-foot. Feller told me onct it was made by contrapshun and tcmper'ture. Mebbe so, but I reckon [knowingly] there's more goes on around than we give credit fer. [Hank dusts off the table and puts bottle and glass down. Lon seizes them eagerly and begins drinking.} LON [after a couple of glasses]. You mean spirits? HANK. Well, I dunno as you'd call 'em that. But it's a fact, there's more liquor goes over the Bar than gits paid for. 'Tain't stole either. It just goes. ... As old Pete Gunderson used to say, " I'm a hell of a th'usty p'uson, and when I croak I'll be a hell of a th'usty spirit." I sometimes wonder [Padie appears above, in a loose dressing sack, her hair hanging in a great wavy mass, and holding a pitcher.] PADIE. Lon, please fetch some water. LON [not moving]. I don't dast go out in the night. I've caught a kind of chill from to-day's drive. HANK [going up the stairs], I'll fetch it you, m'am. [She comes down to meet him and the two are momentarily hidden from the audience. Lon continues to drink steadily, pouring down one glass after another. Hank reap- pears, treading with a certain gay- ety, and goes out rear, whistling the Tennessee " warble."] PADIE [leaning out of the shadow of the stairway toward her husband]. Ain't you comin' up soon, Lon? LON [ignoring the query]. Scarcely no resemblance whatever. PADIE [iridt sudden fierceness]. You lie! [She ascends to the top of the land- ing. Outside a pump cranks dis- mally.] PADIE [relenting a little]. You'll be seein' things, Lon, if you keep it up. LON [rising, perfectly steady]. Mind your business. Wish to hell I had a newspaper. [He goes out through the door to the Bar, while Padie runs a comb reflectively through the exuberant tumult of her dark hair. Hank A DEATH IN FEVER FLAT 325 enters and stops a moment, half blinded by the light, then looks up, and shading his eyes, smiles.] PADIE [coyly]. Is it the light in your eyes, mister? HANK [daringly]. It's you, ma'am, are blinding them. [He runs up the stairs with the pitcher.] PADIE [bending toward him as he comes near the top steps]. You'd better reach it to me. Maybe the landing'll not hold the two of us. HANK. It'll hold two that have such light hearts as we. PADIE. Ah, you don't know mine, mister. HANK [reaching her the pitcher]. There, the clumsy mut I am! Spillt the cold water on your pretty bare toes ! [As she leans over to take the pitcher her hair falls suddenly about his head, almost covering his face.] PADIE [drawing it back, with a deft twirl]. I've most smothered you! HANK. I wouldn't want a sweeter death. PADIE [looking down into his eyes]. Indeed, you're the picture of an old lover of mine. HANK. I'd rather be the picture of the new. [He makes as if to clasp her about the ankles, but she puts a hand on his shoulder and pushes him gently back.] PADIE. You've been very kind to a wanderer from Arizony. Don't spoil it. Good-night ! HANK [turning about, mutters]. Good- night. [He clatters loudly down the stairs as Lon reenters, studying a news- paper. Lon seats himself, still ab- sorbed. Hank favors him with a glare of positive hatred.] HANK [with a sneer]. All fixed fer the night, eh? LON [grunting], G'night. HANK. Well, I hope you like this country better'n Arizony. LON [starling out of the news]. The hell you say ! HANK. Your wife was wishing herself back there. LON [settling back to his paper and bottle]. Well, that's where she come from. I don't. Women allus want what they ain't got. HANK [retiring], When your heart was mine, true love, And your head lay on my breast, [He goes out, closing the door.] You could make me believe by the falling of your arm That the sun rose in the west. [During the singing of this last stanza, the double doors swing wide as before, revealing a Figure stand- ing motionless outside, bathed in moonlight. At the same time the flame in the glass lamp begins to flicker and wane. Lon holds the paper closer to his face, finally al- most buries his nose in it, as if conscious of the Presence, but stub- bornly resolved to ignore it. The Figure moves, and as it crosses the threshold the feeble light expires. Lon, however, still sits, as if ab- sorbed in the newspaper, pretend- ing to sip from the glass. The Figure in a thin mocking voice, echoes the song of the other, stand- ing just behind Lon's chair.] THE FIGURE [a thin echo]. You could make me believe by the falling of your arm That the sun rose up in the west. [Lon picks up the soiled pack of cards from the table and begins to shuffle them mechanically, nor does he once turn toward the appari- tion.] Low [in a hoarse whisper]. And what'r you doin' here? [The Figure sits down nonchalantly in a chair a little to one side of Lon's. He is dressed in the west- ern style, that is, without style, corduroys, heavy boots, flannel shirt. In fact, he looks almost nat- ural. But there is a curious dark mark in the center of his forehead or is it a round, dork hole?] LON [petulantly]. Cain't you stay where you was put with a heap o' rocks on top o' ye? THE FIGURE [thinly ironical]. Cant seem to give up the old habits, y' know. LON [thickly, tossing the pack down]. What's the hell's a corpse got to do with habits? 326 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS GHOST [unmoved]. You pore fool, you'll learn when you come over. LON [huskily]. Come over wh'ar? GHOST [significantly]. Where I am. [Sings in a quavering voice.] There's many a girl can go all round about And hear the small birds sing LON [marling]. Dry up on them corpse tunes o' yourn, Harvey Mace. GHOST [leering]. Oh, you recognize me, eh? You recognize your old friend and pardner, do you, Lon Purdy? LON [sullenly], I knowed you'd come. GHOST [triumphantly]. And you be- lieve in me, eh? Well, that's good, too. LON [stubbornly]. Believe? Well! I knowed I'd be stein' things soon, what with the booze. I knowed it'd be the snakes or you. Padie told me I'd be seein' things. GHOST [maliciously]. So you believe in her, anyway. Well, how's Padie and the children? LON. You know damn well we ain't had none. GHOST. What, no children! How un- fortunate! The house of love not to be graced with fruit . . . sterile, sterile. LON [belligerently], Er you referrin' to me? GHOST. To your spiritual union only, my friend. Physically, I know, nothing was wanting for a perfect match, fe- male form divine to mate with big blond beast. A race of superpeople! LON. What the hell Y you gabbin'? You allus had a lot of talky-talk. That's what made a hit with Padie, before, be- fore GHOST. Before the Other Man came along and cut us both out. [Sings.] And many a girl that stays at home alone And rocks the cradle and spins. GHOST [reflectively]. Yes, I'm afraid we both stood up pretty poorly alongside him. I had the words, the brain, the idea. I could charm her, tantalize her, quicken her mind, arouse her imagina- tion. That's why I cut you out with her. LON [sneering ly\. Gab! GHOST. Yes, gab. It was one better to her than mere brute guts ! You per- sonified strength. You didn't have nerves enough to be afraid of anything. You had endurance, cheek, deviltry, and a kind of raw good nature. These took with the gay, immature girl she was, until I came. You had Guts; I had Gab. LON. And the Other Feller? GHOST. He had the Gift. LON. What you mean? GHOST. He was a full man. His per- sonality exuded from him like incense. It wrapped and enfolded you and warmed you, and yet it was not a grain feminine, but deeply, proudly masculine. You tol- erated him, I loved him. I had the fine passion for Padie, but when I first saw the two of them together I knew she was his, or [with a keen, stern look at Lon] ought to be ... and she has been, al- ways. LON [jumping to his feet, and knock- ing over his chair]. You lie like hell! She's mine! She's been mine all these three years! I won her and I own her! What little of love she ever had fer you or him is buried down in Laguna Madre with the bones of both of ye! And all hell can't take her from me ! GHOST [rising tall and pale]. He kin, and he's done it ! You thought you'd got her. But he's had her, or rather, she's had him in her heart ever since they took the rope from his neck and pro- nounced him legally dead, and justice vindicated, and laid him away in the desert. All that time since, he's belonged to her. When you laid by her side nights, it was his arm she felt about her waist, not yours; his breath was on her cheek, and his heart was beating against hers. Oh you poor, poor fool! LON [throwing his glass straight at the ghost]. You lyin' pup! GHOST [bursting into a gale of eerie laughter]. Ha! ha! ha! you poor fool! Now you believe in me! [Lon whips out his revolver and aims at the ghost, then slowly re- turns it to the holster, as he real- izes the futility of the move.] GHOST. Go on, my boy! .Let's have another one here. [He points to the dark hole in his forehead.] [Lon, wiping his own face with the back of his hand, and shuddering, slumps down into his seat and stares vacantly at the table.] GHOST. Another one, just like the last for your friend and pardner. [He 32? stresses the words with intense irony.] Do you remember the last time you pulled that trick? What a foxy one it was! How astutely planned ! Planned, my friend. I remember when we two went up the canyon together, just such a shin- ing night as this, I asked you why you had borrowed the Other Man's horse, and you said, yours was a little lame. Oh! excellent dissembler! Most crafty of liars ! You stole that horse. You stole that horse to put a rope around the Other Man's neck ! You knew the pinto was shod different from any pony in those parts. You, knew where they'd track him to, when they found the job you'd done. Then we sat down to smokes and cards. And I remember the curious glitter in your eyes. I was dealing. [ The Ghost shuffles the cards on the table, then lays down the pack in front of Lon.] Cut! [Lon mechanically obeys.] GHOST [dealing]. And after several hands, you brought up the subject of Padie. And I told you I was out of the race and that you'd better get out too, because the best man already had her. And then and then I sensed you were going to draw, and when I had my gun out, it was empty. Clever boy ! You had it fixed right. And so you plugged me square. And the moon and stars went out for me and I dropped into the black gulf. [Lon, throwing his hand down,bunes his face in his hands, groaning.] GHOST [pitilessly]. You left me with my face to the stars for the coyotes to find. Then, very coolly, you turned the Other Man's horse toward home and sent him off cracking. And you jumped to a pinon log that led off to a ledge of lava where your footprints wouldn't show. And you turned up in half an hour with the boys in town. Then you inquired cas- ually where the Other Man was. You knew, you devil ! You knew they'd never get an alibi from him for that night, 'cause Padie was with him. Padie had her dear arms about his neck while you, clever dog ! were out fixing to put a rope there. And yon done it, too! Won her? Yes, you did like hell! After the trial was all over, and the dead buried, me and him, you passed a dirty whisper around town about her, and then married her, to save her good name. That's how you won her. [There is an immense silence, broken only by the heavy bieathing of Lon, which comes in rattling gasps.] GHOST [sings]. There's many a star shall jangle in the west, There's many a leaf below, There's many a damn that will light upon the man For treating a poor girl so. GHOST. But I ain't forgot all you done for me. Neither has the Other Man, [with deep solemnity] and he's come to settle too LON [staggering up]. No! I don't believe in you ! You're nothin' at all ! There ain't no [Lon sways and catches at the table; as he swings around, the figure of Another stands outside the door, a tall figure with something white twisted about its neck. Lon with a cry of horror puts out his arms as if to ward off the apparition and backs slowly toward the left -wall] FIBST GHOST [coming toward him], Murderer ! betrayer ! We've come to set- tle! LON [screaming]. No! no! no! don't believe [He falls, and the pile of rubbishy furniture topples over on to him with a crash. The two apparitions vanish. The door to the bar is flung open and Hank leaps in, at the same moment that Padie ap- pears above, whitely clad.] PADIE. Lon! Lon! What's the mat- ter? HANK [going toward the pile of stuff}. Go back ! It's something terrible. [He heaves the heavy pieces from the body and drags it out, as Padie, with a long cry, flies down the stairs. He feels the breast quickly and rises before Padie reaches the table.] HANK. I'm afraid he's done for. PADIE [drawing a deep quivering breath]. Oh. HANK. He must 'a' fell. PADIE I knew drink'd do fer him. 328 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS HANK. Did you love him so much? PATME [very low]. Once a little. [With sudden, fierce joy.] I don't care! Now I kin live ! HANK [looking out over the desert where the dawn begins to show]. Both of us. [Curtain.] THE SLAVE WITH TWO FACES AN ALLEGORY BY MARY CAROLYN DA VIES Copyright, 1918, by Egmont Arens. All rights reserved. Reprinted from No. 6, of the " Flying Stag Plays," published by Egmont Arens, by special permission of Miss Davies. The professional and amateur stage rights on this play are strictly reserved by the author. Applications for permission to produce this play should be made to Egmont Arens, 17 West 8th Street, New York. THE SLAVE WITH Two FACES was first produced in New York City by the Province- town Players, on January 25th, 1918, with the following cast: LIFE, THE SLAVE Ida Rauh. FIRST GIRL Blanche Hays. SECOND GIRL Dorothy Upjohn. A WOMAN Alice MacDougal. A MAN ,...O.K. Liveright. A YOUNG MAN Hutchinson Collint. A WORKMAN O. K. Liveright. And Others. Scene designed by Norman Jacobsen. Produced under the direction of Nina Moise. Incidental music written by Alfred Kreymborg. THE SLAVE WITH TWO FACES AN ALLEGORY [THE SCENE is a wood through which runs a path. Wild rose bushes and other wood-things border it. On opposite sides of the path stand two girls waiting. They have not looked at each other. The (jirls wear that useful sort of gown which, with the addition of a crown, makes a queen without, makes a peasant. The first girl wears a crown. The second carries one carelessly in her hand.] FIRST GmL [looking across at the other]. For whom are you waiting? SECOND GIRL. I am waiting for Life. FIRST GIRL. I am waiting for Life also. SECOND GIRL. They said that he would pass this way. Do you believe that he will pass this way? FIRST GIRL. He passes all ways. SECOND GIRL [still breathing quickly], I ran to meet Life. FIRST GIRL. Are you not afraid of him? SECOND GIRL. Yes. That is why I ran to meet him. FIRST GIRL [to herself], I, too, ran to meet him. SECOND GIRL. Ah! he is coming! FIRST GIRL. No. It is only the little quarreling words of the leaves, and the winds that are always urging them to go away. SECOND GIRL. The leaves do not go. FIRST GIRL. Some day they will go. And that the wind knows. FIRST GIRL. Why are you not wearing your crown? SECOND GIRL. Why should we wear crowns? [She places the crown upon her head.] FIRST GIRL. Do you not know? SECOND GIRL. No. FIRST GIRL. That is all of wisdom the wearing of crowns before the eyes of Life. SECOND GIRL. I do not understand you. FIRST GIRL. Few understand wisdom even those who need it most SECOND GIRL. He is coming! I heard a sound. FIRST GIRL. It was only the sound of a petal dreaming that it had fallen from the rose-tree. SECOND GIRL. I have waited FIRST GIRL. We all long for him. We cry out to him. When he comes, he hurts us, he tortures us. He kills us, unless we know the secret. SECOND GIRL. What is the secret? FIRST GIRL. That he is a slave. He pretends ! He pretends ! But always he knows in his heart that he is a slave. Only of those who have learned his secret is he afraid. SECOND GIRL. Tell me more ! FIRST GIRL. Over those who are afraid of him he is a tyrant. He obeys Kings and Queens! SECOND GIRL. Then that FIRST GIRL. Is why we must never let him see us without our crowns! SECOND GIRL. How do you know these things? FIRST GIRL. They were told me by an old wise man, who sits outside the gate of our town. SECOND GIRL. How did he know? Be- cause he was one of those who are kings? FIRST GIRL. No. Because he was one of those who are afraid. SECOND GIRL [dreamily]. I have heard that Life is very beautiful. Is he so? I have heard also that he is supremely ugly; that his mouth is wide and grinning, that his eyes slant, and his nostrils are thick. Is he so? or is he very beautiful? FIRST GIRL. Perhaps you will see for vourself Ah! 331 332 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS SECOND GIRL. [As Life saunters into view at the farthest bend of the path. He walks like a conqueror. But there is something ugly in his appear- ance. Life sees the girls just as a sudden sun-ray catches the jewels of their crowns. He cringes and walks like a hunchback slave. He is beautiful now.] FIRST GIRL. He has seen our crowns! SECOND GIRL. Ah! FIRST GIRL. Remember ! You are only safe as long as you remain his master. Never forget that he is a slave, and that you are a queen. SECOND GIRL [to herself], I must never let him see me without my crown. FIRST GIRL. Hush! He is coming! SECOND GIRL. He is very beautiful FIRST GIRL. While he is a slave. SECOND GIRL [not hearing]. He is very beautiful FIRST GIRL. Life! [Life bows to the ground at her feet.] SECOND GIRL [in delight]. Ah! FIRST GIRL. Life, I would have opals on a platter. [Life bows in assent.] SECOND GIRL. Oh-h! FIRST GIRL. And pearls! [Life bows.] SECOND GIRL. Ah! FIRST GIRL. And a little castle set within a hedge. [Life bows.] SECOND GIRL. Yes FIRST GIRL. I would have a fair prince to think tinkling words about me. And I would have a strawberry tart, with little flutings in the crust. Go, see that these things are made ready for me. [Life bows in assent and turns to 9-} SECOND GIRL. Ah! FIRST GIRL. See? It is so that one must act. It is thus one must manage him. So and not otherwise it is done. Now do you try. [She plucks a rose from a bush beside her, and twirls it in her fingers.] SECOND GIRL. Life! [Life kneels.] I have a wish for a gown of gold. [Life bows.] FIRST GIRL. Yes! I And over his bowed head, the two laugh gayly at the ease of his sub- jection.] SECOND GIRL. And a little garden where I may walk and think of trumpets blowing. [Life bows.] SECOND GIRL. It is a good rule. FIRST GIRL [calling slave back as he is leaving]. I have a wish for a gray steed. [Life bows.] Bring me a little page, too. With golden hair. And with a dimple. [Life acquiesces, and starts to leave.] FIRST GIRL [calling him back with a gesture]. Life! [An important after- thought.] With two dimples! SECOND GIRL. And an amber necklace ! Bring me an amber necklace ! FIRST GIRL [tossing away the rose she has just plucked]. And a fresh rose. [Life bows; turns to obey. The two are convulsed with mirth at the adventure and its success.] FIRST GIRL. Life! [Life halts.] SECOND GIRL. What are you going to do? FIRST GIRL. Come here! [Life comes to her. With a quick movement she snatches one of the gold chains from about his neck.] SECOND GIRL [frightened]. How can you dare? FIRST GIRL. W T hat you see you must take. [She seizes his wrist and pulls from it a bracelet.] SECOND GIRL [frightened]. Ah! FIRST GIRL. Go! [Exit Life.] SECOND GIRL. But why FIRST GIRL. He does not like beggars, Life. You see, he is a slave himself. SECOND GIRL. He is so beautiful. FIRST GIRL. Do not forget that he is your slave. . . . This rosebush [touches it] is a queen who forgot. SECOND GIRL. Ah! FIRST GIRL [pointing to bones that seemed part of bushes along roadside], Those are the bones of others who forgot. SECOND GIRL. But he is beautiful! FIRST GIRL. Only so long as you are his master. SECOND GIRL. But he is kind ! FIRST GIRL. Only so long as you are not afraid of him. SECOND GIRL. But you snatched THE SLAVE WITH TWO FACES 333 FIRST GIRL. Life is the only person to whom one should be rude. [They hear sounds of moaning and cries and a harsh voice menacing some unseen crowd.] SECOND GIRL. What is that? FIRST GIRL. Come! We must not be seen ! [Pulls her companion behind bush at side of stage.] SECOND GIRL. What will be done to us? FIRST GIRL. Hush! If he should see you! He is always watching for the first sign of fear. SECOND GIRL. What is the first sign of fear? FIRST GIRL. It is a thought SECOND GIRL. But can he see one's thoughts FIRST GIRL. Only thoughts of fear. SECOND GIRL. If one hides them well even from oneself? FIRST GIRL. Even then. But words are more dangerous still. If we say we are afraid we will be more afraid, be- cause whatever we make into words makes itself into our bodies. VOICES OFF STAGE. Oh, master! Mercy, master ! FIRST GIRL. It spoils him, this cring- ing. It spoils a good servant. As long as he is kept in his place [A man enters and kneels, looking at Life off stage, in fear.] FIRST GIRL [steals to man and says], But he is only a slave. Do you not see that he is a slave? MAN. How can you say that? Look at his terrible face. Who that has seen his face can doubt that he is a master, and a cruel one? FIRST GIRL. He cannot be a master unless you make him so. MAN. What is this that you are say- ing? Is it true? FIRST GIRL. Yes, it is true. Even though it can be put into words it is true. MAN [starts to rise, sinks to knees again]. Yes. I see that it is true. But go away. FIRST GIRL [crouching behind bush again]. Ah! [Life crosses the stage, with a whip of many thongs driving a huddled throng of half crouching men and women. They kneel and kiss his robe. His mouth is wide and grin- ning, his eyes slant, his nostrils are thick. He is hideous.] LIFE. You! Give me your ideals. Three ideals! Is that all you have? YOUNG MAN. Life has robbed me of my ideals. WORKMAN. He robbed me too. YOUNG MAN. But I had so few. WORKMAN. When you have toiled to possess more, he will take those from you also. LIFE [to an old woman]. For twelve hours you shall toil at what you hate. For an hour you shall work at what you love, to keep the wound fresh, to make the torture keener. OLD MAN. Ah, pity ! Do not be so cruel ! Let me forget the work I love ! LIFE. Dog! Take what I give you! It is not by begging that you may win anything from me! A VOICE. Give me a dream! A dream to strengthen my hands ! ANOTHER VOICE. A little love to make the day less terrible ! THIRD VOICE. Only rest, a little rest! Time to think of the sea, and of grasses blowing in the wind. A WOMAN. Master ! [Life lashes her with his whip. The woman screams. Life draws back from them, and dances a mocking dance, dancing himself into greater fury, laughing terribly, he lashes out at them. Several fall dead. He chokes a cripple with his hands. Finally he drives them off the stage before him, several furtively drag- ging the bodies with them.] SECOND GIHL [as the two emerge from their hiding place]. Oh! I wish never to see his face as they saw it! FIRST GIRL. You will not, unless you kneel never kneel, little queen. SECOND GIRL. I shall never kneel to Life. I shall stand upright, as you have taught me, and I shall say, " Bring me another necklace, Life FIRST GIRL. I must go now for a little while. I shall come back. Do not for- get. [She goes out.] SECOND GIRL. I shall say [Life's voice is heard off stage. Second Girl cowers. Life enters.] 334 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS SECOND GIHL. Slave! I would have the chain with the red stone! [As Life submissively approaches, she snatches it from his neck.] And this! [Snatching at his hand and pulling the ring from a finger. The slave bows. She happens to look toward the spot where the bodies were, and shivers.] LIFE [raising his head in time to see the look of horror. From this moment his aspect gradually changes until from the slave he becomes a tyrant]. Are you afraid of me? SECOND GIRL. No. LIFE. There are many who are afraid of me. SECOND GIRL. You are a slave. LIFE. There are many who are afraid. SECOND GIRL. You are only a slave. LIFE. A slave may become a master. SECOND GIRL. No. LIFE. I may become SECOND GIRL. You are iny slave. LIFE. If I were your master SECOND GIRL. You are a slave. LIFE. If I were your master, I would be kind to you. You are beautiful. SECOND GIRL. Ah! LIFE. You are very beautiful. SECOND GIRL. It is my crown that makes me beautiful. LIFE. If you should take your crown from your head, you would still be beau- tiful. SECOND GIRL. That I will not do. LIFE. You are beautiful as the slight burning of the apple-petal's cheek when the sun glances at the great flowers near it. You are beautiful as the little pool far in the forest which holds lily-buds in its hands. You are beautiful SECOND GIRL [aside]. I think he wants me to be afraid, so I will say it. I have heard that men are like that. I am not afraid, but I will say it to please him. LIFE. Are you afraid of me? SECOND GIRL. Yes. LIFE. Are you afraid? SECOND GIRL. Yes, I am afraid. LIFE. Ah, that pleases me. SECOND GIRL [aside]. I knew that I would be able to please him ! Whatever I make into words makes itself into my body, she said, like fear but she does not know everything! It is impossible that she should know everything ! And it is so pleasant to please him And so easy ! I am not afraid of him. I have only said that I am afraid. LIFE. Will you not take your crown from your head? SECOND GIRL. No. LIFE. There is nothing so beautiful as a woman's hair flying in the wind. I can see your hair beneath your crown. Your hair would be beautiful flying in the wind. SECOND GIHL [removes crown]. It is only for a moment. LIFE. Yes, you are beautiful. SECOND GIRL [to herself]. It may be that I was not wise LIFE. You are like a new flower open- ing, and dazzling a passing bird with sudden color. SECOND GIRL. She said that I must not LIFE. You are like the bird that passes. Your hair lifts like winks in the sun. SECOND GIHL. He has not harmed me. LIFE. Your crown is like jewels gath- ered from old galleons beneath the sea. May I see your crown? SECOND GIRL [holds it out cautiously toward him, then changes her mind], No LIFE. Let me hold it in my fingers. I shall give it back to you. SECOND GIRL. No. LIFE. I shall give it back. SECOND GIRL. If you will surely give it back to me LIFE [takes crown]. But your hair is lovelier without a crown. [Flings it from him.] SECOND GIRL. What have you done? LIFE. It was only in jest. SECOND GIRL. But you promised LIFE. In jest. SECOND GIRL. But LIFE. Ho-ho ! Laugh with me. What a jest! SECOND GIRL [laughs, then shivers], LIFE [ire high good humor with him- self]. Dance for me. You are young. You are happy. Dance! SECOND GIRL. What shall my dance say? LIFE. That it is Spring, and that there are brooks flowing, newly awakened and THE SLAVE WITH TWO FACES 335 mad to be with the sea. That there is a white bud widening under the moon, and in a curtained room a young girl sleep- ing. That the sun has wakened her SECOND GIRL [dances these things. At first she is afraid of him, then she forgets and dances with abandon]. And now give me back my crown. LIFE. You do not need a crown, pretty one. SECOND GIRL. I am afraid of you ! LIFE. Afraid of me! What have I done? SECOND GIRL. I do not know. LIFE. Do not be afraid. SECOND GIRL. I am afraid. LIFE. I shall be a kind master to you. SECOND GIRL. Master? LIFE. A kind master. SECOND GIRL. You are my slave. LIFE. I shall never be your slave again. SECOND GIRL. And if she were right? If it is true? LIFE. What are you saying? SECOND GIRL. Nothing LIFE. You must call me master. SECOND GIRL. No. That I will not do. LIFE [leering at her]. Call me master. Then I shall be kind to you. SECOND GIRL. No. I can not. LIFE [picks up his whip from the path, toying with the whip but laughing at her] . Then I shall be kind. SECOND GIRL. Master LIFE. It has a good sound. SECOND GIRL. You will give me LIFE. Greedy one ! Be grateful that I do not punish you. SECOND GIRL. You would not strike me? LIFE. If you do not obey SECOND GIRL [whispering]. You would not strike LIFE. You must kneel. SECOND GIRL [repeating]. Never kneel, little queen LIFE. You must kneel to me. SECOND GIRL. No. LIFE [raising the whip as if to strike], On your knees! Slave! SECOND GIRL. You were kind ! Life, you were kind! You said beautiful words to me. LIFE. Kneel. SECOND GIRL. You would be always kind, you said LIFE. Will you obey? SECOND GIRL. I shall never [Life curls his whip around her shoul- ders.] SECOND GIRL [screams]. Do not flog me. I will kneel. [Kneels.] LIFE. So? In that way I can win obedience. SECOND GIRL. Master! LIFE. It has a good sound. SECOND GIRL. Pity! Have pity! LIFE. Do not whine. [Kicks her.] SECOND GIRL [rises staggering]. Spare me! LIFE. I shall beat you, for the cries of those who fear me are sweet in my ears. [Beats her.] SECOND GIRL. Master ! LIFE [flinging aside whip]. But sweeter yet are stilled cries [He seizes her, they struggle.] SECOND GIRL. He is too strong I can struggle no longer! [They struggle. Life chokes her to death and flings her body from him. Then laughing horribly he goes off the stage.] FIRST GIRL [enters skipping merrily. Singing]. Heigho, in April, Heigho, heigho, All the town in April Is gay, is gay ! [She plucks rose from bush.] Heigho, in April, In merry, merry April, Love came a-riding And of a sunny day I met him on the way! Heigho, in April, Heigho, heigho [Suddenly seeing the body, she breaks the song, and stares without mov- ing. Then she goes very slowly to- ward it, smooths down the dead girl's dress, and kneels beside the body. Whispers.] She was young ... he was cruel. . . . [Touches the body.] She also was a queen. She snatched his trinkets. See, there on her dead neck is his chain with the red fire caught in gold. And on her finger his ring. But he was too strong . . . too strong. . . . [She stands, trem- bles, cowering in terror.] Life has 336 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS broken her . . . Life has broken them all. . . . Some day ... I am afraid . . . [Life enters, still the ugly tyrant. She remains cowering. His eyes rove slowly over the stage, but she sees him a second before he dis- covery her. She straightens up just in time to be her scornful self before his eyes light upon her. As she speaks Life becomes the slave again.} FIRST GIRL [carelessly flings rose down without seeing that it has fallen upon the body]. Life! Bring me a fresh rose! [The slave bows abjectly and goes to do her bidding.] [Curtain.] THE SLUMP A PLAY BY FREDERIC L. DAY Copyright, 1920, by Frederic L. Day. All rights reserved. THE SLUMP was first produced February 5, 1920, by " The 47 Workshop " with the following cast: FLORENCE MADDEN Miss Ruth Chorpenning. JAMES MADDEN Mr. Walton Butterfteld. EDWARD Mix Mr. W. B. Leach, Jr. Permission to reprint, or for amateur or professional performances of any kind must first be obtained from " The 47 Workshop," Harvard College, Cambridge, Mass. Moving picture rights reserved. TIME: The Present. About four o'clock on a Saturday afternoon in December. THE SLUMP A PLAY [SCENE: A dingy room showing the very worst of contemporary lower middle-class American taste. The dining table in the center is of " golden oak " ; and a side- board at the left, a morris chair at the right and front, and three dining-room chairs (one of which is in the left rear corner, the others at the table) are all of this same finish. The paper on the walls is at once tawdry and faded. A tarnished imitation brass gas jet is suspended from the right wall, just over the morris chair. In the back wall and to the left is a door lending outside. Another door, in the left wall, leads to the rest of the house. A low, rather dirty window in the back wall, to the right of the center, looks out on a muddy river with the dispiriting houses of a small, grimy manufacturing city beyond. On the back wall are one or two old-fashioned engravings with sen- timental subjects, and several highly- colored photographs of moving picture stars, each of them somewhat askew. A few pictures on the other walls are mostly cheap prints cut out of the rotogravure section of the Sunday paper. In the right-hand rear corner is an air-tight stove. The whole room has an appear- ance of hopeless untidiness and slovenli- ness. Close by the morris chair, at its right, is a phonograph on a stand. Out- side it is a dull gray day. The afternoon light is already beginning to wane. As the curtain rises, James Madden is sitting behind the table in the center of the room. He is a rather small man of thirty-five, his hair just beginning to turn gray at the temples. Spectacles, a peer- ing manner, and the sallow pallor of his face all suggest the man of a sedentary mode of life. His clothes are faded and of a poor cut, but brushed and neat. Thsre is something ineffectual but dis- BY FREDERIC L. DAY tinctly appealing about the little man. Madden is working on a pile of bills which are strewn over the top of the table. He picks up a bill, looks at it, and draws in his under lip with an ex- pression of dismay. He writes doion the amount of the bill on a piece of paper, below six or seven other rows of figures. He looks at another bill, and his expres- sion becomes even more distracted.] MADDEN [with exasperation]. Oh! [He brings his fist down on the table with a limp whack, then turns and looks helplessly toward the door at the left. After a moment this door starts to open. Madden turns quickly to the front, trying to com- pose his face and busying himself with the bills. The door continues to open, and Mrs. Madden now is- sues from it lazily. She is thirty- two years old, and a good half head taller than her husband. Where he is thin and bony, she has already begun to lose her figure. Her yel- low hair, the color of molasses kisses, is at once greasy and un- tidy, and seems ready to come to pieces. Her face is beginning to lose its contour the uninspired face of a lower middle-class woman who has once been pretty in a rather cheap way. She is sloppily dressed in showy purple silk. Her skirt is short, and she wears brand new, high, shiny, mahogany-col- ored boots. She has powdered her nose.] MRS. MADDEN [uninterestedly, in a slow, flat, nasal voice}. How long y' been home? Yer pretty late f'r Sat'rdy. MADDEN [still looking down and trying to control his feelings]. The head book- 339 340 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS keeper kept me, checkin' up the mill pay roll. I been here [consulting his watch] just seven minutes. MRS. MADDEN [yawning]. Thanks. Yer s' darn acc'rate, Jim. I didn' really wanta know. [He looks at another bill and writes down the amount on the same piece of paper as before, keeping his head averted so that she may not see his face.] MBS. MADDEN. Jim. [With lazy self- satisfaction.] Look up an' glimpse yer. wifey in 'r new boots. [She draws up her skirts sufficiently to show the boots.] [He looks up unwillingly and makes a movement of exasperation.] MADDEN. Oh, Florrie ! MRS. MADDEN. Wat's a matter? Don'choo like 'em? MADDEN. You didn't need another pair, Florrie. MRS. MADDEN [on the defensive]. Y' wouldn' have me look worse 'n one o' these furriners, would y'? There's Mrs. Montanio nex' door; she's jus' got a pair o' mahogany ones an' a pair o' lemon colored ones. An' her husban's on'y a " slasher." MADDEN. Slashers get a big sight more pay than under bookkeepers these days, Florrie. MRS. MADDEN [persuasively]. Got 'em at a bargain, anyways. Jus' think, Jim. On'y twelve, an' they was sixteen. [Madden groans audibly. She changes the subject hastily], Wat's a news down town? MADDEN [seriously]. Florrie [He hesitates and then seems to change his mind. He relaxes and speaks wearily, trying to affect an off-hand manner.] Nothin' much. [Struck by an unpleasant recollection.] Comin' home by Market Wharf I saw 'em pull a woman out o' the river. MBS. MADDEN [interested]. Y' don' say, Jim. Was she dead? MADDEN [nervously]. I ... I don't know. I didn't stop. [He passes his hand across his face with a sudden ges- ture of horror.] You know, Florrie, I hate things like that! MRS. MADDEN. Well y' poor boob! Not t' find out if she was dead ! [She gives an impatient shrug of the shoulders and passes behind him, going over to the back window and looking out aimlessly. Madden picks up another bill, regarding it malevolently. After a moment she turns carelessly toward him.] MRS. MADDEN. Jim. [He does not look up.] Say, Jim. I'm awful tired o' cookin'. There ain't a thing t' eat in th' house. Le's go down t' Horseman's f'r a lobster supper t'night, an' then take in a real show. Mrs. Montanio's tol' me MADDEN [interrupting very gravely], Florrie. [He rises to his feet.] MRS. MADDEN [continuing without a * pause]. There's an awful comical show down t' th' Hyperion. Regal'r scream, they say. Mrs. Montanio MADDEN [breaking in], Florrie, there's somethin' I got to say to you. MRS. MADDEN [a little sulky], I got lots I'd like t' say t' you, On'y I ain't sayin' it. MADDEN [more quietly], I wasn't goin' to say it now . . . not 'till I finished goin' through these. [He makes a ges- ture toward the bills.] But when I saw your new shoes, an' specially when you spoke o' goin' out to-night . . . MRS. MADDEN. Well, why shouldn' I? I got t' have some fun. MADDEN [keeping his self-control], Look here, Florrie. D'you know what I was doin' when you came in? MRS. MADDEN. I didn't notice. Fig- gerin' somethin', I s'pose. Y' always are. MADDEN. This mornin' at the office I got called to the phone. The Excelsior Shoe Comp'ny said you cashed a check there yesterday for fifteen dollars. Said you bought a pair o' shoes . . . those, I suppose [He looks at her feet. She turns away sulkily.] . . . an' had some money left over. Check came back to 'em this mornin' from the bank. " No funds." MRS. MADDEN [with righteous but lazy indignation]. How'd I know there wasn't no money in th' bank? MADDEN. If you kept your check book up to date you'd know. MRS. MADDEN. Wat right they got not t' cash my check? MADDEN [still controlling himself], The bank don't let you overdraw any more. [He glances back at the bills.] THE SLUMP D'you know, I'm wonderin' why you didn't charge those boots. MRS. MADDEN. I ain't got any account at th' Excelsior. MADDEN. I guess it's the only place in town you haven't got one. You don't seem to remember what salary I get. MRS. MADDEN. Sure I know. Ninety- five a month. Y' know mighty well I'm ashamed o' you f r not gettin' more. Mrs. Montanio's husban' MADDEN [breaking in]. Hang the Mon- tanios ! [M ore quietly.] Don't you see what I'm gettin' at? Here it is the twelfth o' December; you know my pay don't come in till the end o' the month; an' here you go an' draw all our money out o' the bank . . . an' more. [Turn- ing toward the table.] An' look at these bills ! MRS. MADDEN. James Madden, I like t' know w'at right you got t' talk t' me like that. MADDEX [thoughtfully]. I've always argued it's the woman's job to run the house. [He walks around the table from front to rear, passing to its left, and looking down at the bills. With convic- tion.] It's no use! I don't just see how we're goin' to get out of this mess; but I do know one thing. [Advancing toward her from the rear of the table.] After this I'm goin' to spend our money, even if I have to buy your dresses. MRS. MADDEX [with rising anger]. If you say I've been extrav'gant, James Madden, yer a plain liar! MADDEX [biting his lip and stepping back a pace]. Easy, Florrie ! I know you don't mean that, or MRS. MADDEX [interrupting viciously]. I do! MADDEX [persuasively]. Look here, Florrie. We got to work this out to- gether. There's no use gettin' mad. Prob'ly you aren't extravagant really. Just considerin' the size o' my salary. MRS. MADDEX. A pig couldn' live de- cent on your salary ! MADDEX. Other folks seem to get on, even in these times. What would you do if we had kids? MRS. MADDEX. Thank the Lord we ain't got them t' think about. MADDEX [shocked]. Florence! MRS. MADDEX. Well, I guess anybody'd be glad not t' have kids with you fr a husban'. Y' don't earn enough money t' keep a cat let alone kids! An' jus' t' think they'd be like you ! MADDEN [more surprised than angry]. Florence you're talking like a street woman. MRS. MADDEX. Oh, I am, am I? Well, I guess you treat me like a street woman. Y' don' deserve t' have a wife. MADDEN. Well, I don't guess I do. Not one like you ! MRS. MADDEX. That's right! That's right! You don' know how t' treat a lady. MADDEX [controlling himself]. Look here, Florrie. Don't let's get all het up over this. MRS. MADDEN. Who's gettin' het up? (Bursting past him toward the door at the' left.] I wish t' God you was a gen'le- man! MADDEX. Florrie don't I MRS. MADDEN [turning on him from the other side of the table], W'y don't y' go out an' dig in th' ditch? Y'd earn a damn sight more money th'n V MADDEN [with angry impatience], You know I'm not strong enough. MRS. MADDEN. Bony little shrimp ' Not even pep enough t' have kids ! MADDEN [beside himself], Florence! [Going toward her.] I'm goin' to tell you some things I never thought I would. You're just a plain, common, selfish, vul- gar woman ! You don't care one penny for anybody except yourself. You an' your clothes an' your movies an' your sodas an' your candy! [Mrs. Madden is glowering at him across the table. She is beginning to weep with rage. Two or three times she opens her mouth as if to speak, but each time he cuts her short.] Look at the way you been leavin' this house lately. [He makes an inclusive gesture toward the room.] The four years I've lived with you would drive a saint to Hell ! [Mrs. Madden marches furiously by him and over to her hat and coat, which are hanging from pegs at the right, just in front of the stove.] I wish I'd never seen you ! MRS. MADDEN [getting her coat and hat], D' y' think I'm goin' t' stay in this house t' be talked to like that? [Putting on her hat viciously.] D' y' think I'm 342 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS goin' t' stand that kind of a thing? [Put- ting on her coat. Sobbing angrily.} I guess . . . you'll be ... pretty sorry when I've . . . gone. [Coming closer to him on her way to the outside door.] If ... if I did somethin' ... if somethin' . . . happened t' me ... I guess you . . . you wouldn't never . . . f'give yer- self ! [She is at (he door.] MADDEN*. I don't worry about you. [She turns on him at the door.] You wouldn't do anything like that. You're too yellow! MRS. MADDEN* [at the door. Sobbing, in a fury]. You'll . . . see! [H*tp- erty, is femininely furnished in chintz. A table desk with several drawers occu- pies an important place in the room, which is conspicuously rich in flowers. The curtain rises on an empty stage. Ruth Carey, a pretty girl of eighteen years, enters hurriedly, carrying a large box; she wears a hat and coat.] RUTH. Oh, Anne, here's another box of flowers! Anne, where are you? VOICE FROM ANNE'S BEDROOM. In here. I thought you had gone out. RUTH [opening door left]. I was just going when the expressman left these and I wanted to see them. [Looking into the bedroom.] Oh, how pretty your dress is. Turn round. Just adorable! May I open these? THE VOICE. Yes, but hurry. It's late. RUTH [throwing her sister a kiss\. You dear ! It's almost like having a fianc6 of my own. Three boxes in two days! He's adorably extravagant. Oh, Anne, exquisite white roses ! Come, look ! [Anne Carey appears in the bedroom door. She is a girl of twenty-two. Her manner in this scene shows nervousness and suppressed excite- ment.] ANNE. Yes, lovely. Get a bowl, Ruth. Quickly. RUTH. I will. Here's a card. [She hands Anne an envelope, goes to the 385 BY THERESA HEL.BURN door, then stops.] What does he say, Anne? May I see? [Anne, who has read the card quickly with a curious little smile, hands it back to her without turning.] RUTH [reading] : " The red rose whispers of passion And the white rose breathes of love; Oh, the red rose is a falcon, And the white rose is a dove. "But I send you a cream-white rosebud With a flush on its petal tips, For the love that is purest and sweetest Has a kiss of desire on the lips." Oh, how beautiful ! Did he make that up, do you suppose? I didn't know he was a real poet. ANNE [who has been pinning some of the roses on her dress]. Any one in love is a poet. RUTH. It's perfectly beautiful! [She takes a pencil and little notebook out of her pocket.] May I copy it in my " Har- old Notebook"? ANNE. Your what? RUTH. I call it my " Harold Note- book." I've put down bits of his letters that you read me, the lovely bits that are too beautiful to forget. Do you mind? ANNE. You silly child! RUTH. Here, you may see it. ... That's from the second letter he wrote you from Rio Janeiro. I just couldn't get over that letter. You know I made you read it to me three times. It was so so delicate. I remembered this pas- sage see. " A young girl seems to me as exquisite and frail as a flower, and I feel myself a vandal in desiring to pluck and possess one. Yet, Anne, your face is always before me, and I know now what I was too stupid to realize before, 386 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS that it was you and you only, who made life bearable for me last winter when I was a stranger and alone." Oh, Anne [Sighing rapturously.} that's the sort of love letters I've dreamed of getting. I don't suppose I ever shall. ANNE still looking over the notebook with her odd smile]. Have you shown this to any one? RUTH. Only to Caroline in confi- dence. [Pauses to see how Anne will take it.] But really, Anne, every one knows about Harold. You've told Madge and Eleanor, and I'm sure they've told the others. They don't say anything to us, but they do to Caroline and she tells me. [Watching Anne's face.] You're not angry, are you, Anne? ANNE. Yes, "rather. [Then eagerly.] What do they say? RUTH. Oh, all sorts of things. Some of them horrid, of course! You can't blame them for being jealous. Here you are having just the sort of experience that any one of them would give their eye teeth to have. I'd be jealous if you weren't my sister. As it is, I seem to get some of the glory myself. ANNE [pleads, but disparaging]. But every girl has this experience sooner or later. RUTH. Oh, not in this way. Every- thing that Harold does is beautiful, ideal. Jane Fenwick showed me some of Bob's letters. They were so dull, so prosaic! All about his salary and the corn crop. I was disgusted with them. So was she, I think, when she saw Harold's letters. ANNE. Oh, you showed them to Jane, too? RUTH [a bit frightened]. No, really I didn't. Caroline did. I lent her my note- book once overnight, and she gave Jane a peek in the strictest confidence. Jane really needed it. She was getting so cocky about Bob. Girls are funny things, aren't they? ANNE [who has been keenly interested in all of Ruth's gossip]. What do you mean? RUTH. It isn't so much the man, as the idea of a man some one to dream about, and to talk about. When I think of getting engaged I suppose I shall get engaged some day I never think of being really, really kissed by a man ANNE. What do you think of? RUTH. I always think of telling Caro- line about it, showing my ring to her and to Madge. Oh, Madge is green with envy. I believe she thought Harold sort of liked her. [Anne turns away.] She was so excited when she saw him in New York. She said she would have got off the bus and chased him, but he went into a house. . . . Anne, why didn't you tell us me, at least that Harold was back from South America, before we heard it from Madge? ANNE. Just because ... I wanted to avoid all this ... It was hard enough to have him within a few hours' distance and know he could not get to me. But it was easier when no one else knew. Don't you understand? RUTH. Yes, dear, of course I do but still ANNE [impatiently]. Now, Ruth, it's quarter past four. You promised RUTH. I'm going . . . right straight off ... unless Oh, Anne, mayn't I stay and have just one peek. I won't let him see me, and then I'll run straight away? ANNE. Oh, for heaven's sake, don't be naughty and silly! Clear out now, quickly, or [Changing her tone sud- denly.] Ruth, dear, put yourself in my place. Think how you would feel if you were going to see the man you loved for the first time. That's what it really is. Think of it! Two years ago when he went away we were just the merest friends and now RUTH. And now you're engaged to be married ! Oh, isn't it the most romantic thing! Of course you want to be alone. Forgive me. Oh, Anne, how excited you must be ! ANNE [with rather histrionic intensity]. No, I'm strangely calm. And yet, Ruth, I'm afraid, terribly afraid. RUTH. Why, what of? ANNE [acting]. I don't know ... of everything ... of the unknown. All this has been so wonderful, if anything should happen I don't think I could bear it. I think I should die. RUTH. Nonsense, dear, what can hap- pen? You're just on edge. Well, I'll be off. I'll join Mother at Aunt Nellie's. Give my love to Harold. You know I've ENTER THE HERO 387 never called him anything but Mr. Law- son to his face. Isn't that funny? Good- by, dear. [Throwing Anne a kiss.] You look so sweet. ANNE [her hands on Ruth's shoulders for an impressive moment], Good-by, Ruth. Good-by. [They kiss. Ruth goes. Left alone, a complete change comes over Anne. She drops the romantic at- titude. She is nervously deter- mined. She quickly arranges the flowers, takes out the box, etc., straightens the room, and surveys herself rapidly in the mirror. There is a sound of wheels outside. Anne goes to the bay window and looks out. Then she stands erect in the grip of an emotion that is more like terror than anticipation. Hearing the sound of footsteps on the stair she is panic-stricken and about to bolt, but at the sound of voices she pulls herself together and stands motionless.] MAN'S VOICE [outside]. In here? All right ! [Harold Lawson enters, a well set up, bronzed, rather commonplace young man of about twenty-eight. He sees no one on his entry, but as he advances into the room, Anne comes down from the bay window.] HAROLD. Hello, Miss Carey, how are you? Splendid to see you again, after all this time. [Anne looks at him with- out speaking, which slightly embarrasses him.] You're looking fine. How's your mother and little Ruth? ANNE [slowly]. Welcome home. HAROLD. Oh, thanks. It's rather nice to be back in God's country. But it's not for long this time. ANNE. Are you going away again? HAROLD. Yes. I've another appoint- ment. This one in India, some big salt mines. Not bad, eh? I made pretty good in Brazil, they tell me. ANNE [nervously]. Sit down. HAROLD. Thanks. Hot for September, isn't it? Though I ought to be used to heat by this time. Sometimes the ther- mometer would run a hundred and eight for a week on end. Not much fun, that. ANNE. No, indeed. HAROLD [settling back comfortably to talk about himself]. You know I loathed it down there at first. What with all the foreigners and the rotten weather and the bugs thought I'd never get into the swing. Wanted to chuck engineering for any old job that was cool, but after a while ANNE. How long have you been home? HAROLD. About three weeks. I'd really been meaning to come out here and have a look round my old haunts, but there was business in New York, and I had to go South and see my family you know how time flies. Then your note came. It was mighty jolly of you to ask me out here. By the way, how did you know I was back? ANNE [after a pause]. Madge Ken- nedy caught sight of you in New York. HAROLD. Did she really ? How is little Madge? And that odd brother of hers. Is he just as much of a fool as ever? I remember once he said to me ANNE. Oh, I didn't ask you here to talk about Madge Kennedy's family. HAROLD [taken aback]. No . . . no, of course, not. I I've been wondering just why you did ask me. You said you wanted to talk to me about something. ANNE [gently]. Weren't you glad to come? HAROLD. Why, of course I was. Of course. And then your note fired my curiosity your asking me to come straight to you before seeing any one else. ANNE. Aren't you glad to be here with me? HAROLD. Why surely, of course, but [Pause.] ANNE. You see, people seemed to ex- pect you would come to see me first of all. I rather expected it myself. Don't you understand? HAROLD [very uncomfortably]. No . . . I'm afraid I don't . . . ANNE. From the way you acted be- fore you went away I thought you, your- self, would want to see me first of all. HAROLD. Before I went away? What do you mean? ANNE. You know well enough what I mean. The parties those last weeks the theater we went to the beautiful flowers you sent Mother the letter HAROLD. But but why, I was going away. You and your people had 388 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS been awfully nice to me, a perfect stranger in town. I was simply trying ot do the decent thing. Good Lord! You don't mean to say you thought ANNE [watching him very closely]. Yes, it's true, I thought and every one else thought I've been waiting these two years for you to come back. [She drops her face into her hands. Her shoulders shake.] HAROLD [jumping up}. Great Heavens ! I never imagined Why, Miss Carey, I oh, I'm terribly sorry! [She continues to sob.] Please don't do that please! I'd better go away I'll clear out I'll go straight off to India I'll never bother you again. [He seized his hat, and is making, in a bewildered way, for the door, when she intercepts him.] ANNE. No. You mustn't go away! HAROLD. But what can I do? ANNE [striking a tragic attitude]. You mean to say you don't care at all that you have never cared? HAROLD. Really, Miss Carey, I ANNE. For heaven't sake, don't call me Miss Carey. Call me Anne. HAROLD. Miss Carey . . . Anne . . . I ... Oh, you'd better let me go let me get away before any one knows I'm here before they think ANNE. It's too late. They think al- ready. HAROLD. Think what? What do you mean? ANNE. Oh, this is terrible ! Sit down, Harold, and listen to me. [She pushes him into a chair and begins to talk very rapidly, watching intently the effect of her words upon him.] You see, when you went away, people began to say things about us you and me about your car- ing. I let them go on. In fact I be- lieved them. I suppose it was because I wanted so much to believe them. Oh, what a fool I've been! What a fool! [She covers her face with her hands. He gets up intending vaguely to comfort her, but she thinks he is making another move to go, and jumps to her feet.] ANNE. And now you want to clear out like a thief in the night, and leave me to be laughed at! No, no, you can't do that! You must help me. You've hurt me to the very soul. You mustn't humiliate me before the world. HAROLD. I'll do anything I can, Miss Carey. ANNE. Anne ! HAROLD. Anne, I mean. But how? ANNE [after a moment's thought, as if the idea had just come to her]. You must stay here. You must pretend for a few days for a week at most, that we're engaged. HAROLD. I can't do that, you know. Really, I can't. ANNE [going to him]. Why not? Only a little while. Then you'll go away to India. We'll find it's been a mistake. I'll break it off, it will only be a pre- tense, of course, but at least no one will know what a fool I've been. HAROLD [after a moment's hesitation]. Miss Carey Anne, I mean, I'll do any- thing I can, but not that! A man can't do that. You see, there's a girl, an Eng- lish girl, down in Brazil, I ANNE. Oh, a girl! Another! Well, after all, what does that matter? Brazil is a long way off. She need never know. HAROLD. She might hear. You can't keep things like this hid. No. I wouldn't risk that. You'd better let me clear out before your family gets home. No one need ever know I've been here. [Again he makes a move toward the door. Anne stands motionless.] ANNE. You can't go. You can't. It's more serious than you imagine. HAROLD. Serious? What do you mean? ANNE. Come here. [He obeys. She sits in a big chair, but avoids looking at him. There is a delicate imitation of a tragic actress in the way she tells her story.] I wonder if I can make you un- derstand? It means so much to me that you should so much ! Harold, you know how dull life is here in this little town. You were glad enough to get away after a year of it, weren't you? Well, it's worse for a girl, with nothing to do but sit at home and dream of you. Yes, that's what I did, until, at last, when I couldn't stand it any longer, I wrote you. HAROLD [quickly]. I never got the let- ter, Miss Carey. Honor bright, I didn't. ANNE. Perhaps not, but you answered it. ENTER THE HERO 389 HAROLD. Answered it? What are you talking about? ANNE. Would you like to see your an- swer? [She goes to the desk, takes a packet of letters out of a drawer, selects one, and hands it to him.] Here it is your answer. You see it's post-marked Rio Janeiro. HAROLD [taking it wonderingly}. This does look like my writing. [Reads.] " Anne, my darling " I say, what does this mean? ANNE. Go on. HAROLD [reading]. " I have your won- derful letter. It came to me like rain in the desert. Can it be true, Anne, that you do care? I ask myself a hundred times what I have done to deserve this. A young girl seems to me as exquisite and frail as a flower " Great Scott! You don't think 7 could have written such stuff! What in the world! ANNE [handing over another letter]. Here's the next letter you wrote me, from the mine. It's a beautiful one. Read it. HAROLD [tears it open angrily, and reads]. "I have been out in the night under the stars. Oh, that you were here, my beloved ! It is easy to stand the dust and the turmoil of the mine without you, but beauty that I cannot share with you hurts me like a pain " [He throws the letter on the table and turns toward her, speechless.] ANNE [inexorably]. Yes, that's an ex- ceptionally beautiful one. But there are more lots more. Would you like to see them? HAROLD. But I tell you, I never wrote them. These aren't my letters. ANNE. Whose are they, then? HAROLD [walking up and down furi- ously], God knows! This is some out- rageous trick. You've been duped, you poor child. But we'll get to the bottom of this. Just leave it to me. I'll get detectives. I'll find out who's back of it! I'll [He comes face to face with her and finds her looking quietly at him with something akin to critical in- terest.] HAROLD. Good Lord. What's the mat- ter with me ! You don't believe those let- ters. You couldn't think I wrote them, or you wouldn't have met me as you did, quite naturally, as an old friend. You understand! For heaven's sake, make it clear to me! ANXE. I am trying to ... I told you there had to be ... answers ... I was afraid to send my letters to you, but there had to be answers. [Harold stareg at her.] So I wrote them myself. HAROLD. You wrote them yourself? ! ? ANNE. Yes. HAROLD. These? These very letters? ANNE. Yes. I had to. HAROLD. Good God ! [He gazes at the litter of letters on the desk in stupe- fied silence.] But the handwriting. ANNE. Oh, that was easy. I had the letter you wrote to Mother. HAROLD. And you learned to imitate my handwriting? ANNE [politely]. It was very good writing. HAROLD [in sudden apprehension]. No one has seen these things, have they? ANNE. They arrived by mail. HAROLD. You mean people saw the en- velopes. Yes, that's bad enough. . . . But you haven't shown them to any one? [At her silence he turns furiously upon her.] Have you? . . . Have you? ANNE [who enjoys her answer and its effect upon him]. Only parts never a whole letter. But it was such a pleas- ure to be able to talk about you to some one. My only pleasure. HAROLD. Good heavens! You told people I wrote these letters? That we were engaged? ANNE. I didn't mean to, Harold. Really, I didn't. But I couldn't keep it dark. There were your telegrams. HAROLD. My telegrams? ! ? [She goes to desk and produces a bundle of dispatches.] ANNE [brazen in her sincerity]. You used to wire me every time you changed your address. You were very thought- ful, Harold. But, of course, I couldn't keep those secret like your letters. HAROLD [standing helplessly, with the telegrams loose in his fingers]. My tele- grams! Good Lord! [He opens one and reads.] "Leaving Rio for fortnight of inspection in interior. Address care Senor Miguel " My telegrams ! [He flings the packet violently on the table, thereby almost upsetting 390 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS a bowl of roses which he hastens to preserve.] ANNE. And then there were your flow- ers. I see you are admiring them. [Harold withdraws as if the flowers were charged with electricity.] HAROLD. What flowers? ANNE. These these all of them. You sent me flowers every week while you were gone. HAROLD [overcome]. Good God! [He has now reached the apex of his amazement and becomes sardonic.] ANNE. Yes. You were extravagant with flowers, Harold. Of course I love them, but I had to scold you about spend- ing so much money. HAROLD. Spending so much money? And what did I say when you scolded me? ANNE [taken aback only for a moment by his changed attitude]. You sent me a bigger bunch than ever before and wait a minute here's the card you put in it. [She goes to the same fatal desk and produces a package of florists' cards.] HAROLD. Are all those my cards too? ANNE. Yes. HAROLD [laughing a bit wildly]. I'm afraid I was a bit extravagant! ANNE. Here's the one! You wrote: " If all that I have, and all that I am, is too little to lay before you, how can these poor flowers be much? " HAROLD. I wrote that? Very pretty very. I'd forgotten I had any such knack at sentiments. ANNE. And then, right away, you sent me the ring. HAROLD [ jumps, startled out of his sar- donic pose]. Ring! What ring? ANNE. My engagement ring. You really were very extravagant that time, Harold. HAROLD [looking fearfully at her hands]. But I don't see ... You're not wearing . . ,? ANNE. Not there here, next to my heart. [She takes out a ring which hangs on a chain inside her frock and presses it to her lips. Looking at him deeply.] I adore sapphires, Harold. [A new fear comes into Harold's eyes. He begins to humor her.] HAROLD. Yes. Yes. Of course. Every- one likes sapphires, Anne. It is a beauty. Yes. [He comes very close to her, and speaks very gently, as if to a child.] You haven't shown your ring to any one, have you, Anne? ANNE. Only to a few people One or two. HAROLD. A few people ! Good heavens ! [Then he controls himself, takes her hands gently in his, and continues speaking, as if to a child.] Sit down, Anne; we must talk this over a little, very quietly, you understand, very quietly. Now to begin with, when did you first ANNE [breaks away from him with a little laugh]. No, I'm not crazy. Don't be worried. I'm perfectly sane. I had to tell you all this to show how serious it was. Now you know. What are you going to do? HAROLD. Do? [He slowly straightens up as if the knowledge of her sanity had relieved him of a heavy load.] I'm going to take the next train back to New York. ANNE. And leave me to get out of this before people all alone? HAROLD. You got into it without my assistance, didn't you? Great Scott, you forged those letters in cold blood ANNE. Not in cold blood, Harold. Remember, I cared. HAROLD. I don't believe it. [Accus- ingly.] You enjoyed writing those let- ters! ANNE. Of course I enjoyed it. It meant thinking of you, talking of HAROLD. Rot! Not of me, really. You didn't think I am really the sort of person who could write that that drivel ! ANNE [hurt]. Oh, I don't know. After a while I suppose you and my dream got confused. HAROLD. But it was the rankest ANNE. Oh, I'm not so different from other girls. We're all like that. [Re- peating Ruth's phrase reminiscently.] We must have some one to dream about to talk about. I suppose it's because we haven't enough to do. And then we don't have any any real adventures like shop girls. HAROLD [surprised at this bit of real- ity]. That's a funny thing to say! ANNE. Well, it's true. I know I went ENTER THE HERO rather far. After I got started I couldn't stop. I didn't want to, either. It took hold of me. So I went on and on and let people think whatever they wanted. But if you go now and people find out what I've done, they'll think I'm really mad or something worse. Life will be impossible for me here, don't you see impossible. [Harold is silent.] But if you stay, it will be so easy. Just a day or two. Then you will have to go to India. Is that much to ask? [Acting.] And you save me from disgrace, from ruin ! [Harold remains silent, troubled.] ANNE [becoming impassioned]. You must help me. You must. After I've been so frank with you, you can't go back on me now. I've never in my life talked to any one like this so openly. You can't go back on me! If you leave me here to be laughed at, mocked at by every one, I don't know what I shall do. I shan't be responsible. If you have any kindness, any chivalry . . . Oh, for God's sake, Harold, help me, help me! [Kneels at his feet.] HAROLD. I don't know . . . I'm hor- ribly muddled . . . All right, I'll stay! ANNE. Good ! Good ! Oh, you are fine ! I knew you would be. Now every- thing will be so simple. [The vista opens before her.] We will be very quiet here for a couple of days. We won't see many people, for of course it isn't announced. And then you will go ... and I will write you a letter . . . HAROLD [disagreeably struck by the phrase]. Write me a letter? What for? ANNE [ingenuously]. Telling you that I have been mistaken. Releasing you from the engagement . . . and you will write me an answer . . . sad but manly . . . reluctantly accepting my decision HAROLD. Oh, I am to write an answer, sad but manly Good God! Suppose you don't release me after all. ANNE. Don't be silly, Harold. I promise. Can't you trust me? HAROLD. Trust you? [His eyes travel quickly from the table Uttered with let- ters and dispatches to the flowers that ornament the room, back to the table and finally to the ring that now hangs con- spicuously on her breast. She follows the look and instinctively puts her hand to the ring.] Trust you? By Jove, no, I don't trust you ! This is absurd, I don't stay another moment. Say what you will to people. I'm off. This is final. ANNE [who has stepped to the win- dow]. You can't go now. I hear Mother and Ruth coining. HAROLD. All the more reason. [He finds his hat.] I bolt. ANNE [blocking the door]. You can't go, Harold! Don't corner me. I'll fight like a wildcat if you do. HAROLD. Fight? ANNE. Yes. A pretty figure you'll cut if you bolt now. They'll think you a cad an out and out cad ! Haven't they seen your letters come week by week, and your presents? And you have written to Mother, too I have your letter. There won't be anything bad enough to say about you. They'll say you jilted me for that English girl in Brazil. It will be true, too. And it will get about. She'll hear of it, I'll see to that and then HAROLD. But it's a complete lie! I can explain ANNE. You'll have a hard time ex- plaining your letters and your presents and your ring. There's a deal of evi- dence against you HAROLD. See here, are you trying to blackmail me? Oh, this is too ridicu- lous! ANNE. They're coming! I hear them on the stairs ! What are you going to tell them? HAROLD. The truth. I must get clear of all this. I tell you ANNE [suddenly clinging to him]. No, no, Harold ! Forgive me, I was just test- ing you. I will get you out of this. Leave it to me. HAROLD [struggling with her]. No, I won't leave anything to you, ever. ANNE [still clinging tightly]. Harold, remember I am a woman and I love you. [This brings him up short a moment to wonder, and in this moment there is a knock at the door.] ANNE [abandoning Harold]. Come in. [There is a discreet pause.] MRS. CAREY'S VOICE [off" stage]. May we come in? ANNE [angrily]. Yes! 392 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS [Harold, who has moved toward the door, meets Mrs. Carey at she enters. She throws her arms about his neck and kisses him warmly. She is followed by Ruth.] MRS. CAREY. Harold! My door boy! RUTH [clutching his arm]. Hello, Harold. I am so glad. [Harold, temporarily overwhelmed by the onslaught of the two women, is about to speak, when Anne in- terrupts dramatically.] ANNE. Wait a moment, Mother. Be- fore you say anything more I must tell you that Harold and I are no longer engaged ! [Mrs. Carey and Ruth draw away from Harold in horror-struck sur- prise.] MRS. CAREY. No longer engaged? Why . . . What . . .? HAROLD. Really, Mrs. Carey, I ANNE [interrupts, going to her mother]. Mother, dear, be patient with me, trust me, I beg of you and please, please don't ask me any questions. Har- old and I have had a very hard a very painful hour together. I don't think I can stand any more. [She is visibly very much exhausted, gasping for breath.] MRS. CAREY. Oh, my poor child, what is it? What has he done? [She supports Anne on one side while Ruth hurries to the other.] HAROLD. Really, Mrs. Carey, I think I can explain. ANNE. No, Harold, there's no use try- ing to explain. There are some things a woman feels, about which she cannot reason. I know I am doing right. HAROLD [desperately]. Mrs. Carey, I assure you ANNE [as if on Ihe verge of a nervous crisis]. Oh, please, please, Harold, don't protest any more. I am not blaming you. Understand, Mother, I am not blaming him. But my decision is irre- vocable. I thought you understood. I beg you to go away. You have just time to catch the afternoon express. HAROLD. Nonsense, Anne, you must let me ANNE [wildly]. No, no, Harold, it is finished! Don't you understand? Fin- ished ! [She abandons the support of her mother and Ruth and goes to the table.] See, here are your letters. I am going to burn them. [She throws Ihe packet, into the fire.} All your letters [She throws the dispatches into the fire.] Don't, please, continue this unendurable situation any longer. Go, I beg of you, go! [She is almost hysterical.] HAROLD. But I tell you I must ANNE [falling back in her mother's arms]. Make him go, Mother! Make him go! MRS. CAREY. Yes, go ! Go, sir ! Don't you see you are torturing the child. I insist upon your going. RUTH. Yes, she is in a dreadful state. [Here Mrs. Carey and Ruth fall into simultaneous uryings.] HAROLD [who has tried in vain to make himself heard]. All right, I'm going, I give up ! [He seizes his hat and rushes out, banging the door behind him. Anne breaks away from her mother and sister, totters rapidly to the door and calls down gently.] ANNE. Not in anger, I beg of you, Harold! I am not blaming you. Good- by. [The street door is heard to bang. Anne collapses in approved trag- edy style.] ANNE \gasping]. Get some water, Ruth. I shall be all right in a moment. [Ruth rushes into the bedroom.] MRS. CAREY. Oh, my dear child, calm yourself. Mother is here, dear. She will take care of you. Tell me, dear, tell me. [Ruth returns with the water. Annf sips a little.] ANNE. I will, Mother I will . . . everything . . . later. [She drinks.] But now I must be alone. Please, dear, go away ... for a little while. I must be alone [Rising and moving to the fire.] with the ruin of my dreams. [She puts her arms on the chimney shelf and drops her head on them.] RUTH. Come, Mother! Come away! MRS. CAREY. Yes, I am coming. We shnll be in the next room, Annie, when you want us. Right here. ANNE [a* they go out, raises her head and murmur*]. Dust a-?>d ashes! Dust and ashes! ENTER THE HERO 393 [As soon as they have gone, Anne straightens up slowly. She pulls herself together after the physical strain of her acting. Then she looks at the watch on her wrist and sighs a long triumphant sigh. Her eye falls on the desk and she sees the package of florists' cards still there. She picks them up, re- turns with them to the fire and is about to throw them in, when her eye is caught by the writing on one. She takes it out and reads it. Then she takes another and another. She stops and looks away dream- ily. Then slowly, she moves back to the desk, drops the cards into a drawer and locks it. She sits brooding at the desk and the open paper before her seems to fascinate her. As if in a dream she picks up a pencil. A creative look comes into her eyes. Resting her chin on her left arm, she begins slowly to write, murmuring to herself.} ANNE [reading as she writes], " Anne, my dearest ... I am on the train . . . broken, shattered . . . Why have you done this to me ... why have you dark- ened the sun . . . and put out the stars . . . put out the stars? . . . Give me an- other chance, Anne ... I will make good ... I promise you . . . For God's sake, Anne, don't shut me out of your life ut- terly ... I cannot bear it ... I ..." [The Curtain has fallen slowly as she writes.] THE SHEPHERD IN THE DISTANCE A PANTOMIME BY HOLLAND HUDSON Copyright, 1920, by Frank Shay. All rights reserved. THE SHEPHERD IN THE DISTANCE was first produced by the Washington Square Players, at the Bandbox Theatre, New York City, on the night of March 26, 1915, with the following cast: THE PRINCESS .............................. Frances Paine. THE ATTENDANT ........................... Beatrice Savelli. THE SHEPHERD ............................. Robert Locker. THE WAZIR ................................ Arvid Paulson. THE VIZIER ................................ John Alan Houghton. GHUHRI-WURRI [the Beggar} ............... Harry Day. THE GOAT ................................. E. J. Ballantine. SLAVES OF THE PRINCESS ........ \' '.'.'.'.'.'.'. THE MAKER OF SOUNDS .................... Robert Edwards. Produced under the direction of William Pennington. Scenes and costumes designed by Robert Locker. PROGRAM THE PERSONS: THE PRINCESS. THE ATTENDANT. THE SLAVES. THE WAZIR [her guardian]. THE VIZIER. THE NUBIAN. THE SHEPHERD. THE GOAT. GHUHRI-WUHRI. THE MAKER OF SOUNDS. THE SHEPHERD IN THE DISTANCE is published for the first time. The editors are indebted to Mr. Holland Hudson for permission to include it in this volume. The professional and amateur stage rights on this pantomime are strictly reserved by the author. Applications for permission to produce the pantomime should be made to Frank Shay, Care Stewart & Kidd Company, Cincinnati, Ohio. THE ACTION: I. The Princess beholds The Shepherd in the Distance and goes in quest of him. II. Ghurri-Wurri, enraged by the Princess' meager alms, swears vengeance. III. He reveals her destination to the Wazir. IV. Pursuit ensues. V. The Princess meets The Shepherd in the Distance. Her capture is averted by the faithful Goat. VI. The Goat's long head evolves a means of rescuing The Shepherd from the cruel Wazir. VII. The Princess joins The Shepherd in the Distance. THE STORY.i. Of the Princess, we know only that she was fair and slender as the lily, that some- how the fat and stupid Wazir became her guardian, and that he neglected her utterly and played chess eternally in the garden with his almost-equally-stupid Vizier. Is it any wonder she was bored? One afternoon the Princess called for her ivory telescope, and, placing it to her eye, sought relief from the deadly ennui which her guardian caused. In the Distance she discerned a Shepherd, playing upon his pipe for the dancing of his favorite Goat. While he played the Princess marveled at his comeliness. She had never seen before a man so pleasing in face and person. At the end of his tune it seemed to her that the Shepherd turned and beckoned to her. She dared watch him no longer, lest her guardian observe her. When the Wazir, the Vizier and the Nubian were deep in their afternoon siesta, the Princess stole out of the garden with her personal retinue and her small, but precious hope chests, and set forth toward the Distance. Now on the highway between the foreground and the Distance lived a wretched and worthless beggar who had even lost his name and was called Ghurri-Wurri because he looked absolutely as miserable as that. He pretended to be blind and wore dark spectacles. The greatest affliction of his life was that his dark spectacles prevented him from inspecting the coins that fell in his palm, and he received more than his share of leaden counterfeits. When Ghurri-Wurri observed the approach of the Princess and her retinue he reasoned from the richness of their attire that alms would be plentiful and large and he fawned and groveled before them. The Princess was generous, but she was also in haste, so bade her attendant give him the first coin that came to hand, and hurried on. Ghurri-Wurri's rage knew no bounds. He wept, he stamped, he shook his fists, he railed, and he cursed. Then, perceiving the Princess' destination, he made haste to notify her guardian. The Wazir would not believe him at first and the beggar would have lost his head if he had not happened on the Princess' telescope and placed it in the Wazir's hand. Gazing toward the Distance, the Wazir saw the Princess and her retinue nearing their destination. He lost his temper and did all of the undignified things which Ghurri-Wurri had done. Then, with the Vizier and the Nubian, he set forth in pursuit, forcing the reluctant Ghurri-Wurri to guide them. They ran like the wind, 1 A synopsis for readers only. FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS till the beggar gasped and staggered, only to be jerked to his feet and forced on by the implacable Vizier, who was cruel as well as stupid. Meanwhile the Princess arrived in the Distance. The Shepherd, who was as wise as he was comely, had proper regard for her rank and danced in her honor to his own piping. They had scarcely spoken to each other when the faithful Goat warned them of the furious approach of the raging Wazir. The Goat carried the Princess to a place of safety on his back while the Shepherd stayed to delay her pursuers. Of the Nubian he made short work indeed, but the Vizier overcame him with his great scimiter and they led him captive to the garden, leaving Ghurri-Wurri cursing on the sands. Arrived at the garden, the Wazir ordered the Shepherd bound in chains and went on with his chess game. The Shepherd, in a gesture of despair, came upon the Princess' telescope and, seeking some ray of hope, gazed into the Distance. Here he saw the Princess and his faithful Goat, who, he perceived, had invented a plan for his deliverance. Soon the Princess returned to the garden, disguised as a wandering dancer. She danced before the Wazir and pleased him so much that he bade her come nearer. She did so, and bound the Vizier's arms with a scarf, which so amused the Wazir that he laughed loud and long. Then she bound the Wazir's arms in the same manner and it was the Vizier's turn to laugh. Into their laughing mouths she thrust two poisoned pills so that in another instant they fell over, quite dead, amongst the chessmen. The omnivorous Goat delivered the Shepherd from his chains with his strong teeth and they all returned to the Distance, where they still dwell in more-than-perfect bliss and may be discerned through an ivory telescope any fine afternoon. CONCERNING THE SCENERY. In the original production by The Washington Square Players, THE SHEPHERD IN THE DISTANCE was played in front of backgrounds of black velvet. The garden scene consisted of a black velvet drop about half-way between the curtain and back- wall, upon which a decorative white design merely suggesting the garden and its gate was appliqued. This drop was made in three sections, the middle one hung on a separate set of lines so that it could be raised to show the "Distance" (as seen through the telescope) without disturbing the rest of the scene. The " Distance " consisted of a velvet drop hung slightly behind the middle section of the garden scene, on the middle of which two large, white concentric circles were appliqued around a circular opening about five feet in diameter. The bottom of the opening was about eighteen inches above the stage. Behind this stood a platform just large enough to hold four characters at one time. Black masking drapes were provided at both sides of the stage and behind the platform. The Prologue, Scenes II, IV, V, the first part of Scene VII and the Epilogue were all played before a plain velvet drop hung a few feet upstage of the curtain line. THE SHEPHERD IN THE DISTANCE has also been produced in colors very effectively by the Hollywood Community Theatre, at Hollywood, California. There is no reason why any highly decorative treatment of scenery and costuming will not enhance the production if it be well planned and consistent throughout. IMPORTANT PROPERTIES. The properties consist principally of a small chess table with most of the chessmen glued on, two stools, a telescope, a balloon and papier mach6 chain which are employed as a ball and chain, a very large Chinese crash cymbal for the stage manager's use, and such personal properties as occur in the text. THE SHEPHERD IN THE DISTANCE 399 COSTUMES AND MAKE-UP. Whatever scheme is selected for the scenery, the costumes and make-up should be consistent with it. In the original production, all of the characters but the Nubian were made up completely with clown white or " Plexo," the eyebrows and eyes out- lined in black and mouths rouged but slightly. No unwhitened flesh was visible at all. The Princess wore a white satin pseudo-Oriental costume with stiff ruffs at the collar, wrists and knees, the trousers not gathered at the ankles, a flat close-fitting turban with a number of ornaments and a hanging veil, and white slippers. In the dance in Scene VI she used a long black gauze scarf and a white one. Her attendant wore a similar costume of cheaper material, an unornamented turban and black slippers. Her slaves were also similarly garbed, in cotton, but with bulkier turbans, and baggy trousers, gathered at the ankles. The Wazir, armed with a preposterous " corporation," wore baggy white trousers, gathered at the ankles, a sleeveless vest with wide, horizontal black-and-white stripes, a white cloak hanging from his shoulders which terminated in a large black tassel, a turban, a beard made of several lengths of black portiere cord sewed to white gauze, and white pointed shoes. His bare arms were whitened, his eyebrows were short, thick and high up on his forehead, and he carried a black snuff-box. The Vizier's white trousers were not so full as the Wazir's ; his tight white vest had tight white sleeves; his cloak was shorter and without a tassel. His white turban, however, was decorated with antennae of white milliner's wire. He affected high arching eyebrows, a long pointed nose, a drooping mustache, a disdainful mouth, carried a white wooden scimiter about four feet long with a black handle and wore bells on his pointed white shoes. The Nubian wore black tights and shirt, black slippers and a white skull cap and breech-clout. The rest of him, excepting his eyes and mouth, which were whitened, was a symphony in burnt cork. The Shepherd wore white, knee-length trunks, frayed at the ends, a little drapery about the upper man, slippers and a cap. His body was whitened profusely and he carried a tiny flute. The Goat wore a white furry skin, horns, and foot and hand coverings resembling hoofs. His make-up approached the animal's face as nearly as possible. Ghurri-Wurri wore tattered white baggy trousers, vest and cloak, a turban and black goggles. The Maker of Sounds was garbed in an all-enveloping white burnous and a white skull cap. A FEW STAGE DIRECTIONS. Left and right, in this text, refer to the actor's, not the spectator's, point of view. The action of the piece is meant to be two-dimensional; the actors are to perform in profile as far as possible; except when registry of facial expression is important the action should be parallel with the back drop. The entire action must be rhythmical and the rhythms should be used as definite themes, one for the Princess and her retinue, another for the Wazir, etc. The per- formance should be extremely rapid and must never drag. The cast should direct special attention to the comic features, and the director to the pictorial elements of the piece. The director may consider the performance as an animated poster which moves rapidly from design to design. THE SHEPHERD IN THE DISTANCE A PANTOMIME BY HOLLAND HUDSON PROLOGUE. [The curtain rises on a plain drop curtain. The Maker of Sounds enter t with hit arms full of instruments, crosses the scene and sits with his back against one side of the proscenium, outside the curtain line. He tries out all his instruments, wind, string, percussion and " traps." He yawns. He becomes impatient and raps on the stage.] Cymbal Crash The lights go out The drop is lifted in the darkness Cymbal Crash The lights are turned on SCENE I. [The Wazir's garden. Discovered left to right, the Nubian, standing with folded arms, the Vizier, seated at the chess table, playing with the Wazir. At the other side of the stage, the Princess, her attendant, her two slaves. All stand motionless until set in action by the Maker of Sounds.] The Music Tap on Chinese H ood block Tap Tap Tap Tap Tap Tap Tap Tap Tap Sand blocks Drum crash Drum crash No sound Tap Tap Bell Tap Tap Tap The Pantomime, etc. Nubian unfolds his arms He salaams Resumes original pose Vizier moves a chessman Wazir moves a chessman Vizier moves a chessman Wazir picks up snuff -pox Opens it Offers Vizier snuff Vizier takes a pinch Sniffs it Vizier sneezes Sneezes again Sneezes again Nubian sneezes synchronously with Vizier's paroxysms Vizier returns snuff-box Wazir puts it away Princess yawns Signals her attendant Attendant picks up telescope Hands it to Princess 400 THE SHEPHERD IN THE DISTANCE 401 The Music Wind instrument Stringed instrument Tap Tap Tap Tap Bass chord on stringed instrument Treble chord Drum crash Drum crash Tap on wood block Bass chord Bass chord Bass chord Bass chord Bass chord Bass chord Treble chord Bass chord Cymbal crash Cymbal crash The Pantomime, etc. Princess uses telescope [The middle portion of the back drop is lifted to show the " Distance in which the Shepherd is discovered piping for the Goat's dancing.] The Shepherd sees the Princess, stops piping, and declares his adoration across the distance. He beckons her to join him. Princess promises to do so. [The lifted portion of the drop is lowered again. The "Distance" vanishes.] Princess signals to her retinue Attendant relays the signal Slaves stoop. Lift the hope chests to their shoulders Princess and retinue take one step downstage All lean forward, watching Wazir Wazir and Vizier stand up They glare at Princess They sit Vizier yawns Wazir yawns Nubian yawns Vizier nods Wazir nods Nubian drops on one knee Princess and retinue lean forward They take one step [A continuation of this business takes them off at the left] The lights go out [In the darkness. Princess and retinue cross to right of stage, ready for Scene II] The plain drop is lowered The lights come up Tambourine jingles Tap on piece of crockery Sand blocks Tap crockery Begins the Princess rhythms on Chinese wood block [Telegraphically ex- pressed it is Musically, accented triplets, common time, presto] Princess rhythm con- tinues Drum crash SCENE II. Ghurri-Wurrt discovered above at center, with his dark glasses pushed up on his forehead, counting his money. He finds a bad coin Bites it Throws it away Hears the Princess and retinue approaching He pulls glasses over his eyes He grovels Princess and retinue enter from the right They pass by Ghurri-Wurri without pause Ghurri-Wurri runs ahead and prostrates himself before the Princess 4O2 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS The Music Tap Tap Tap Tap Tap, Tap, Tap Tap Tap on crockery Princess rhythm Begin drum roll pp. cresc. to ff. Cymbal crash Cymbal crash The Pantomime, etc. Princess' retinue halts Princess signals to attendant Attendant signals to nearest slave Slave proffers chest Attendant opens it, takes coin, closes it Gives coin to Princess Princess drops coin in beggar's hand Princess and retinue exit at the left Ohurri-Wurri looks at coin, scrambles to his feet, looks after Princess, shakes his fists, starts to the right, turns, shakes his fist again, exits at right, raging Lights out In the darkness Ghurri-Wurri crosses to left of stage, ready for Scene III The drop is lifted Lights up Bass chords Tap on drum Tap on drum Bass chord Tap on drum Bass chord Drum crash Drum crash Drum roll Wood-block tap Sand blocks Tap Tap Tap, tap Tap Tap Princess rhythm Tap Drum crash Drum roll Tap Tap Tap Wazir rhythm on wood- drum. [Telegraphic- ally stated etc. Musically, accented eighth notes in 2/4 time, presto] Cymbal crash Cymbal crash SCENE III. [The Wazir's Garden as in Scene I] Wazir, Vizier and Nubian asleep as before Ghurri-Wurri enters at the left Prostrates himself before Wazir Wazir and court sleep on Ghurri-Wurri again prostrates himself The Court sleeps on Ghurri-Wurri slams himself down hard Wazir, Vivier, Nubian awake Wazir shakes his fist at the beggar Signals Vizier Vizier runs thumb along his scimiter blade Ghurri-Wurri retreats to the right He stumbles over the telescope He picks it up and hands it to the Wazir Ghurri-Wurri points to the "Distance." The Wazir uses the telescope The " Distance " is revealed as in Scene I Princess and retinue are seen traveling [across the platform from right to left] The Wazir lowers the telescope The " Distance " vanishes as in Scene I Wazir stamps his foot He shakes his fists, first at the distance, then off left Points at Ghurri-Wurri Vizier seizes Ghurri-Wurri by the scruff of the neck Vizier points off left with his scimiter The Court and Ghurri-Wurri begin to run, Nubian first, then Ghurri-Wurri, then Vizier, then Wazir. The run- ning is entirely vertical in movement, no ground being covered at all. Lights out [In the darkness, the runners move downstage without losing step. A plain drop is lowered behind them] Lights on THE SHEPHERD IN THE DISTANCE 403 The Music Wazir rhythm, cendo mento and cres- accelera- Cymbal crash Cymbal crash SCENE IV. The Pantomime, etc. The runners increase their speed throughout the scene Ghurri-Wurri slips to his knees, Vizier, without losing a step, jerks him back on his feet Ghurri-Wurri, pointing left, resumes running Wazir points left When the runners have reached their maximum speed The lights go out In the darkness the Wazir's court and Ghurri-Wurri exit and take their places at the right ready for Scene V The Shepherd and Goat take their places Lights up Wind instrument Begin Princess rhythm Tap Tap Stringed instrument Drum roll pp. crescendo Princess rhythm Tap Wazir rhythm Tap Tap Tap Drum roll Drum crash Drum roll Crescendo to Drum crash Drum roll Drum roll Tap Tap Tap Tap SCENE V. [A plain drop] The Shepherd is discovered well to the left, piping for the Goat Goat is dancing Goat stops to listen, looks off to the right Shepherd looks to the right Goat crosses to extreme right, bows Princess and retinue enter They halt The Shepherd kneels to the Princess, then dances for her The Goat becomes alarmed All turn and look to the right Goat, on all fours, offers his back to the Princess Shepherd induces Princess to sit on Goat's back Goat exits, followed by Princess and retinue Shepherd folds his arms Wazir's Court and Ghurri-Wurri enter from the right They halt Wazir points to Shepherd Vizier brandishes his scimiter Nubian approaches Shepherd Nubian falls Wazir shakes his fists Points at Shepherd Vizier attacks Shepherd with scimiter Shepherd grasps scimiter They struggle, conventionally, one, two, three, four, five, six The Shepherd falls The Vizier waves his scimiter aloft Wazir exults Nubian rises Wazir points to the right Vizier points at Shepherd with scimiter Nubian seizes the Shepherd 404 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS The Music Wazir rhythm Drum crash Drum roll Drum roll Drum roll Cymbal crash Cymbal crash Wazir rhythm Tap Tap Drum crash Tap Wazir rhythm, fast Wazir rhythm, slow Drum crash Clank, clank Tap Tap Wazir rhythm Tap Tap Tap Tap Stringed music Tap Tap Stringed music Chords, agitato The Pantomime, etc. Wazir't Court and Shepherd exit at the right, ignoring Ghurri-Wurri, Nubian and Shepherd first, then Vizier, then Wazir. [All cross behind the drop to left of stage ready for Scene VI] Ghurri-Wurri stamps his foot Shakes his fists after them Runs to left and shakes his fists at the Princess Runs to right and shakes them at the Wazir Runs to center and shakes them at the audience Lights out Ghurri-Wurri exits The drop is raised Lights on SCENE VI. [The Wazir's garden. No characters on scene] Nubian enters from left, holding the Shepherd The Wazir and Vizier follow Wazir takes his seat, smirking Wazir orders Shepherd thrown down at the right Nubian complies Vizier orders Nubian off right Nubian hurries out Reenters, staggering under a ball and chain [the chain of papier mach and the ball a balloon] Drops these beside the Shepherd Rivets chain to Shepherd's leg Rises Vizier orders Nubian off, left Nubian exits left Vizier sits Wazir moves a chessman Vizier moves a chessman Shepherd, in a gesture of despair, finds the telescope He looks into the " Distance " [The "Distance" is shown as in Scene I] Princess and Goat discovered in conference. Goat has an idea. He points to the Shepherd, then to the Wazir, then to the Princess and executes an ancient dance movement which is contemporaneously described as the " shimmy " The Princess claps her hands and exits, followed by the Goat Shepherd lowers the telescope [The "Distance" vanishes] Shepherd is puzzled Princess enters from the left, veiled and carrying a scarf in her hands Goat enters with her, goes at once to the Shepherd Princess poses at center Wazir and Vizier turn, smirking Princess dances Wazir leers and strokes his beard Princess ends dance beside Vizier She ties his arms with her scarf THE SHEPHERD IN THE DISTANCE 405 The Music Sand blocks Chords Sand blocks Princess rhythm wood drum Tap Tap Princess rhythm Sand blocks Drum crash Tap Tap Tap Drum crash Tap String music Cymbal crash Cymbal crash The Pantomime, etc. Wazir is convulsed with laughter Princess binds Wazir's arms with her veil Vizier is convulsed with laughter The Attendant enters from the left with a box on which a skull and cross-bones are conspicuous Princess takes two pills from the box She pops them into her prisoners' open mouths The Attendant exits as she came Wazir and Vizier swallow vigorously They lay their heads upon the chess table and die Princess beckons to the Shepherd Shepherd points to his fetters Goat attacks the ball and chain He "bites" the ball [bursts the balloon] He " bites " the chain. Princess, Shepherd and Goat dance in a circle Lights out Princess and Shepherd and Goat ready at left for next scene The drop is lowered Lights up String music Cymbal crash Cymbal crash String music Cymbal crash Cymbal crash SCENE VII. Princess and Shepherd dance across followed by the Goat, who is playing on the Shepherd's pipe Princess and Shepherd, behind the drop take their places on the platform Lights out [The drop is lifted] Lights on [The Wazir's garden with the middle section of the drop lifted to show the "Distance"] Shepherd and Princess discovered in the " Distance " posed in a kiss Lights out [The drop is lowered] Lights on The Maker of Sounds rises, yawns cavernously, bows very slightly and exits [Curtain.] BOCCACCIO'S UNTOLD TALE A PLAY BY HAEEY KEMP Copyright, 1920, by Stewart & Kidd Co. All rights reserved. PERSONS OF THE DRAMA. FLORIO [a poet], OLIVIA [Florio's mistress]. VIOLANTE [a Florentine noblewoman], LIZZIA [Florio's serving-woman]. DIONEO [a member of Boccaccio's party], ONE VOICE. ANOTHER VOICE. VARIOUS PROCESSIONS BEARING THE DEAD. TIME: The year of the Great Plague, A. D. 1348, PLACE: Florence. Published by permission of and special arrangement with Harry Kemp. Applica- tions for the right of performing BOCCACCIO'S UNTOLD TALE must be made to Mr. Harry Kemp, in care of Brentano's, New York. BOCCACCIO'S UNTOLD TALE A PLAY [SCENE: A lower room in Florio's house. It is wide and simply furnished. In the center, at back, is a large door- way, hung with great black arras. In the right-hand extreme corner is a small altar to the Virgin. In wall, at back, high up on left, a small window. A smaller doorway, hung with arras of black, is on the left, well toward the front. This doorway gives on the study of the poet. At rise of curtain the stage is lit with the uncertain light of tapers. Lizzia, the old servant, is discovered kneeling at the altar. Soon she rises, crossing herself de- voutly. Demurringly and with deprecating shakes of the head, she begins hanging wreaths about the walls of the room. After the hanging of each wreath she crosses herself, and, with agitated piety verging on superstition, she bends the knee briefly before altar. Now the wreaths are all in place. . . . Through the small window the grayness that comes before dawn begins to glim- mer in. One by one Lizzia snuffs out the tapers. For a moment everything is left in the gray half-darkness. But now Lizzia draws aside the large black arras in the back. There is re- vealed a magnificent panoramic view of medieval Florence, flushing gradually from pearl-gray to soft, delicate rose, then to the full gold of accomplished sunrise. Again the old woman kneels at the altar. Enter, through the open doorway at back, Violante rather tall, good-look- ing, quite dark. BY HARRY KEMP Violante stands silent for a moment. One can see that it is in her thought to wait till Lizzia finishes her devotions . . . then she becomes impatient and breaks in on them.] VIOLANTE Lizzia, where bides your master, Florio? I sped a servant hither yesterday, To bid him come to me, and now, this morning, I come myself. LIZZIA For three days he has looked upon no one. Even I, who wait upon him, have not seen him. VIOLANTE Where keeps he, then? LIZZIA [indicating the small doorway]. Yonder, within that arras. VIOLANTE Summon him forth ! Say the Lady Violante waits his pres- ence. LIZZIA He will grow wroth with me nor will he greet you. VIOLANTE Fears he, then, the Plague so? Is he too such As dare not walk abroad nor breathe the air Lest he should drink infection? LIZZIA Not so, Lady, but he VIOLANTE Tell him, then, Our friend Boccaccio, the story-teller, 409 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS Has shaped a brave device against the Plague. . . . Before the sun climbs higher into day And the night's Dead are heaped up in the streets For buriers and priests to draw away, A group of goodly ladies and gentle- men Go forth to a sequestered country place Remote from Florence and invisible Death. There, in green gardens full of birds and leaves, The blue, cloud-wandering heaven spread above, We shall beguile the time with merri- ment, Music and song and telling of many tales, Trusting that Death, glutted with multi- tudes, Will pass us by. . . . We need but Florio To bring our perfect pleasure to the brim. LIZZIA [obstinately] But he will see no one, Lady, not even you. He is he is VIOLA XTE Not smitten by the Plague? LIZZIA [hesitating] Nay, he has taken a vow of close seclu- sion VIOLANTE [confidently] But he knows not I am here the Lady Violante ! f A pause.] [Impetuously] Go, tell him it is I, Nor take upon yourself such high com- mand! LIZZIA [somewhat resentfully] I am a servant, I only do as he commanded me. . . . [Barring way.] VIOLANTE [distractedly] Strange that he should so change in ten days' space. [ With passionate abandonment] Old woman, go this instant summon him ! I will abide your crabbed ways no longer. LIZZIA [stung to retaliation] Lady, he would not look upon your face If you made him ruler of the world for it. VIOLANTE [flaming] What new freak of his is this? He is as full of moods as any woman. . . . But I had never thought [Determined] I will go to him! Lizzi'a [again barring way\ I could tell you many things, But I would spare you. VIOLA XTE Spare me! ... you insolent, presumptu- ous old woman, What have I, I, the Lady Violante Ugolini, To do with your good master, Florio, Beyond a fostering friendship for his song! Else he were nothing to me. . . . You are presuming on your age and service He shall rebuke you for this. . . . LIZZIA Very well, Lady, if you must know He has sworn that he will look upon no one Till he behold Olivia ! Olivia! VIOLANTE [startled] . who is Olivia? LIZZIA She is a girl who came from Padua Hither, to flee the Plague . . . and fled in vain. He has loved her just ten days . . . since first she came. . . . She came to him, a stranger, singing songs His songs ! VIOLANTE And flattering him so he loved her ! LIZZIA Nay, she was beautiful, my noble lady, Surpassing wonderful. ..." His shin- ing dream Of ivory and gold," he called her. . . . VIOLAXTE [coldly] What has all this to do with me? BOCCACCIO'S UNTOLD TALE 411 [Relapsing into forgetful eagerness.] Tell me, where, then, is his Olivia now? LlZZIA The Plague! He gave her to a doctor's care, Beggaring himself therefor, as one who loves ! VIOLANTE And now he shuts himself away for grief Because she died! . . . But, if she be dead, Wherefore these garlands? Or does he think she will come back, alive? LIZZIA The learned doctor swears if she survives Three days, she shall not die. VIOLANTE Not die, in sooth ! Who is this man who resurrects the Dead? Why, folk whose nerves and sinews sing with life Sicken, fall down, and seethe with death and worms Within an hour, and they, the few who live, Living, curse God because they did not die. . . . He would best think of the Living, and forget The Dead. LIZZIA Half-crazed with love, he dreams she will return. . . . This is the morning after the third day This is the very hour she would return. Suppose the learned doctor keep his word? Hence have I hung these garlands. [The sounds of a funeral procession heard approaching. . . . The pro- cession passes the large doorway, going by, along the street, with- out. The people bear candles. . . . They pass slowly by the open door . . . bodies being carried in shrouds.] OKE VOICE We bore the son . . . and now we bear the father. . ANOTHER VOICE And I or you, mayhap, will be the next. LIZZIA [continuing] These wreaths, they seem a mockery of Heaven. I pray that God will smite me not I do What I am bid ! . . . VIOLANTE [half to herself] She will not come! . . . [To Lizzia] Is there nothing will cure his madness? LIZZIA Even if she die they are to bring her hither. . . . VIOLANTE Hither? And all corrupt? Then Death will strike you both! LIZZIA Lady, I am so old I'd rather sleep Than walk this sinful, weary world; and be He will unshroud her, kiss her lips, and die! VIOLANTE [with great bitterness] Fie, this our Florio he has loved be- fore, And he will love again, and yet again. . . . Women's beauty he loves, not any woman ! LIZZIA What you have said were true ten days ago Do I not know him, Lady? . . . But a change Has come upon him that I marvel at So great a change in such a little while. . . . Ah, looked you on them when they were together, Saw you how he is caught up in her face And all the beauty of her, you would say " Here is a love, at last, that climbs from earth to heaven ! " VIOLANTE [laughing harshly] It is her beauty he loved; not she The thing he loved ! A poet, he ! ... [./ pause.] It were as well you tore these garlands down: If, by a miracle, she should return, The Plague will have marked her with such ugliness 412 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS That even you will shine like Helen of Troy beside her! Much will he care, then, if she sing his songs ! Had she a voice like a garden of night- ingales He could not listen to her without loath- ing. . . . [Sounds of approach of another funeral procession.] VIOLANTE [continuing} Pray draw the arras, Lizzia, and close out The things that they bring by. ... They have begun To move the night's innumerable Dead. [Lizzia draws the large arras. . . . From now on, till the very last, just before climax, sound and mur- mur of processions are continu- ally heard.] VIOLANTE [persistently] I think she will not come But, if she does, she should be spared the cruelty Of his heart's change, And he, her marred, plague-broken face! Stand aside let me pass . . . LIZZIA [barring way again] He took his oath Before that altar, to the most high God ! You shall not break his vow. . . . VIOLA ins Let me go to him h?re are my jewels! FLOHIO [calling from within] Who is it speaks without? Whose voice is this Wrangling and breaking in upon my peace? LIZZIA The Lady Violante Ugolini! FLOHIO To-day, of all days, must I be alone. . . . [Florio pushes out arras from small doorway and stands before it, so that he remains unseen to Violante and Lizzia.] FLORIO [to Lizzia] Go, Lizzia, I will speak with the Lady. . . . Have you the wreaths hung, Lizzia? LIZZIA Aye, master Florio! FLORIO Have you the table heaped with delica- cies In the green space by the fountain- shaken pool? LIZZIA I go to set the viands now, my master. [Lizzia goes out.] FLORIO Violante, if you would speak with me, Stay where you are I cannot look upon you. VIOLAXTE Not look upon me? FLORIO Nor must you look on me. ... I liave vowed a vow! VIOLANTE How strange you are! . . . I had thought to rush into your arms ! . . . Have you forgotten so soon the oaths you took? [She starts toward him.] FLORIO [hearing the rustle of her gar- ment.] Move one step further and I draw the arras ! VIOLANTE [halting and hesitating] Have you forgotten the first time you saw my face And sent a sonnet to me? ... It seems but a day Since you were awed by my nobility. . . . And when I let you press your burning lips Against my hand, you swore it made you God! [Sadly] From that time it was not far to my mouth. . . . And, after that, what with the shining moon, And nightingales beginning in the dusk, And songs and music that you made for me In a little while I was entirely yours ! . . . BOCCACCIO'S UNTOLD TALE FLORID Remember that young nobleman who died For love of you? ... I was your pas- time, merely that! And so I sipped what honey came my way. But why do you come now? Did you not leave me without a word? VIOLANTE My father . . . [Sombrely] My father whom the Pes- tilence has smitten FLOHIO [quickly] You sent me no message. VIOLANTE Every door was watched ... he might have had you slain . . . He bore me off to Rome. . . . FLOBIO You loved me, then? VIOLANTE And did not you love me? FLORIO I could have sworn I did. VIOLANTE O Florio! . . . Where is my pride of rank, my woman's shame. That I should come like this to you ! FLORIO Speak not so, Violante I pray you go ! VIOLANTE You love another, then? FLORIO [ecstatically] I have loved beauty, beauty all my life! VIOLANTE We are not metaphors and pale abstrac- tions, We women . . . nor would we be prized alone For smooth perfections.. . . [Low and intense] Say that you loved a woman Smitten with the Plague, say, further, that she lived One among ten thousand that she came back to you, [The one thing sure] hideous and marred FLORIO You try me sorely! Violante, I pray you, go ! VIOLANTE [persistently] I have come hither To bid you come away with me. FLOHIO It may not be. VIOLANTE [slowly] The other one there is another one ! I pity" her ! FLORIO You need not. VIOLANTE Ah, then, there is another? FLORIO Have you no pride, my Lady Violante? VIOLANTE That I have not, For shameless is the heart tha't loves. FLOHIO Then shamelessly I love Another face, another heart and body, Another soul, unto eternity She is all beauty to me, and all life So shall she be forever ! VIOLANTE Forever ? That is what you swore to me. FLORIO I have not sworn a single oath to her, And yet she made earth heaven in a day, And earth continues heaven. . . . Go, noble Lady! VIOLANTE You have no pity on me? . . . You see How humbly I've become. . . . FLORIO To pity you, Lady, would be cruel to her ! . . . In a month you will be glad. VIOLANTE You have slain me, Florio ! FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS FLORIO Farewell, Violante! [Violante affects to go. But she stops quickly at large door in back and reenters on tiptoe. Florio withdraws to his study again, after listening for a moment.] LIZZIA [reentering] You have not gone, my Lady Violante? VIOLANTE I will not go Till I have looked upon this woman's face! [As she finishes these words, the great black arras in the back is listed and a hooded and veiled woman enters. She stands regard- ing the two other women in si- lence.] VIOLAXTE Ah! LIZZIA The miracle has come to pass! [Crosses herself.] VIOLANTE Do they call you Olivia? Speak, woman ! OLIVIA Yea, I am she but where is Florio? [ Violante straightens, proud and erect, as if she had been struck an invisible blow.] LIZZIA He waits for you within. OLIVIA So he had faith I would not die? LIZZIA He had these garlands hung for your re- turn. He has lived beneath a holy vow, the days You were not here: shut in his room, Yours must be the first face He sees, on his return to light and life. He must have fallen asleep from weari- ness Or he had heard your voice. [To Violante.] Now, Lady Violante, you must go! VIOLAXTE [indignant] How? I must go? LIZZIA You would not stay? VIOLANTE Yea, I would stay to see this love grow dark And shrink to hate. OLIVIA [astonished] And shrink to hate? VIOLAXTE When you remove your veil Behind which ugliness that beggars hell Lies hidden OLIVIA [dazed] Ugliness ? VIOLAXTE Cast by your veil! . . . Well may you shrink from your own hideousness Since the foul plague has withered up your face And seared it till you die. . . . There shines your mirror, wrought of polished brass How many hours you have dallied at it Only the beauty that you once possessed Can tell. You will no longer find a use for it. OLIVIA [recovering herself] I trust I shall! LIZZIA [to Olivia] Alas, dear God! And is it true, Olivia? OLIVIA [to Lizzia] Would he not love me still if it were true? LIZZIA [to Olivia] I am old and wretched and full of woe. I have known life too long. VIOLANTE [to Olivia] He whose one cry is beauty ! How could that be? OLIVIA [almost singing in speech] Then, God be praised, I need not try him thus! For God has wrought two miracles with me: I live, and I am beautiful! VIOLAXTE Unveil your face, then give yourself to sight. BOCCACCIO'S UNTOLD TALE OLIVIA His must be the first eyes that look on me. VIOLANTE Ah, so you trust that you, with fond deceit, May find some magic way to cozen him? LIZZIA [with great emotion] Go, Lady I see darkness in the air, I thrill to some strange horror, yet un- guessed. . . . Go, Lady Violante, I pray you, go ! [Lizzia lifts arras in back for Vio- lante's exit. Violante does not move from where she stands.] VIOLANTE [persistently, to Olivia] Woman it is your beauty that he loved, And that alone . . . just as he loves a flower Or sunset. . . . That gone, lo, his love is gone ! OLIVIA Strange woman, there is evil in your voice ! And yet I know he loves me for myself, Taking my beauty, none the less, in glad- ness Like any transitory gift from God. VIOLANTE And yet you dare not put him to the test? OLIVIA What test? VIOLANTE To make him first believe That you are ugly! OLIVIA I would not toy with such a splendid gift As a man's love. VIOLANTE [mocking] Ah ... in sooth? OLIVIA How strange you look . . . yet stranger is your speech. VIOLA XTE Before you came whom loved he then? OLIVIA I do not think he was like other men. VIOLANTE Like other men he took and tossed aside, Deceived and lied and went from heart to heart Reaping the richness of each woman's soul. OLIVIA Go, lest I strike you! VIOLANTE Poor, fond, believing child Now I would not have you test his love ! OLIVIA [stirred] By all the saints, I'll put him to the test! . . . [As Violante steps closer to her] Nay, I'll not let you look upon my face . . . He must, as I- have vowed, look on it first, Nor will I break that vow [Her vanity conquering] But lift yon mirror And you shall look in it and see me there Reflected! . . . [ Violante lifts mirror so she and Lizzia can see reflection.] OLIVIA [with simplicity] Keep your backs so ! [Unveiling briefly, then drawing veil again.] There! Have I lied? VIOLANTE He always worshiped beauty. . . . You are fair ! OLIVIA Soon will you know our love has mighty wings Outsoaring time into eternity! VIOLANTE I'll have him forth are you ready for the trial? OLIVIA Do you persuade him of my ugli- ness. . . . If he loves me not I shall go forth and die Then life will be far too like death to live! 416 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS LIZZIA [agonized] My little children, you must not do this thing ! Love is too high a gift to play with so. God only has the right to put the heart Of man to trial! VIOLANTE [to Lizzia] Will you be quiet, old woman ! OLIVIA [to Lizzia] I would not hold him if he only loved My beauty, and not me. The test is just. . . . VIOLANTE [to Lizzia] Go you, inform him of her return. . ,. . Bui tell him that that flower which was her fare Is shriveled up and lean as any hag's. LIZZIA Now God forbid I should deceive him so! VIOLAXTE Not even for gold? LIZZIA Have you no fear of God? [A stir is heard within.] VIOLANTE Hush ! . . . I will do it, then. [Going up to small arras over study door, she calls.] Florio! . . . Florio! . . . FLORIO [from within, after a brief space} Who is it calls me? VIOLA KTE It is I, Violante! FLORIO Why have you come again? VIOLANTE I have returned, Florio, In strange times, bearing strange news. FLORIO My soul is full of death I pray you go ! VIOLAXTE It could not be aye, it is passing strange ! She said her name was " Olivia." FLORIO Olivia, ah, she lives! VIOLANTE Then, it is true? You love this shriveled woman? FLORIO Shriveled woman? VIOLANTE Ugly and bent and gray a woman Who says in as few words she is your mistress. FLORIO Has she come? Is she here? . . . Go, Violante Go, leave us two alone ! VIOLANTE She walked as one bewitched in a dream. She seemed to fear. ... I bade her wait without. . . . Florio, could it be true you loved this woman? FLORIO Has all the brightness fallen from her eyes, The glory and the wonder from her face? VIOLANTE She lives! How few have had the plague and lived! FLORIO Alas, woe, woe is me! VIOLANTE [triumphantly, to Olivia] You heard? [To Florio.] Come forth she's at the threshold. FLORIO Bid her wait. Give me space for thought ... a little space . . . This is almost as horrible as her death . . . [Long silence. The women wait. . . . Groaning within. Olivia starts forward to go to Florio.] VIOLANTE [to Olivia] Do you flinch now? I knew you would not dare ! [Olivia stops. Proudly she remains still.] BOCCACCIO'S UNTOLD TALE VIOLANTE [as arras stirs] Now bear your part continue the de- ceit. OLIVIA [in a frightened voice] I know he loves me. Yet a little while And I will draw my veil! [Another groan. Olivia starts for- ward again.] Oh, I cannot! VIOLANTE [mocking] I knew you would not dare ! [Again Olivia stops still. Now, after a long pause, during i which death processions are heard to pass, the arras over the smaller doorway is slowly put aside,. Florio enters, swatting. He holds his cloak about his brow.] FLORIO Where is Olivia? OLIVIA [feigning with an effort] Florio, God pity you and me I had rather died ! . . . FLORIO Oh, speak not so ! OI.IVTA My "beauty clean and golden as the sun," As once you sang it, has become so gross And fearful, that I veil it, broken with shame, From eyes of men. . . . [A pause.] "Tis well you cloak your eyes, For should I drop my veil through which I glance [Another pause.] Shall I go? FLORIO [breathing heavily] No . . . for I love you . . . bide with me . . . [With great effort] . .Though you be foul, Olivia! [As he still stands muffled, Olivia grows more and more frightened at what she is doing, and now, in complete surrender to terror, gives over the deceit and speaks the truth.] OLIVIA Florio, my Florio draw down your No longer need you fear to look on me It was a test, my love, a cruel test! [She draws aside her veil, the other women in back of her, Florio ob- liquely in front. Her face is seen to be one of surpassing loveliness. Florio, groaning, keeps his face cloaked and does not speak.] OLIVIA Look, my beloved, or I shall go mad! [Olivia tugs at his arm. He lowers it. He exposes a sightless face.] LIZZIA [breaking in on the awful pause]. Self-blinded, my poor master ! VIOLA XTE Oh, Florio, what is this thit I have done! [Olivia has dropped slowly back, stricken dumb with voiceless terror. Her throat works convulsively with .a scream which now rushes forth. Florio falls to his knees, again cov- ering his face and bowing his head. Olivia comes and kneels, grief- stricken, beside him, putting one arm about him in support.} OLIVIA [sobbing] There is ... no one . . . that's . . . uglier . . . than I ! FLORIO [convulsively] You were the glory of the world, Olivia! . . . And now . . . your beauty . . . that is . . . dead . . . will always be ... to me . . . The glory of ... the world ! . . . forever and forever ! . . . OLIVIA Oh, if you could but see my ugliness I think there's nothing like it in the world ! O God, why did I not die an hour ago! VIOLAXTE [crazed anew with jealousy] Florio, Florio Olivia lies ! Her beauty floods the very room with light - You are deceived most horribly ! OLIVIA Command that woman hence; She is the source and cause of all our ill 4i8 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS FLORID What does this mean? My soul is sick to death! VlOLAXTE I tell you, Florio, that she lies to you. [To Lizzia.] Tell him the truth, old woman, and be- ware, As you have fear of Hell, belief in God, And hope of Heaven, to perjure not your soul ! LIZZIA [at first frightened and irresolute, then quietly determined.] God help me she is surpassingly ugly ! [Returning Violante glare for glare.] Her ugliness ! [Breaking down, she goes to altar and drops on knees before it.] FLOBIO Go, Violante! VIOLANTE I could curse God for this! [Violante staggers toward the great black curtain in doorway, where she supports herself by clinging to it.] FLORIO Olivia, come back to me from the great Dark All life is but a ghost. Where are you, Olivia? OLIVIA I am here close to you, Florio ! FLORIO What have you women done to me! [To Olivia.] Your face! An evil dream is in my heart ! [He gropes, catches her quickly on each side of the head with both hands. He drazvs her down to him. He runs his fingers fiick- eringly over the smooth, rosy beauty of her face. . . . Then, with an eyeless, uplifted coun- tenance which reveals complete understanding and an abyss of horror and madness, he slowly pushes Olivia away. . . . He lifts his fingers up grotesquely in the air, each distinct and wide- spread painfully, as if fire spurted out of the ends of them. Olivia weeps. . . . Lizzia intones prayers. . . . Violante holds herself erect and tri- umphant, clinging to the great arras in back, struggling for strength to go out. At this moment another death-pro- cession passes. . . . A Miserere is chanted. . . . A dawn of horror breaks over Vio- lante's face . . . she shrinks in- ward from the passing procession, feeling the huge horror of the Pes- tilence. Olivia gathers Florio's unresisting head to her bosom. . . . The sound of the Miserere dies of Into this tableau breaks Dioneo. Slowly he parts the arras.] DIONEO [grimacing, and seeing, at first, only L'izzia at the altar.} Bestir yourself, old woman Where is your master, Florio, And Lady Violante Ugolini? . . . This is no time for lovers' dallying. . . . Tell them that Seignior Boccaccio Sends word through me that we must wait no longer. And, furthermore, he bids me say that [Violante falls in a faint across his feet. Dioneo sees all. Shrinking back.] Merciful God ! . . . [Curtain.] ANOTHER WAY OUT A COMEDY BY LAWEENCE LANGNER Copyright, 1916, by Lawrence Langner. All rights reserved. ANOTHER WAY OUT was originally produced by the Washington Square Players at the Comedy Theatre, New York, on November 13th, 1916, with the following cast: MARGARET MARSHALL Gwladys Wynne. MRS. ABBEY Jean Robb. POMEROY PENDLETON Jose Ruben. BAROXESS DE MEAUVILLE Helen Westley. CHARLES P. K. FENTON Robert Strange TIME: The Present. Produced under the direction of MR. PHILLIP MOELLER. Reprinted from " Plays of the Washington Square Players," published by Frank Shay, by permission of Mr. Lawrence Langner. Applications for permission to per- form ANOTHER WAY OUT must be made to Lawrence Langner, 55 Liberty Street, New York. ANOTHER WAY OUT A COMEDY [SCENE: The studio in Pendleton's apartment. A large room, with sky-light in center wall, doors right and left, table set for breakfast; a vase with red flowers decorates the table. Center back stage, in front of sky-light, modeling stand upon which is placed a rough statuette, cov- ered by cloth. To one side of this is a large screen. The furnishings are many hued, the cushions a flare of color, and the pictures fantastically futuristic. At Rise: Mrs. Abbey, a benevolent look- ing, middle-aged woman, in neat clothes and apron, is arranging some dishes on the table. Margaret, a- very modern young woman, is exercising vigorously. She is decidedly good-looking. Her eyes are direct, her complexion fresh, and her movements free. Her brown hair is " bobbed," and she wears a picturesque Grecian robe.] MRS. ABBEY. Breakfast is ready, ma'am. [Margaret sits at table and helps her- self. Exit Mrs. Abbey, left.] MARGARET [calling]. Pommy dear. Breakfast is on the table. PENDLETON [from without], I'll be there in a moment. [Margaret glances through paper; Pendleton enters, door right. He is tall and thin, and of aesthetic appearance. His long blond hair is brushed loosely over his forehead and he is dressed in a helilrope- colored dressing gown. He lights a cigarette.] MARGARET. I thought you were going to stop smoking before breakfast. PEXDLETON. My dear, I can't possibly stand the taste of tooth paste in my mouth all day. [Pendleton sits at table. Enters Mrs. Abbey with tray. Pendleton BY LAWRENCE LANGNER helps himself, then drops his knife and fork with a clang. Mrs. Abbey and Margaret are startled.] MRS. ABBEY. Anything the matter, sir? PENDLETON. Dear, dear! My break- fast is quite spoiled again. MRS. ABBEY [concerned]. Spoiled, sir? PENDLETOX [pointing to red flowers on breakfast table]. Look at those flowers, Mrs. Abbey. Not only are they quite out of harmony with the color scheme in this room, but they're positively red, and you know I have a perfect horror of red. MRS. ABBEY. But you like them that color sometimes, sir. What am I to do when you're so temperamental about 'em. MARGARET. Temperamental. I should say bad-tempered. MRS. ABBEY [soothingly]. Oh no, ma'am. It isn't bad temper. I under- stand Mr. Pendleton. It's just another bad night he's had, that's what it is. PENDLETON [sarcastically polite], Mrs. Abbey, you appear to have an intimate knowledge of how I pass the nights. It's becoming quite embarrassing. MRS. ABBEY. You mustn't mind an old woman like me, sir. [The sound of a piano hopelessly out of tune, in the apartment upstairs, is heard, the player banging out Mendelssohn's Wedding March with unusual insistence.] PENDLETON. There ! That confounded piano again ! MARGARET. And they always play the Wedding March. There must be an old maid living there. MRS. ABBEY. They're doing that for a reason. MARGARET. What reason? MRS. ABBEY. Their cook tole me yes- 421 422 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS terday that her missus thinks if she keeps on a-playing of the Wedding March, p'raps it'll give you an' Mr. Pendleton the idea of getting married. She don't believe in couples livin' to-gether, like you an' Mr. Pendleton. MARGARET. No? MRS. ABBEY. And I just said you an Mr. Pendleton had been living together so long, it was my opinion you might just as well be married an' done with it. MARGARET [angrily]. Your opinion is quite uncalled for, Mrs. Abbey. PENDLETON. Why shouldn't Mrs. Abbey give us her opinion? It may be valuable. Look at her experiences in matrimony. MBS. ABBEY. In matrimony, and out of it, too. MARGARET [sitting]. But Mrs. Abbey has no right to discuss our affairs with other people's maids. MRS. ABBEY. I'll be glad to quit if I don't suit the mistress. MARGARET [angrily]. There! Mistress again! How often have I asked you not to refer to me as the mistress? MRS. ABBEY. No offense, ma'am. PENDLETON. You'd better see if there's any mail, Mrs. Abbey, and take those flowers away with you. MRS. ABBEY. Very well, sir. [Exit Mrs. Abbey door center.] MARGARET. What an old-fashioned point of view Mrs. Abbey has. [Pendleton takes up paper and com- mences to read.] MARGARET. Pommy, why do you stoop so? PENDLETON. Am I stooping? MARGARET. I'm tired of telling you. You ought to take more exercise. [Pendleton continues to read.] MARGARET. One reason why the Greeks were the greatest of artists was because they cultivated the body as carefully as the mind. PENDLETON. Oh! Hang the Greeks! [Enter Mrs. Abbey right, with let- ters.] MRS. ABBEY. There are your letters, sir. [Coldly.] And these are yours, ma'am. [Exit Mrs. Abbey left.] MARGARET [who has opened her letters meanwhile]. How delightful! Tom Del Valli has asked us to a party at his studio next Friday. PENDLETON [opening his letters]. Both of us? MARGARET [giving him letter]. Yes, and Helen Marsden wants us for Satur- day. PENDLETON. Both of us? MARGARET [picking up another letter]. Yes, and here's one from Bobby Watson for Sunday. PENDLETON. Both of us? MARGARET. Yes. PENDLETON. Really, Margaret, this is becoming exasperating. [Holds up let- ters.] Here are four more, I suppose for both of us. People keep on inviting us out together time after time as though we were the most conventional married couple on God's earth. MARGARET. Do you object to going out with me? PENDLETON [doubtfully]. No, it isn't that. But we're having too much of a good thing. And I've come to the con- clusion that it's your fault. MARGARET [indignantly]. Oh! it's my fault? Of course you'd blame me. Why? PENDLETON. Because you have such an absurd habit of boasting to people of your devotion for me, when we're out. MARGARET. You surely don't expect me to quarrel with you in public? PENDLETON. It isn't necessary to go to that extent. But then everybody be- lieves that we're utterly, almost stupidly in love with one another, what can you expect? MARGARET. You said once you never wanted me to suppress anything. PENDLETON. That was before we began to live together. MARGARET. WTiat could I have done? PENDLETON [up right]. Anything just so we could have a little more freedom instead of being tied to one another the way we are. Never a moment when we're not together, never a day when I'm not interviewed by special article writers from almost every paper and magazine in the country, as the only successful ex- ponent of the theory that love can be so perfect that the marriage contract de- grades it. I put it to you, Margaret, if this is a free union it is simply intoler- able! 423 MARGARET. But aren't we living to- gether so as to have more freedom? Think of what it might be if we were married. Didn't you once write that " When marriage comes in at the door, freedom flies out at the window " ? PENDLETON. Are we any better off, with everybody treating us as though we were living together to prove a prin- ciple? MARGARET. Well, aren't we incidently? You said so yourself. We can be a beau- tiful example to other people, and show them how to lead the pure natural lives of the later Greeks? PENDLETON. Damn the later Greeks! Why do you always throw those con- founded later Greeks in my face? We've got to look at it from our standpoint. This situation must come to an end. MARGARET. What can we do? PENDLETON. It rests with you. MARGARET. With me? PEXDLEION. You can compromise yourself with somebody publicly. That'll put an end to everything. MARGARET. How will that end it? PENDLETON. It'll break down the mor- ally sanctified atmosphere in which we're living. Then perhaps, people will regard us as immoral and treat us like decent human beings again. MARGARET. But I don't want to com- promise myself. PENDLETOX. If you believe in your own ideas, you must. MARGARET. But why should I have to do it? PENDLETON. It will be so easy for you. MARGARET. Why can't we both be com- promised? That would be better still. PENDLETON. I should find it a bore. You, unless my memory fails me, would enjoy it. MARGARET. You needn't be cynical. Even if you don't enjoy it, you can work it into a novel. PEXDLETON. It's less exertion to imag- ine an affair of that sort, and the result would probably be more saleable. Be- sides I have no interest whatsoever in women, at least, in the women we know. MARGARET. For that matter, I don't know any eligible men. PENDLETOK. What about Bob Lock- wood? MARGARET. But he's your best friend! PENDLETOX. Exactly - no man ever really trusts his best friend. He'll prob- ably compromise you without compunc- tion. MARGARET. I'm afraid he'd be too dan- gerous he tells you all his secrets. Whom will you choose? PEXDLETON. It's a matter of complete indifference to me. MARGARET. I've heard a lot of queer stories about Jean Roberts. How would she do? PENDLETON [firmly]. Margaret, I don't mind being party to a flirtation but I draw the line at being the victim of a seduction. MARGARET. W T hy not leave it to chance? Let it be the next interesting woman you meet. PEXDLETON. That might be amusing. But there must be an age limit. And how about you? MARGARET [takes cloth off statuette and discloses figure of Apollo in rough modeling clay}. Me! Why not the new model who is coming to-day to pose for my Apollo? PENDLETOX. Well, if he's anything like that, you ought to be able to create a sensation. Then, perhaps, we shall have some real freedom. MARGARET. Pommy, do you still love me as much as you did? PENDLETOX. How you sentimentalize ! Do you think I'd be willing to enter into a flirtation with a strange woman, if I didn't want to keep on living with you? MARGARET. And we won't have to break up our little home, will we? PENDLETOX. No, anything to save the home. [Catches himself.] My God! If any of my readers should hear me say that! To think that I, Pomeroy Pen- dleton, should be trying to save my own home. And yet, how characteristically paradoxical. MARGARET [interrupting]. You are going to philosophize ! Give me a kiss. [She (joes to him, sits on his lap, and places her arm on his shoulder; he takes out cigarette, she lights it for him. ] PEXDLETOX [brought back to reality]. I have some work to do I must go. MARGARET. A kiss ! 424 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS PENDLETON [kisses her carelessly]. There let me go. MARGARET. I want a real kiss. PENDLETON. Don't be silly, dear, 1 can't play this morning. I've simply got to finish my last chapter. [A bell rings, Mrs. Abbey enters and goes to door.] MRS. ABBEY. There's a lady to see Mr. Pendleton. MARGARET. Tell her to come in! PENDLETON. But, Margaret! MARGARET. Remember! [Significantly.] The first woman you meet! [Exit Margaret. Mrs. Abbey enters with Baroness de Meauville. Exit Mrs. Abbey.] BARONESS DE MEAUVILLE [speaking with a pronounced English accent]. Good morning, Mr. Pendleton, I'm the Baroness de Meauville! PENDLETON [recalling her name], Baroness de Meauville? Ah, the costu- miere? BARONESS. Not a costumiere, Mr. Pen- dleton, I am an artist, an artist in modern attire. A woman is to me what a canvas is to a painter. PENDLETON. Excuse me for receiving you in my dressing gown. I was at work. BARONESS. I like to see men in dress- ing gowns yours is charming. PENDLETON [flattered and pleased]. Do you like it? I designed it my- self. BARONESS [looking seductively into his eyes]. How few really creative artists there are in America. PENDLETON [modestly]. You flatter me. BARONESS. Not at all. You must know that I'm a great admirer of yours, Mr. Pendleton. I've read every one of your books. I feel I know you as an old friend. PENDLETON. That's very nice of you ! [The Baroness reclines on couch; takes jeweled cigarette case from reticule and offers Pendleton a cigarette.] BARONESS. Will you smoke? PENDLETON. Thanks. [Pendleton tiyhts her cigarette, then his own. He draws his chair up to the couch. An atmosphere of mutual interest is established.] BARONESS. Mr. Pendleton, I have a mission in life. It is to make the Amer- ican woman the best dressed woman in the world. I came here to-day because I want you to help me. PENDLETON. But I have no ambitions in that direction. BARONESS. Why should you have am- bitions? Only the bourgeoisie have ambi- tions. We artists have inspirations. I want to breathe into you the spirit of my great undertaking. Already I have opened my place in the smartest part of the Avenue. Already I have drawn my assistants from all parts of the world. Nothing is lacking to complete my plans but you. PENDLETON. Me? Why me? BARONESS [ endearing ly]. Are you not considered one of the foremost men of letters in America? PENDLETON [modestly]. Didn't you say you had read all my books? BARONESS. Are you not the only writer who has successfully portrayed the emo- tional side of American life? PENDLETON [decidedly]. Yes. BARONESS. Exactly. That is why I have chosen you to write my advertise- ments. PENDLETON [aghast]. But, Baroness! BARONESS. You're not going to say that. It's so ordinary. PENDLETON. But, but, you want me to write advertisements! BARONESS. Please don't disappoint me. PENDLETON. Yes, I suppose that's so. But one has a sense of pride. BARONESS. Art comes before Pride. Consider my feelings, an aristocrat, com- ing here to America and engaging in commerce, and advertising, and other dreadful things, and all for the sake of Art! PENDLETON. But you make money out of it! BARONESS. Only incidentally. Just as you, in writing my advertisements, would make, say ten thousand or so, as a sort of accident. But don't let us talk of money. It's perfectly revolting, isn't it? Art is Life, and I believe in Life for Art's sake. That's why I'm a success. PENDLETON. Indeed? How interest- ing. Please go on. ANOTHER WAY OUT 425 BARONESS. When a woman comes to me for a gown, I don't measure body, why should I? I measure her mind. I find her color harmony. In a moment I can tell whether she ought to wear scarlet, mauve, taupe, magenta, or any other color, so as to fall into her proper rhythm. Every one has a rhythm, you know. [Pendleton sits on sofa.] But I don't have to explain all this to you, Mr. Pendleton. You understand it intui- tively. This heliotrope you are wearing shows me at once that you are in rhythm. PENDLETON [thinks of Margaret}. I'm not so sure that I am. What you say interests me. May I ask you a ques- tion? BARONESS. Yes, but I may not answer it. PENDLETON. Why do you wear helio- trope and the same shade as mine? BARONESS [with mock mystery]. You mustn't ask me that. PENDIETON. I'm all curiosity. BARONESS. Curiosity is dangerous. PENDLETON. Supposing I try to find out? BARONESS. That may be even more dangerous. PENDLETON. I'm fond of that kind of danger. BARONESS. Take care ! I'm very frag- ile. PENDLETON. Isn't heliotrope in rhythm with the faint reflection of passion? BARONESS. How brutal of you to have said it. PENDLETON [coming closer to her], I, too, am in rhythm with heliotrope. BARONESS [with joy]. How glad I am. Thank God you've no desire to kiss my lips. PENOLETON. Only your finger-tips. [They exchange kisses on finger- tips.] PENDLETON. Your fingers are like soft, pale, waxen tapers ! BARONESS. Your kisses are the breath- ings that light them into quivering flame! PENDLETON. Exquisite exquisite ! BARONESS [withdrawing her hands]. That was a moment! PENDLETON. We must have many such. BARONESS. Many? That's too near too much. PENDLETON [feverishly]. We shall, dear lady. BARONESS. How I adore your writ- ings ! They have made me realize the beauty of an ideal union, the love of one man for one woman at a time. Let us have such a union, you and me. PENDLETON [taken back]. But I live in such a union already. BARONESS [rising in amazement]. And only a moment ago you kissed me ! PENDLETON. Well what of it? BARONESS. Don't you see what we've done? You are living in one of those wonderful unions you describe in your books and I've let you kiss me. I've committed a sacrilege. PENDLETON. You're mistaken. It isn't a sacrilege. It's an opportunity. BARONESS [dramatically]. How can you say that you whose words have in- spired my deepest intimacies. No, I must go. [Makes for the door.] I must go. PENDLETON. You don't understand. I exaggerated everything so in my con- founded books. BARONESS. Please ask her to forgive me. Please tell her I thought you were married, otherwise, never, never, would I have permitted you to kiss me. PENDLETON. What made you think I was married? BARONESS. One often believes what one hopes. PENDLETON. You take it too seriously. Let me explain. BARONESS. What is there to explain? Our experience has been complete. Why spoil it by anti-climax? PENDLETON. Am I never to see you again ? BARONESS. Who knows? If your pres- ent union should end, and some day your soul needs some one? [Exit door center, her manner full of promise. ] PENDLETON [with feeling], Good-by long, pale fingers. [Enter Margaret, door right.] MARGARET. Did you get a good start with the scandal? PENDLETON. Not exactly. I may as well admit it was a failure through no fault of mine, of course. And now, I simply must finish that last chapter. 426 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS [He exits. Margaret rings. Mrs. Abby enters.} MARGARET. You may clear, Mrs. Ab- bey. MRS. ABBEY. Very well, ma'am. [She attends to clearing the table.] MARGARET. Mrs. Abbey, have you worked for many people living together, like Mr. Pendleton and myself? MRS. ABBEY. Lor', Ma'am, yes. I've worked in nearly every house on the south side of Washington Square. MARGARET. Mr. Pendleton says I'm as domestic as any wife could be. Were the others like me? MRS. ABBEY. Most of them, ma'am, but some was regular hussies; not only a-livin' with their fellers but havin' a good time, too. That's what I call real immoral. [Bell rings. Mrs. Abbey opens door center and passes out. Conversa- tion with Fenton without is heard. Mrs. Abbey comes back.] MRS. ABBEY. A young man wants to see you, ma'am. MARGARET. That's the new model. I'll get my working apron. [Exit Margaret, door right. Mrs. Abbey calls through door center.] MRS. ABBEY. You c'n come in. [Enter door left, Charles P. K. Fen- ton, dictionary salesman. He is a strikingly handsome young man, offensively smartly dressed in a black and white check suit, gaudy tie, and white socks. His hair is brushed back from his forehead like a glossy sheath. He carries a black bag. His manner is dis- tinctly "male."] MRS. ABBEY [points to screen]. You can undress behind there. FENTON. Undress? Say, what's this? A Turkish bath? MRS. ABBEY. Did you expect to have a private room all to yourself? FEXTOX [looking around]. What am I to undress for? MRS. ABBEY. The missus will be here in a minute. FEXTOX. Good night ! I'm goin'. [Makes for door.] MRS. ABBEY. What's the matter? Ain't you the Missus' new model? FENTOX. A model! Ha! Ha! You've sure got the wrong number this time. I'm in the dictionary line, ma'am. MRS. ABBEY. Well, of all the impu- dence ! You a book agent, and a-walkin' in here. FEXTOX. Well, you asked me in, didn't you? Can't I see the missus, jest for a minute? MRS. ABBEY [good-naturedly]. Very well. Here she is. [Confidential!;/.] And I advise you to remove that Spear- mint from your mouth, if you want to sell any dictionaries in this house. FEXTOX [placing hand to mouth], Where shall I put it? MRS. ABBEY. You'd better swallow it! [Fenton tries to do so, chokes, turns red, and places his hand to mouth.] MARGARET [to Fenton]. I'm so glad to see you. [Fenton is most embarrassed. Mrs. Abbey, in surprise, attempts to ex- plain situation.] MRS. ABBEY. But, ma'am MARGARET. You may go, Mrs. Abbey. MRS. ABBEY. But, but, ma'am MARGARET [severely]. You may go, Mrs. Abbey. [Exit Mrs. Abbey in a huff.] I'm so glad they sent you up to see me. Won't you sit down? [Fenton finds it a difficult matter to handle the situation. He adopts his usual formula for an " open- ing," but his speech is mechanical and without conviction. Margaret adds to the embarrassment by step- ping around him and examining him with professional interest.] FEXTOX. Madam, I represent ths Globe Advertising Publishing Sales Co., the largest publishers of dictionaries in the world. MARGARET [continuing to appraise him]. Then you're not the new model? FEXTOX. No, ma'am. MARGARET. What a pity ! Never mind, go on. FEXTOX. As I was saying, ma'am, I represent the Advertising Globe Publish- ing I mean the Globe Publishing Sales Publishing Co., the largest publishers of dictionaries in the world. For some time past we have felt there was a de- mand for a new Encyclopaedic Diction- ary, madam, one that would not only fill up a good deal of space in the book- ANOTHER WAY OUT 427 shelf, making an attractive addition to the home, but also containing the most complete collection of words in the Eng- lish language. MARGARET [who has taken a pencil and is measuring Fenton while he speaks; Fenton's discomfort is obvious. He at- tempts to rearrange his tie and coat, thinking she is examining him.] Please go on talking, it's so interesting. FENTON. Statistics show that the Woman of Average Education in Amer- ica, Madam, has command of but fifteen hundred words. This new dictionary, Madam, [Produces book from bag.] will give you command of over eight hundred and fifty thousand. MARGARET [archly]. So you are a dealer in words how perfectly roman- tic. FENTON [warming]. Most of these words, madam, are not used more than a dozen times a year. They are our Heritage from the Past. And all these words, to say nothing of the fact that the dictionary fills five inches in a book- shelf, making an attractive addition to the library, being handsomely bound in half-cloth all these are yours, ma'am, for the price of one dollar. [He places dictionary in her hand. She examines it.] FENTON. If you have a son, madam, the possession of this dictionary will give him an opportunity of acquiring that knowledge of our language which made Abraham Lincoln the Father of our Country. Madam, opportunity knocks at the door only once and This is your op- portunity at one dollar. MARGARET [meaninfjli/]. Yes, this is my opportunity! I'll buy the dictionary and now [sweetly] won't you tell me your name? FENTON [pocketing dollar]. My name is Charles P. K. Fenton. MARGARET. Mr. Fenton, would you mind doing me a favor? FENTON \\ooking dubiously towards the screen]. Why, I guess not, ma'am. MARGARET. I want you to take off your coat. FENTON [puzzled]. You're not try- ing to kid me, ma'am? MARGARET. I just want to see your de- velopment. Do you mind? FENTON [removes coat]. Why, no, ma'am, if that's all you want. MARGARET. Now, bring your arm up, tighten the muscles. [Fenton does as she bids; Margaret thumps his arm ap- provingly.] Splendid! You must take lots of exercise, Mr. Fenton. FENTON. Not me, ma'am. I never had no time for exercise; I got that workin' in a freight yard. MARGARET. I suppose you think me rather peculiar, Mr. Fenton. FENTON. You said it, Miss. MARGARET. You see I'm a sculptress. [Points to statuette.] This is my work. FENTON. You made that? Gee! that's great. [Examines statuette.] Just like them statues at the Metropolitan. MARGARET. That figure is Apollo, Mr. Fenton. FENTON. Oh, Apollo. MARGARET. I was to engage a profes- sional model for it, but I could never hope to get a professional as fine a type as you. Will you pose for it? FENTON [aghast]. Me? That feller there without any clothes. [Dubiously.] Well, I don't know. It's kind of chilly here. MARGARET. If I draped you, it would spoil some of your lines. [Seeing his hesitation.] But I will if you like. FENTON [relieved]. Ah, now you're talking. MAKGAHET. So, you'll really come? FENTON. How about this evening? MARGARET. Splendid ! Sit down. [Fen- ton does so.] Mr. Fenton, you've quite aroused my curiosity. I know so few business men. Is your work interest- ing? FENTON. Well, I can't say it was, until I started selling around this neigh- borhood. MARGARET. Is it difficult? FENTON. Not if you've got person- ality, Miss. That's the thing, personal- ity. If a feller hasn't got personality, he can't sell goods, that's sure. MARGARET. What do you mean by per- sonality, Mr. Fenton. FENTON. Well, it's what sells the goods. I don't know how else to explain it exactly. I'll look it up in the diction- ary. [Takes dictionary and turns pages.] Here it is, ma'am. Per per why, it 428 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS isn't in here. I guess they don't put in words that everybody knows. We all know what personality means. It's what sells the goods. MARGARET. I adore a strong, virile, masculine personality. FEXTOX I don't quite get you, madam. MARGARET. The men I know have so much of the feminine in them. FEXTOX. Oh, " Cissies " ! MARGARET [flirtingly]. They lack the magnetic forcefulness which I like so much in you. FEXTOX. T believe you are kidding me. Does that mean you like me? MARGARET. That's rather an embar- rassing question. FEXTOX. You must or you wouldn't let me speak to you this way. MARGARET [archly]. Never mind whether I like you. Tell me whether you like me? FEXTOX [feeling more at home]. Gee! I didn't get on to you at first. Sure I like you. MARGARET. Then we're going to be good friends. FEXTOX. You just bet me are. Say, got a date for to-morrow evening? MARGARET. No. FEXTOX. How about the movies? There's a fine feature film at the Strand. Theda Bara in " The Lonesome Vam- pire," five reels. They say it's got " Gloria's Romance " beat a mile. MARGARET. I don't know that I'd care to go there. FEXTOX. How about a run down to Coney? MARGARET. Coney! I've always wanted to do wild Pagan things. FEXTOX. Say, you'll tell me your name, won't you? MARGARET. Margaret Marshall. FEXTOX. Do you mind if I call you Margie? MARGARET. If you do, I must call you FEXTOX. Charley. Gee, I like the name of Margie. Some class to that. MARGARET. I'm glad you like it. FEXTOX [moving nearer]. And some class to you ! MARGARET [coyly]. So you really like me? FEXTOX. You bet. Say, before I go, you've got to give me a kiss, Margie. MARGARET. Well, I don't know. Aren't you rather "rushing" me? FEXTOX. Say, you are a kidder. [He draws her up from her chair, and kisses her warmly on the lips.] MARGARET, [ecstastically]. You have the true Greek spirit! [They kiss again.] If only Pommy would kiss me that way! FEXTOX. Pommy? Who's Pommy? MARGARET. Pommy is the man I live with. FEXTOX. Your husband! MARGARET. No, we just live together. You see, we don't believe in marriage. FEXTOX [pushing her away in horror]. I thought there was something queer about all this. Does he live here? MARGAHET. Yes. [Point* to door.] He's in there now. FEXTOX [excitedly]. Good night! I'm goin'. [Looks for hat.] MARGARET [speaking with real anguish], You're surely not going just on that ac- count. FEXTOX [taking hat and bag]. Isn't that enough? MARGARET [emotionally]. Please don't go. Listen, I can't suppress my feeling for you; I never do with anybody. I liked you the moment I saw you, I want you as a friend, a good friend. You can't go now, just when everything's about to begin. FEXTOX [severely]. Fair's fair, Miss. If he's keeping you, you can't be taking up with me at the same time. That puts the finish on it. MARGARET. But he doesn't keep me. I keep myself. FEXTOX. Wait a minute. You sup- port yourself, and live with him of your own free will. Then you've got no ex- cuse for being immoral; 'tisn't like you had to make your living at it. [At door.] Good-by. MARGARET. But I can explain every- thing. FEXTOX. It's no use, Miss. Even though I am a salesman, I've got a sense of honor. I sized you up as a married woman when I came in just now, or 1 never would have made love to you at all. MARGARET. Oh wait! Supposing I ANOTHER WAY OUT 429 should want to buy some more diction- aries. FEXTOX [returning]. You've got my card, Miss. The 'phone number is on it. Bryant 4253. [Sees Margaret hang her head.] Don't feel hurt, Miss. You'll get over these queer ideas some day, and when you do, well, you've got my num- ber. So long, kid. [Exit Fenton, door, center.] MARGARET [taking his card from table and placing it to her lips soulfully]. My Apollo, Bryant 4253! PEXDLETOX. Did you get a good start with your scandal. [Margaret hangs her head.] It's no use; I'm convinced we'r^ in a hopeless muddle. MARGARET. I heartily agree with you. PEXDLETOX. You've changed your mind very suddenly. MARGARET. I have my reasons. PEXDLETOX. The fact is, Margaret, that so long as we live together we're public figures, with everybody else as our jury. MARGARET. But lots of people read your books and respect us. PEXDLETOX. The people that respect us are worse than the people that don't. MARGARET. If they wouldn't always be bothering about our morals ! PEXDLETOX. If we continue living to- gether, we shall simply be giving up our freedom to prove we are free. MARGARET [faltering], I suppose we ought to separate. PEXDLETOX. I believe we should. MARGARET. We'll have to give up the studio. PEXDLETOX [regretfully]. Yes. MARGARET. It's taken a long time to make the place homelike. PEXDLETOX. We've been very comfort- able here. MARGARET. I shall miss you at meals. PEXDLETON. I shall have to start eat- ing at clubs and restaurants again, no more good home cooking. MARGARET. We're kind of used to one another, aren't we? PEXDLETON. It isn't an easy matter to break, after five years. MARGARET. And there are mighty few studios with as good a light as this; I don't want to separate if you don't. PEXDLETON. But, Margaret. [Piano starts playing wedding march.] There, that confounded piano again. [Seized with an idea.] Margaret, there's another way out! MARGARET [with same idea]. You mean, we ought to marry ! PEXDLETON. Yes, marry, and do it at once. That'll end everything. MARGARET. Let's do it right away and get it over with; I simply must finish my Apollo. PEXDLETOX. I'm going to buy you a new gown to get married in, a wedding present from Baroness de Meauville's. MARGARET. I don't know that I want a De Meauville gown. PEXDLETOX. Please let me. I want to give you something to symbolize our new life together. MARGARET. Very well. And in return, I'll buy you a dictionary, so that I won't have to keep on correcting your spelling. [Exit Pendleton. Margaret goes to 'phone, and consults Fenton's card.] MARGARET. Bryant 4253? Can I speak to Mr. Fenton? [Enter Mrs. Abbey.] Mrs. Abbey. What do you think? We're going to get married ! MRS. ABBEY. Well, bless my soul! That's right. You can take it from me, ma'am, you'll find that respectability pays. MARGARET [at 'phone]. Bryant 4253? [Sweetly.] Is that Mr. Fenton? [Pause.] Hello, Charley ! [Curtain.] ARIA DA CAPO A PLAY BY EDNA ST. VINCENT MILL.AY Copyright, 1920, by Edna St. Vincent Millay. All rights reserved. PERSONS PIERROT. COLUMBINE. COTHURNUS [masque of tragedy]. THYRSIS [shepherd]. CORYDON [shepherd]. First printed in " Reedy's Mirror," St. Louis. Application to produce this play should be made to Edna St. Vincent Millay, in care of the Provincetown Players, 133 Macdougal Street, New York. ARIA DA CAPO A PLAY [SCENE: A Stage. The curtain rises on a stage set for a Harlequinade, a merry black and white interior. Directly behind the footlights, and running parallel with them, is a long table, covered with a gay black and white cloth, on which is spread a banquet. At the opposite ends of this table, seated on delicate thin-legged chairs with high backs, are Pierrot and Columbine, dressed according to the tra- dition, excepting that Pierrot is in lilac, and Columbine in pink. They are din- ing.] COLU. Pierrot, a macaroon ! I cannot live Without a macaroon! PIER. My only love, You are so intense ... It is Tuesday, Columbine? I'll kiss you if it's Tuesday. COLU. It is Wednesday, If you must know. ... Is this my artichoke, Or yours? PIER. Ah, Columbine, as if it mattered ! Wednesday. . . . Will it be Tuesday, then, to-morrow, By any chance? COLU. To-morrow will be Pierrot, That isn't funny! PIER. I thought it rather nice. Well, let us drink some wine and lose our heads And love each other. COLU. Pierrot, don't you love Me now? PIER. La, what a woman ! How should I know? Pour me some wine: I'll tell you pres- ently. COLU. Pierrot, do you know, I think you drink too much. 433 BY EDNA ST. VINCENT MILL.AY PIER. Yes, I dare say I do. ... Or else too little. It's hard to tell. You see, I am always wanting A little more than what I have, or else A little less. There's something wrong. My dear, How many fingers have you? COLU. La, indeed, How should I know? It always takes me one hand To count the other with. It's too con- fusing. Why? PIER. Why? I am a student, Columbine ; And search into all matters. COLU. La, indeed? Count them yourself, then ! PIER. No. Or, rather, nay. 'Tis of no consequence. ... I am be- come A painter, suddenly, and you impress me Ah, yes! six orange bull's-eyes, four green pin-wheels, And one magenta jelly-roll, the title As follows: Woman Taking In Cheese From Fire-Escape. COLU. Well, I like that! So that is all I've meant To you! PIER. Hush! All at once I am become A pianist. I will image you in sound, On a new scale . . . without tonality Vivace senza tempo senza tutto. . . , Title: Uptown Express at Six O'Clvck. Pour me a drink. COLU. Pierrot, you work too hard. You need a rest. Come on out into the garden, And sing me something sad. 434 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS PIER. Don't stand so near me! I am become a socialist. I love Humanity; but I hate people. Colum- bine, Put on your mittens, child; your hands are cold. COLU. My hands are not cold. PIER. Oh, I am sure they are. And you must have a shawl to wrap about you, And sit by the fire. COLU. Why, I'll do no such thing! I'm hot as a spoon in a tea-cup ! PIER. Columbine, I'm a philanthropist. I know I am, Because I feel so restless. Do not scream, Or it will be the worse for you! COLU. Pierrot, My vinaigrette: I cannot live without My vinaigrette ! PIER. My only love, you are So fundamental! . . . How would you like to be An actress, Columbine? I am become Your manager. COLU. Why, Pierrot, / can't act. PIER. Can't act! Can't act! La, listen to the woman ! What's that to do with the price of furs? You're blonde, Are you not? You have no education, have you? Can't act! You under-rate yourself, my dear! COLU. Yes, I suppose I do. PIER. As for the rest, I'll teach you how to cry, and how to die, And other little tricks; and the house will love you. You'll be a star by five o'clock . . . That is, If you will let me pay for your apart- ment. COLU. Let you? well, that's a good one ! Ha! Ha! Ha! But why? PIER. But why ? well, as to that, my dear, I cannot say. It's just a matter of form. COLU. Pierrot, I'm getting tired of caviar And peacocks' livers. Isn't there some- thing else That people eat? some humble veg- etable, That grows in the ground? PIER. Well, there are mushrooms. COLU. Mushrooms ! That's so ! I had forgotten . . . mush- rooms . . . mushrooms. . . . I cannot live with. . . . How do you like this gown? PIER. Not much. I'm tired of gowns that have the waist-line About the waist, and the hem around the bottom, And women with their breasts in front of them ! Zut and ehe! Where does one go from here! COLU. Here's a persimmon, love. You always liked them. PIER. I am become a critic; there is nothing I can enjoy. . . . How- ever, set it aside; I'll eat it between meals. COLU. Pierrot, do you know, Sometimes I think you're making fun of me. PIER. My love, by yon black moon, you wrong us both. COLU. There isn't a sign of a moon, Pierrot. PIER. Of course not. There never was. "Moon's" just a word to swear by, " Mutton ! " now there's a thing you can lay the hands on, And set the tooth in! Listen, Colum- bine: I always lied about the moon and you. Food is my only lust. COLU. Well, eat it, then, For heaven's sake, and stop your silly noise ! I haven't heard the clock tick for an hour. PIER. It's ticking all the same. If you were a fly, You would be dead by now. And if I were a parrot, I could be talking for a thousand years ! [Enters Cothurnus.} PIER. Hello, what's this, for God's sake? What's the matter? Say, whadda you mean? get off the stage, my friend, And pinch yourself, you're walking in your sleep ! ARIA DA CAPO 435 COTH. I never sleep. PIER. Well, anyhow, clear out. You don't belong on here. Wait for your own scene ! Whadda you think this is, a dress- rehearsal? COTH. Sir, I am tired of waiting. I will wait No longer. PIER. Well, but what are you going to do? The scene is set for me! COTH. True, sir; yet I Can play the scene. PIER. Your scene is down for later ! COTH. That, too, is true, sir; but I play it now. PIER. Oh, very well ! Anyway, I am tired Of black and white. At least, I think I am. [Exit Columbine.] Yes, I am sure I am. I know what I'll do! I'll go and strum the moon, that's what I'll do. ... Unless, perhaps, . . . you never can tell ... I may be, You know, tired of the moon. Well, anyway, I'll go find Columbine. . . . And when I find her, I will address her thus: " Ehe Pier- rette ! " There's something in that. [Exit Pierrot.} COTH. You, Thyrsis ! Corydon ! Where are you? THYR. Sir, we are in our dressing- room! COTH. Come out and do the scene. CORY. You are mocking us ! The scene is down for later. COTH. That is true; But we will play it now. I am the scene. [Seats himself on high place in back of stage. Enter Corydon and Thyrsis.] CORY. Sir, we were counting on this little hour. We said, " Here is an hour, in which to think A mighty thought, and sing a trifling song, And look at nothing." And, behold ! the hour, Even as we spoke, was over, and the act begun, Under our feet! THYR. Sir, we are not in the fancy To play the play. We had thought to play it later. CORY. ' Besides, this is the setting for a farce. Our scene requires a wall; we cannot build A wall of tissue-paper! THYR. We cannot act A tragedy with comic properties ! COTH. Try it and see. I think you'll find you can. One wall is like another. And regard- ing The matter of your insufficient wood, The important thing is that you speak the lines, And make the gestures. Wherefore I shall remain Throughout, and hold the prompt-book. Are you ready? CORY.-THYR. [sorrowfully]. Sir, we are always ready. COTH. Play the play! [Corydon and Thyrsis move the table and chairs to one side ovt of the way, and seat themselves in a half- reclining position on the floor, left of the center of the stage, propped up by crepe paper pillows and bol- sters, in place of rocks.] THYR. How gently in the silence, Corydon, Our sheep go up the bank. They crop a grass That's yellow where the sun is out, and black Where the clouds drag their shadows. Have you noticed How steadily, yet with what a slanting eye They graze? CORY. As if they thought of other things. What say you, Thyrsis, do they only question Where next to pull? Or do their far minds draw them Thus vaguely north of west and south of east? 436 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS THYR. One cannot say. . . . The black lamb wears its burdocks As if they were a garland, have you noticed? Purple and white and drinks the bit- ten grass As if it were a wine. CORY. I've noticed that. What say you, Thyrsis, shall we make a song About a lamb that thought himself a shepherd? THYH. Why, yes! that is, why, no. (I have forgotten My line.) COTH. [prompting]. "I know a game worth two of that." THYH. Oh, yes. ... I know a game worth two of that: Let's gather rocks, and build a wall between us; And say that over there belongs to me, And over here to you ! CORY. Why, very well. And say you may not come upon my side Unless I say you may! THYR. Nor you on mine ! And if you should, 'twould be the worse for you! [They weave a wall of colored crepe paper ribbons from the center front to the center back of the stage, fastening the ends to Columbine's chair in front and to Pierrot's chair in the back.] CORY. Now there's a wall a man may see across, But not attempt to scale. THYR. An excellent wall. CORY. Come, let us separate, and sit alone A little while, and lay a plot whereby We may outdo each other. [They seat themselves on opposite sides of the wall.] PIER, [off stage}. Ehe, Pierrette! Com. [off stage]. My name is Colum- bine ! Leave me alone ! THYR. [coming iip to the wall]. Corydon, after all, and in spite of the fact I started it myself, I do not like this So very much. What is the sense of saying I do not want you on my side the wall? It is a silly game. I'd much prefer Making the little song you spoke of making, About the lamb, you know, that thought himself A shepherd! what do you say? [Pause.] COBY. [at wall], (I have forgotten The line) COTH. [prompting], "How do I know this isn't a trick " CORY. Oh, yes. . . . How do I know this isn't a trick To get upon my land? THYR. Oh, Corydon, You know it's not a trick. I do not like The game, that's all. Come over here, or let me Come over there. CORY. It is a clever trick To get upon my land. [Seats himself as before.] THYR. Oh, very well! [Seats himself as before] [To himself.] I think I never knew a sillier game. CORY, [coming to wall]. Oh, Thyrsis, just a minute! all the water Is on your side the wall, and the sheep are thirsty. I hadn't thought of that. THYR. Oh, hadn't you? CORY. Why, what do you mean? THYR. What do I mean? I mean That I can play a game as well as you can. And if the pool is on my side, it's on My side, that's all. CORY. You mean you'd let the sheep Go thirsty? THYR. Well, they're not my sheep. My sheep Have water enough. CORY. Your sheep ! You are mad, to call them. Yours mine they are all one flock ! Thyrsis, you can't mean To keep the water from them, just be- cause They happened to be grazing over here Instead of over there, when we set the wall up? THYH. Oh, can't I ? wait and see ! and if you try To lead them over here, you'll wish you hadn't! ARIA DA CAPO 437 CORY. I wonder how it happens all the water Is on your side. . . . I'll say you had an eye out For lots of little things, my innocent friend, When I said, " Let us make a song," and you said, " I know a game worth two of that ! " COLU. [off stage]. D'you know, I think you must be get- ting old, Or fat, or something, stupid, any- way ! Can't you put on some other kind of collar? TIIYR. You know as well as I do, Corydon, I never thought of anything of the kind. Don't you? CORY. I do not. THYR. Don't you? CORY. Oh, I suppose so. Thyrsis, let's drop this, what do you say? it's only A game, you know . . . we seem to be forgetting It's only a game ... a pretty serious game It's getting to be, when one of us Is willing To let the sheep go thirsty, for the sake of it. THYH. I know it, Corydon. [They reach out their arms to each other across the wall.] COTH. [prompting], "But how do I know?" THYR. Oh, yes. . . . But how do I know this isn't a trick To water your sheep, and get the laugh on me? CORY. You can't know, that's the difficult thing about it, Of course, you can't be sure. You have to take My word for it. And I know just how you feel. But one of us has to take, a risk, or else, Why don't you see ? the game goes on forever It's terrible, when you stop to think of ' it. ... Oh, Thyrsis, now for the first time I feel This wall is actually a wall, a thing Come up between us, shutting me away From you. ... I do not know you any more! THYR. No, don't say that! Oh, Cory- don, I'm willing To drop it all, if you will! Come on over And water your sheep ! It is an ugly game. I hate it from the first. . . . How did it start? CORY. I do not know ... I do not know ... I think I am afraid of you ! you are a stranger ! I never set eyes on you before ! " Gome over And water my sheep," indeed! They'll be more thirsty Then they are now, before I bring them over Into your land, and have you mixing them up W T ith yours, and calling them yours, and trying to keep them! [Enter Columbine.] COLU. [to Cothurnus], Glummy, I want my hat. THYH. Take it, and go. COLU. Take it and go, indeed ! Is it my hat, Or isn't it? Is this my scene, or not? Take it and go ! Really, you know, you two Are awfully funny! [Exit Columbine.] THYR. Corydon, my friend, I'm going to leave you now, and whittle me A pipe, or sing a song, or go to sleep. When you have come to your senses, let me know. [Goes back to where lie has been sit- ting, lies down and sleeps.] [Corydon, in going back to where he has been sitting, stumbles over bowl of colored confetti and col- ored paper ribbina.] CORY. Why, what is this? Red stones and purple stones And stones stuck full of gold ! The ground is full Of gold and colored stones! . . . I'm glad the wall Was up before I found them ! Other- wise, 438 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS I should have had to share them. As it is, They all belong to me. ... Unless [He goes to wall and digs up and down the length of it, to see if there are jewels on the other side.] None here None here none here They all be- long to me! [Sits.] THYR. [awakening]. How curious! I thought the little black lamb Came up and licked my hair ! I saw the wool About its neck as plain as anything! It must have been a dream. The little black lamb Is on the other side of the wall, I'm sure. [Goes to wall and looks over. Cory- don is seated on the ground, toss- ing the confetti up into the air and catching it.] Hello, what's that you've got there, Corydon ? CORY. Jewels. THYH. Jewels? And where did you ever get them? CORY. Oh, over here. THYR. You mean to say you found them, By digging around in the ground for them? CORY, [unpleasantly]. No, Thyrsis. By digging down for water for my sheep. THYR. Corydon, come to the wall a min- ute, will you ? I want to talk to you. CORY. I haven't time. I'm making me a necklace of red stones. THYR. I'll give you all the water that you want, For one of those red stones, if it's a good one. CORY. Water? what for? what do I want of water? THYR. Why, for your sheep. CORY. My sheep? I'm not a shepherd ! THYR. Your sheep are dying of thirst. CORY. Man, haven't I told you I can't be bothered with a few untidy Brown sheep all full of burdocks?" I'm a merchant, That's what I am ! And I set my mind to it, I dare say I could be an emperor ! [To himself.] Wouldn't I be a fool to spend my time Watching a flock of sheep go up a hill, W r hen I have these to play with when I have these To think about? I can't make up my mind Whether to buy a city, and have a thou- sand Beautiful girls to bathe me, and be happy Until I die, or build a bridge, and name it The Bridge of Corydon, and be re- membered After I'm dead. THYH. Corydon, come to the wall, Won't you? I want to tell you some- thing. CORY. Hush ! Be off! Be off! Go finish your nap, I tell you! THYH. Corydon, listen: If you don't want your sheep, Give' them to me. CORY. Be off. Go finish your nap. A red one and a blue one and a red one And a purple one give you my sheep, did you say? Come, come ! What do you take me for, a fool? I've a lot of thinking to do, and while I'm thinking, The sheep might just as well be over here As over there. ... A blue one and a red one THYH. But they will die ! CORY. And a green one and a couple Of white ones, for a change. THYR. Maybe I have Some jewels on my side. CORY. And another green one Maybe, but I don't think so. You see, this rock Isn't so very wide. It stops before . It gets to the wall. It seems to go quite deep, However. THYR. [with hatred], I see. COLU. [off stage]. Look, Pierrot, there's the moon! ARIA DA CAPO 439 PIER, [off stage]. Nonsense! THYB. I see. COLU. [off stage]. Sing me an old song, Pierrot, Something I can remember. PIER, [off stage]. Columbine, Your mind is made of crumbs, like an escallop Of oysters, first a layer of crumbs, and then An oystery taste, and then a layer of crumbs. TIIYR. I find no jewels . . . but I won- der what The root of this black weed would do to a man If h? should taste it ... I have seen a sheep die, With half the stalk still drooling from its mouth. 'Twould be a speedy remedy, I should think, For a festered pride and a feverish ambition. It has a curious root. I think I'll hack it In little pieces. . . . First I'll get me a drink; And then I'll hack that root in little pieces As small as dust, and see what the color is Inside. [Goes to bowl on floor.] The pool is very clear. I see A shepherd standing on the brink, with a red cloak About him, and a black weed in his hand. . . . 'Tis I. [Kneels and drinks.] CORY. [Coming to wall]. Hello, what are you doing, Thyrsis? THYR. Digging for gold. CORY. I'll give you all the gold You want, if you'll give me a bowl of water. If you don't want too much, that is to say. THYR. Ho, so you've changed your mind? It's different, Isn't it, when you want a drink your- self? CORY. Of course it is. THYH. Well, let me see ... a bowl Of water, come back in an hour, Cory- don. I'm busy now. CORY. Oh, Thyrsis, give me a bowl Of water ! and I'll find the bowl with jewels, And bring it back ! THYB. Be off, I'm busy now. [He catches sight of the iveed, picks it up and looks at it, unseen by Cory don.] Wait ! Pick me out the finest stones you have . . . I'll bring you a drink of water pres- ently. CORY, [goes back and sits down, with the jewels before him], A bowl of jewels is a lot of jewels. THYR. [chopping up the weed]. I won- der if it has a bitter taste? CORY. There's sure to be a stone or two among them I have grown fond of, pouring them from one hand Into the other. THYR. I hope it doesn't taste Too bitter, just at first. CORY. A bowl of jewels Is far too many jewels to give away. And not get back again. THYR. I don't believe He'll notice. He's thirsty. He'll gulp it down And never notice. CORY. There ought to be some way To get them back again. ... I could give him a necklace, And snatch it back, after I'd drunk the water, I suppose. . . . why, as for that, of course, a necklace. . . . [He puts two or three of the colored tapes together and tries their strength by pulling them, after which he puts them around his neck and pulls them, gently, nodding to himself. He gets up and goes to the wall, with the colored tapes in his hands. Thyrsis in the meantime has poured the powdered root black con- fetti into the pot which con- tains the flower and filled it up with wine from the punch-bowl on the floor. He comes to the wall at the same time, holding the bowl of poison. ] THYR. Come and get your bowl of water, Corydon. 440 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS CORY. Ah, very good! and for such a gift as that I'll give you more than a bowl of unset stones. I'll give you three long necklaces, my friend. Come closer. Here they are. [Puts the ribbons about Thyrsis' neck.} THYR. [putting bowl to Corydon's mouth}. I'll hold the bowl Until you've drunk it all. COHY. Then hold it steady. For every drop you spill I'll have a stone back Out of this chain. THYR. I shall not spill a drop. [Cory don drinks, meanwhile begin- ning to strangle Thyrsis.] THYR. Don't pull the string so tight. CORY. You're spilling the water. THYR. You've had enough you've had enough stop pulling The string so tight! CORY. Why, that's not tight at all. ... How's this? THYR. [drops bowl]. You're strangling me! Oh, Corydon! It's only a game ! and you are strang- ling me ! CORY. It's only a game, is it? Yet I believe You've poisoned me in earnest ! [Writhes and pulls the strings tighter, winding them about Thyrsis' neck.] THYR. Corydon! [Dies.] CORY. You've poisoned me in earnest. ... I feel so cold. . . . So cold. . . . this is a very silly game. Why do we play it? let's not play this game A minute more. . . . let's make a little song About a lamb. . . . I'm coming over the wall, No matter what you say, I want to be near you. . . . [Groping his way, with arms wide before him, he strides through the frail papers of the wall without knowing it, and continues seeking for the wall straight across the stage.] Where is the wall? [Gropes his way back, and stands very near Thyrsis without know- ing it; he speaks slowly.} There isn't any wall, I think. [Takes a step forward, his foot touches Thyrsis' body, and he falls down beside him.] Thyrsis, where is your cloak? just give me A little bit of your cloak! . . . [Draws corner of Thyrsis' cloak over his shoulders, falls across Thyrsis' body, and dies.] Cothurnus closes the prompt-book with a bang, arises matter-of- factly, comes down stage, and places the table over the two bodies, drawing down the cover so that they are hidden from any actors on the stage, but visible to the audi- ence, pushing in their feet and hands with his boot. He then turns his back to the audience, and claps his hands twice.] COTH. Strike the scene ! [Exit Cothurnus. Enter Pierrot and Columbine.] PIER. Don't puff so, Columbine! COLU. Lord, what a mess This set is in! If there's one thing I hate Above everything else, even more than getting my feet wet It's clutter ! He might at least have left the scene The way he found it. ... don't you say so, Pierrot? [She picks up punch bowl. They ar- range chairs as before at ends of table.] PIER. Well, I don't know. I think it rather diverting The way it is. [Yawns, picks up confetti bowl.] Shall we begin? COLU. [screams]. My God! What's that there under the table? PIER. It is the bodies Of the two shepherds from the other play. COLU. [slowly]. How curious to strangle him like that, With colored paper ribbons ! PIER. Yes, and yet I dare say he is just as dead. [Pause. Calls Cothurnus.] ARIA DA CAPO 441 Come drag these bodies out of here! We can't Sit down and eat with two dead bodies lying Under the table! . . . The audience wouldn't stand for it! COTH. [off stage]. What makes you think so? Pull down the tablecloth On the other play, and hide them from the house, And play the farce. The audience will forget. PIER. That's so. Give me a hand there, Columbine. [Pierrot and Columbine pull down the table cover in such a way that the two bodies are hidden from the house, then merrily set their bowls back on the table, draw up their chairs, and begin the play exactly as before, speaking even more rapidly and artificially.] COLU. Pierrot, a macaroon, I cannot live Without a macaroon! PIER. My only love, You are so intense ! ... Is it Tuesday, Columbine? I'll kiss you if it's Tuesday. [Curtains begin to close slowly.] COLU. It is Wednesday, If you must know. ... Is this my arti- choke, Or yours? PIER. Ah, Columbine, as if it mattered ! Wednesday. . . . Will it be Tuesday, then to-morrow, By any chance? [Curtain.] HELENA'S HUSBAND AN HISTORICAL COMEDY BY PHILIP MOELLER Copyright, 1915, by Philip Moeller. Copyright, 1916, by Doubleday, Page & Co. All rights reserved. CHARACTERS HELENA, the Queen. TSUMC, a black woman, slave to Helena. MENELAUS, the King. ANALYTIKOS, the King's librarian. PARIS, a shepherd. HELENA'S HUSBAND was first produced by the Washington Square Players, under the direction of Mr. Moeller, at the Bandbox Theatre, New York, on the night of October 4, 1915, with the following cast: HELENA [Queen of Sparta] Noel Haddon. TSUMU [the slave] Helen Westley. MENELAUS [ the King] Frank Conroy. ANALYTIKOS [his librarian] Walter Frankl. PARIS [a shepherd] Harold Meltzer. The scene was designed by Paul T. Frankl and the costumes by Robert Locker. Reprinted from " Five Somewhat Historical Plays " published by Alfred A. Knopf, by special permission of Mr. Moeller. The professional and amateur stage rights on this play are strictly reserved by the author. Applications for permission to produce the play should be made to Mr. Philip Moeller, care Alfred A. Knopf, 220 West 42nd Street, New York. HELENA'S HUSBAND AN HISTORICAL, COMEDY [SCENE is that archaeological mystery, a Greek interior. A door on the right leads to the King's library, one on the left to the apartment of the Queen. Back right is the main entrance leading to the palace. Next this, running the full length of the wall, is a window with a platform, built out over the main court. Beyond is a view of hills bright with lemon groves, and in the far distance shimmers the sea. On the wall near the Queen's room hangs an old shield rusty with disuse. A bust of Zeus stands on a pedestal against the right wall. There are low coffers about the room from which hang the ends of vivid colored robes. The scene is bathed in intense sunlight. Tsumu is massaging the Queen.] HELENA. There's no doubt about it. TSUMU. Analytikos says there is much doubt about all things. HELENA. Never mind what he says. I envy you your complexion. TSUMU [falling prostrate before Hel- ena]. Whom the Queen envies should be- ware. HELENA [annoyed]. Get up, Tsumu. You make me nervous tumbling about like that. TSUMU [still on floor]. Why does the great Queen envy Tsumu? HELENA. Get up, you silly. [She kicks her.] I envy you because you can run about and never worry about getting sunburnt. TSUMU [on her knees]. The radiant beauty of the Queen is unspoilable. HELENA. That's just what's worrying me, Tsumu. When beauty is so perfect the slightest jar may mean a jolt. [She goes over and looks at her reflection in the shield.] I can't see myself as well as I would like to. The King's shield is 445 BY PHILIP MOELLER tarnished. Menelaus has been too long out of battle. TSUMU [handing her a hand mirror]. The Gods will keep Sparta free from strife. HELENA. I'll have you beaten if you assume that prophetic tone with me. There's one thing I can't stand, and that's a know-all. [Flinging the hand mirror to the floor.] TSUMU [in alarm], Gods grant you haven't bent it. HELENA. These little mirrors are use- less. His shield is the only thing in which I can see myself full-length. If he only went to war, he'd have to have it cleaned. TSUMU [putting the mirror on a table near the Queen], The King is a lover of peace. HELENA. The King is a lover of com- fort. Have you noticed that he spends more time than he used to in the library? TSUMU. He is busy with questions of State. HELENA. You know perfectly well that when anything's the matter with the Gov- ernment it's always straightened out at the other end of the palace. Finish my shoulder. [She examines her arm.] I doubt if there is a finer skin than this in Sparta. [Tsumu begins to massage the Queen's shoulder.] HELENA [taking up a mirror]. That touch of deep carmine right here in the center of my lips was quite an idea. TSUMU [busily pounding the Queen]. An inspiration of the Gods! HELENA. The Gods have nothing to do with it. I copied it from a low woman I saw at the circus. I can't understand how these bad women have such good ideas. [Helen twists about.] 446 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS TSUMU. If your majesty doesn't sit still, I may pinch you. HELENA [boxing her ears]. None of your tricks, you ebony fiend ! TSUMU [crouching]. Descendant of paradise, forgive me. HELENA. If you bruise my perfect flesh, the King will kill you. My beauty is his religion. He can sit for hours, as if at prayer, just examining the arch of my foot. Tsumu, you may kiss my foot. TSUMU [prostrate]. May the Gods make me worthy of your kindness ! HELENA. That's enough. Tsumu, are you married? TSUMU [getting up]. I've been so busy having babies I never had time to get married. HELENA. It's a great disillusionment. TSUMU [agast]. What! HELENA. I'm not complaining. Moo Moo is the best of husbands, but some- times being adored too much is trying. [She sighs deeply.] I think I'll wear my heliotrope this afternoon. [A trumpet sounds below in the courtyard. Tsumu goes to the window.] TSUMU. They are changing the guards at the gates of the palace. It's almost time for your bath. [She begins scraping the massage ointment back into the box.] HELENA. You're as careful with that ointment as Moo Moo is with me. TSUMU. Precious things need precious guarding. HELENA. It's very short-sighted on Moo Moo's part to send everybody to the galleys who dares lift a head when I pass by and all these nice-looking sol- diers ! Why the only men I ever see besides Moo Moo are Analytikos and a lot of useless eunuchs. TSUMU. Oh, those eunuchs ! HELENA [as she sits dreaming]. I wish, I wish [She stops short.] TSUMU. You have but to speak your desire to the King. HELENA [shocked], Tsumu! How can you think of such a thing? I'm not a bad woman. TSUMU. He would die for you. HELENA [relieved]. Ah! Do you think so, Tsumu? TSUMU. All Sparta knows that His Majesty is a lover of peace, and yet he would rush into battle to save you. HELENA. I should love to have men fighting for me. TSUMU [in high alarm]. May Zeus turn a deaf ear to your voice. HELENA. Don't be impertinent, Tsumu. I've got to have some sort of amuse- ment. TSUMU. You've only to wait till next week, and you can see another of the priestesses sacrificed to Diana. HELENA. That doesn't interest me any longer. The girls are positively begin- ning to like it. No! My mind is set on war. TSUMU [terrified], I have five fathers of my children to lose. HELENA. War, or or TSUMU [hopefully]. Have I been so long your slave that I no longer know your wish? HELENA [very simply]. Well, I should like to have a lover. TSUMU [springs up and rushes over in horror to draw the curtains across the door of the library. All of a tremble], Gods grant they didn't hear you. HELENA. Don't be alarmed, Tsumu. Analytikos is over eighty. [She bursts into a loud peal of laugh- ter and Menelaus rushes into the room.] MENELAUS [in high irritation]. I wish you wouldn't make so much noise in here. A King might at least expect quiet in his own palace. HELENA. Tsumu, see if my bath is ready. [Tsumu exits.] You used not speak like that to me, Moo Moo. MENELAUS [in a temper]. How many times must I tell you that my name is Menelaus and that it isn't "Moo Moo"? HELENA [tweetly], I'll never do it again, Moo Moo. [She giggles.] MENELAUS. Your laugh gets on my nerves. It's louder than it used to be. HELENA. If you wish it, I'll never, never laugh again. MENELAUS. You've promised that too often. HELENA [sadly]. Things are not as they used to be. MENELAUS. Are you going to start that again ? HELENA'S HUSBAND 447 HELENA [with a tinge of melancholy}. I suppose you'd like me to be still and sad. MENELAUS [bitterly]. Is it too much to hope that you might be still and happy? HELENA [speaking very quickly and tragically]. Don't treat me cruelly, Moo Moo. You don't understand me. No man ever really understands a woman. There are terrible depths to my nature. I had a long talk with Dr. ^Esculapius only last week, and he told me I'm too introspective. It's the curse of us emo- tional women. I'm really quite worried, but much you care, much you care. [A note of tears comes into her voice.] I'm sure you don't love me any more, Moo Moo. No! No! Don't answer me! If you did you couldn't speak to me the way you do. I've never wronged you in deed or in thought. No, never never. I've given up my hopes and aspi- rations, because I knew you wanted me around you. And now, NOW [She can contain the tears no longer.] Be- cause I have neglected my beauty and because I am old and ugly, you regret that Ulysses or Agamemnon didn't marry me when you all wanted me, and I know you curse the day you ever saw me. [She is breathless.] MENELAUS [fuming]. Well! Have you done? HELENA. No. I could say a great deal more, but I'm not a talkative woman. [Analytikos comes in from the li- brary.] ANALYTIKOS. Your Majesty, are we to read no longer to-day? HELENA. I have something to say to the King. [Analytikos goes toward the library. Menelaus anxiously stops him.] MENELAUS. No. Stay here. You are a wise man and well understand the wis- dom of the Queen. ANALYTIKOS [bowing to Helena]. Hel- ena is wise as she is beautiful. MENELAUS. She is attempting to prove to me in a thousand words that she's a silent woman. ANALYTIKOS. Women are seldom si- lent. [Helen resents this.] Their beauty is forever speaking for them. HELENA. The years have, indeed, taught you wisdom. [Tsumu enters.] TSUMU. The almond water awaits your majesty. HELENA. I hope you haven't forgotten the chiropodist. TSUMU. He has been commanded but he's always late. He's so busy. HELENA [in a purring tone to Mene- laus]. Moo Moo. [Menelaus, bored, turns away.] HELENA [to Tsumu]. I think after all I'll wear my Sicily blue. [She and Tsumu go into the Queen's apartment.] ANALYTIKOS. Shall we go back to the library? MENELAUS. My mind is unhinged again that woman with her endless pro-' testations. ANALYTIKOS. I am sorry the poets no longer divert you. MENELAUS. A little poetry is always too much. ANALYTIKOS. To-morrow we will try the historians. MENELAUS. No! Not the historians. I want the truth for a change. ANALYTIKOS. The truth! MENELAUS. Where in books can I find escape from the grim reality of being hitched for life to such a wife? Bah! ANALYTIKOS. Philosophy teaches MENELAUS. Why have the Gods made woman necessary to man, and made them fools? ANALYTIKOS. For seventy years I have been resolving the problem of woman and even at my age MENELAUS. Give it up, old man. The answer is don't. ANALYTIKOS. Such endless variety, and yet MENELAUS [with the conviction of final- ity]. There are only two sorts of women ! Those who are failures and those who realize it. ANALYTIKOS. Is not Penelope, the model wife of your cousin Ulysses, an exception? MENELAUS. Duty is the refuge of the unbeautiful. She is as commonplace as she is ugly. [And then with deep bitter- ness.] Why didn't he marry Helen when we all wanted her? He was too wise for that. He is the only man I've ever known who seems able to direct destiny. 448 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS ANALYTIKOS. You should not blame the Gods for a lack of will. MENELAUS [shouting]. Will! Heaven knows I do not lack the will to rid my- self of this painted puppet, but where is the instrument ready to my hand? [At this moment a Shepherd of Apol- lonian beauty leaps across the rail of the balcony and bounds into the room. Menelaus and Analytikos start back in amazement.] ANALYTIKOS. Who are you? PARIS. An adventurer. ANALYTIKOS. Then you have reached the end of your story. In a moment you will die. PARIS. I have no faith in prophets. ANALYTIKOS. The soldiers of the King will give you faith. Don't you know that it means death for any man to enter the apartments of the Queen? PARIS [looking from one to the other]. Oh! So you're a couple of eunuchs. [Though nearly eighty this is too much for Analytikos to bear. He rushes to call the guard, but Mene- laus stops him.] PARIS [to Analytikos]. Thanks. ANALYTIKOS. You thank me for tell- ing you your doom? PARIS. No for convincing me that I'm where I want to be. It's taken me a lonsr while, but I knew I'd get here. [And then very intimately to Menelaus.] Where's the Queen? MEXELAUS. Where do you come from? PARIS. From the hills. I had come down into the market-place to sell my sheep. I had my hood filled with ap- ples. They were golden-red like a thou- sand sunsets. MENELAUS [annoyed]. You might skip those bucolic details. PARIS. At the fair I met three ancient gypsies. MENELAUS. What have they to do with you coming here? PARIS. You don't seem, very patient. Can't I tell my story in my own way? They asked me for the apple I was eat- ing and I asked them what they'd give for it. MENELAUS. I'm not interested in mar- ket quotations. PARIS. You take everything so liter- ally. I'm sure you're easily bored. MENELAUS [with meaning]. I am. PARIS [going on cheerfully]. The first was to give me all the money she could beg, and the second was to tell me all the truth she could learn by listening, and the third promised me a pretty girl. So I chose [He hesitates.] ANALYTIKOS. You cannot- escape by spinning out your tale. PARIS. Death is the end of one story and the beginning of another. MENELAUS. Well! Well! Come to the point. Which did you choose? PARIS [smiling]. Well, you see I'd been in the hills for a long while, so I picked the girl. ANALYTIKOS. It would have been bet- ter for you if you had chosen wisdom. PARIS. I knew you'd say that. ANALYTIKOS. I have spoken truly. In a moment you will die. PARIS. It is because the old have for- gotten life that they preach wisdom. MENELAUS. So you chose the girl? Well, go on. PARIS. This made the other cronies angry, and when I tossed her the apple one of the others yelped at me : " You may as well seek the Queen of Sparta: she is the fairest of women." And as I turned away I heard their laughter, but the words had set my heart aflame and though it cost me my life, I'll follow the adventure. ANALYTIKOS [scandalized]. Haven't we heard enough of this? MENELAUS [deeply]. No! I want to hear how the story ends. It may amuse the King. [He makes a sign to Analytikos.] PARIS. And on the ship at night I looked long at the stars and dreamed of possessing Helen. [Analytikos makes an involuntary movement toward the balcony, but Menelaus stops him.] PARIS. Desire has been my guiding Mercury; the Fates are with me, and here I am. ANALYTIKOS. The wrath of the King will show you no mercy. PARIS [nonchalantly]. I'm not afraid of the King. He's fat, and a fool. ANALYTIKOS. Shall I call the guards? [Menelaus stops him.] HELENA'S HUSBAND 449 MENELAUS [very significantly]. So you would give your life for a glimpse of the Queen? PARIS [swiftly]. Yes! My immortal soul, and if the fables tell the truth, the sight will be worth the forfeit. MEXELAUS [suddenly jumping up]. It shall be as you wish! PARIS [buoyantly]. Venus has smiled on me. MENELAUS. In there beyond the library you will find a room with a bath. Wait there till I call you. PARIS. Is this some trick to catch me? MEXELAUS. A Spartan cannot lie. PARIS. What will happen to you if the King hears of this? MEXELAUS. I will answer for the king. Go. [Paris exits into the library.] ANALYTIKOS [rubbing his hands]. Shall I order the boiling oil? MENELAUS [surprised]. Oil? AXALYTIKOS. Now that he is being cleaned for the sacrifice. MEXELAUS. His torture will be greater than being boiled alive. AXALYTIKOS [eagerly]. You'll have him hurled from the wall of the palace to a forest of waiting spears below? MEXELAUS. None is so blind as he who sees too much. AXALYTIKOS. Your majesty is subtle in his cruelty. MEXELAUS. Haven't the years taught you the cheapness of revenge? AXALYTIKOS [mystified]. You do not intend to alter destiny. MEXELAUS. Never before has destiny been so clear to me. AXALYTIKOS. Then the boy must die. MEXELAUS [with slow determination]. No ? He has been sent by the Gods to save me! ANALYTIKOS. Your majesty! [He is trembling with apprehension.] MEXELAU& [with unbudgeable convic- tion]. Helena must elope with him! AXALYTIKOS [falling into a seat]. Ye Gods! MEXELAUS [quietly], I couldn't di- vorce the Queen. That would set a bad example. AXALYTIKOS. Yes, very. MEXELAUS. I couldn't desert her. That would be beneath my honor. AXALYTIKOS [deeply]. Was there no other way? MENELAUS [pompously]. The King can do no wrong, and besides I hate the smell of blood. Are you a prophet as well as a scholar? Will she po? ANALYTIKOS. To-night I will read the stars. MEXELAUS [meaningfully]. By to- night I'll not need you to tell me. [Analytikos sits deep in thought.] Well? AXALYTIKOS. Ethics cite no precedent. MEXELAUS. Do you mean to say I'm not justified? AXALYTIKOS [cogitating]. Who can establish the punctilious ratio between, necessity and desire? MEXELAUS [beginning to fume]. This is no time for language. Just put your- self in my place. ANALYTIKOS. Being you, how can I judge as I? MEXELAUS [losing control]. May you choke on your dialectics ! Zeus himself could have stood it no longer. ANALYTIKOS. Have you given her soul a chance to grow? MENELAUS. Her soul, indeed! It's shut in her rouge pot. [He has been strutting about. Suddenly he sits down crushing a roll of papyrus. He takes it up and in utter disgust reads.] "The perfect hip, its development and perma- nence." Bah ! [He flings it to the floor.] I've done what I had to do, and Gods grant the bait may be sweet enough to catch the Queen. . ANALYTIKOS. If you had diverted your- self with a war or two you might have forgotten your troubles at home. MENELAUS [frightened]. I detest dis- sension of any kind my dream was per- petual peace in comfortable domesticity with a womanly woman to warm my san- dals. ANALYTIKOS. Is not the Queen ? MENELAUS. No! No! The whole world is but her mirror. And I'm ex- pected to face that woman every morn- ing at breakfast for the rest of my life, and by Venus that's more than even a King can bear! AXALYTIKOS. Even a King cannot alter destiny. I warn you, whom the Gads, have joined together. 450 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS MENELAUS [in an outbwtt]. Is for man to break asunder! ANALYTIKOS [deeply shocked]. You talk like an atheist. MENELAUS. I never allow religion to interfere with life. Go call the victim and see that he be left alone with the Queen. [Menelaus exits and Analytikos goes over to the door of the library and summons Paris, who enters clad in a gorgeous robe.} PARIS. I found this in there. It looks rather well, doesn't it? Ah! So you're alone. I suppose that stupid friend of yours has gone to tell the King. When do I see the Queen? ANALYTIKOS. At once. [He goes to the door of the Queen's apartment and claps his hand. Tsumu enters and at the sight of her Paris recoils the full length of the room.] PABIS. I thought the Queen was a blonde ! ANALYTIKOS. Tell Her Majesty a stranger awaits her here. [Tsumu exits, her eyes wide on Paris.] You should thank the Gods for this moment. PARTS [his eyes on the door]. You do it for me. I can never remember all their names. [Helena enters clad in her Sicily blue, crowned with a garland of golden flowers. She and Paris stand riveted, looking at each other. Their attitude might be described as fantastic. Analytikos watches them for a moment and then with hands and head lifted to heaven he goes into the library.] PARIS [quivering with emotion], I have the most strange sensation of hav- ing seen you before. Something I can't explain HELENA [quite practically]. Please don't bother about all sorts of fine dis- tinctions. Under the influence of Analy- tikos and my husband, life has become a mess of indecision. I'm a simple, direct woman and I expect you to say just what you think. PARIS. Do you? Very well, then [He comes a step nearer to her.] Fate is impelling me toward you. HELENA. Yes. That's much better. So you're a fatalist. It's very Greek. I don't see what our dramatists would do without it. PARIS. In my country there are no dramatists. We are too busy with real- ity. HELENA. Your people must be unciv- ilized barbarians. PARIS. My people are a genuine peo- ple. There is but one thing we worship. HELENA. Don't tell me it's money. PARIS. It's HELENA. Analytikos says if there weren't any money, there wouldn't be any of those ridiculous socialists. PARIS. It isn't money. It's sincerity. HELENA. I, too, believe in sincerity. It's the loveliest thing in the world. PARIS. And the most dangerous. HELENA. The truth is never danger- ous. PARIS. Except when told. HELENA [making room on the couch for him to sit next to her]. You mustn't say wicked things to me. PARIS. Can your theories survive a test? HELENA [beautifully]. Truth is eter- nal and survives all tests. PARIS. No. Perhaps, after all, your soul is not ready for the supremest heights. HELENA. Do you mean to say I'm not religious? Religion teaches the meaning of love. PARIS. Has it taught you to love your husband? HELENA [starting up and immediately sitting down again]. How dare you speak to me like that? PARIS. You see. I was right. [He goes toward the balcony.] HELENA [stopping him]. Whatever made you think so? PARIS. I've heard people talk of the King. You could never love a man like that. HELENA [beautifully], A woman's first duty is to love her husband. PARIS. There is a higher right than duty. HELENA [with conviction]. Right is right. HELENA'S HUSBAND PARIS [with admiration]. The world has libeled you. HELENA. Me! The Queen? PARIS. You are as wise as you are beautiful. HELENA [smiling coyly]. Why, you hardly know me. PARIS. I know you ! I, better than all men. HELENA. You? PARIS [rupturously]. Human law has given you to Menelaus, but divine law makes you mine. HELENA [in amazement]. What! PARIS. I alone appreciate your beauty. I alone can reach your soul. HELENA. Ah! PARIS. You hate your husband ! HELENA [drawing back]. Why do you look at me like that? PARIS. To see if there's one woman in the world who dares tell the truth. HELENA. My husband doesn't under- stand me. PARIS [with conviction], I knew you detested him. HELENA. He never listens to my aspi- rations. PARIS. Egoist. HELENA [assuming an irresistible pose], I'm tired of being only lovely. He doesn't realize the meaning of spiritual inter- course, of soul communion. PARIS. Fool ! HELENA. You dare call Moo Moo a fool? PARIS. Has he not been too blind to see that your soul outshines your beauty? [Then, very dramatically.] You're sti- fling! HELENA [clearing her throat], I I PARIS. He has made you sit upon your wings. [Helena, jumping up, shifts her position.] You are groping in the dark- ness. HELENA. Don't be silly. It's very light in here. PARIS [undisturbed]. You are stumb- ling, and I have come to lead you. [He steps toward her.] HELENA. Stop right there! [Paris stops.] No man but the King can come within ten feet of me. It's a court tradi- tion. PARIS. Necessity knows no tradition. [He falls on his knees before her.] 1 shall come close to you, though the flame of your beauty consume me. HELENA. You'd better be careful what you say to me. Remember I'm the Queen. PARIS. No man weighs his words who has but a moment to live. HELE-NA. You said that exactly like an actor. [He leans very close to her.] What are you doing now? PARIS. I am looking into you. You are the clear glass in which I read the secret of the universe. HELENA. The secret of the universe. Ah ! Perhaps you could understand me. PARIS. First you must understand yourself. HELENA [instinctively taking up a mir- ror]. How? PARIS. You must break with all this prose. [With an unconscious gesture he sweeps a tray of toilet articles from the table. Helena emits a little shriek.] HELENA. The ointment! PARIS [rushing to the window and pointing to the distance]. And climb to infinite poesie ! HELENA [catching his enthusiasm, says very blandly]. There is nothing in the world like poetry. PARIS [lyrically]. Have you ever heard the poignant breathing of the stars? HELENA. No. I don't believe in as- trology. PARIS. Have you ever smelt the pow- dery mists of the sun? HELENA. I should sneeze myself to death. PARIS. Have you ever listened to the sapphire soul of the sea? HELENA. Has the sea a soul? But please don't stop talking. You do it so beautifully. PARIS. Deeds are sweeter than words. Shall we go hand in hand to meet eter- nity? HELENA [not comprehending him], That's very pretty. Say it again. PARIS [passionately]. There's but a moment of life left me. I shall stifle it in ecstasy. Helena, Helena, I adore you! HELENA [jumping up in high surprise], You're not making love to me, you naughty boy? PARIS. Helena. 452 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS HELENA. You've spoken to me so little, and already you dare to do that. PARIS [impetuously], I am a lover of life. I skip the inessentials. HELENA. Remember who I am. PARIS. I have not forgotten, Daughter of Heaven. [Suddenly he leaps to his feet.] Listen! HELENA. Shhh! That's the King and Analytikos in the library. PARIS. No! No! Don't you hear the flutter of wings? HELENA. Wings? PARIS [ecstatically]. Venus, mother of Love ! HELENA [ alarmed] . What is it? PARIS. She has sent her messenger. I hear the patter of little feet. HELENA. Those little feet are the sol- diers below in the courtyard. [A trumpet sounds.] PARIS [the truth of the situation break- ing through his emotion]. In a moment I shall be killed. HELENA. Killed? PARIS. Save me and save yourself! HELENA. Myself? PARIS. I shall rescue you and lead you on to life. HELENA. No one has even spoken to me like that before. PARIS. This is the first time your ears have heard the truth. HELENA. Was it of you I've been dreaming? PARIS. Your dream was but your un- realized desire. HELENA. Menelaus has never made me feel like this. [And then with a sudden shriek.] Oh! I'm a wicked woman! PARIS. No ! No ! HELENA. For years I've been living wtth a man I didn't love. PARIS. Yes ! Yes ! HELENA. I'm lost! PARIS [at a loss]. No! Yes! Yes! No! HELENA. It was a profanation of the most holy. PARIS. The holiest awaits you, Helena ! Our love will lighten the Plutonian realms. HELENA. Menelaus never spoke to me like that. PARIS. 'Tis but the first whisper of my adoration. HELENA. I can't face him every morn- ing at breakfast for the rest of my life. That's even more than a Queen can bear. PARIS. I am waiting to release you. HELENA. I've stood it for seven years. PARIS. I've been coming to you since the beginning of time. HELENA. There is something urging me to go with you, something I do not understand. PARIS. Quick ! There is but a moment left us. [He takes her rapturously in his arms. There is a passionate em- brace in the midst of which Tsumu enters.] TSUMU. The chiropodist has come. HELENA. Bring me my outer gai.nent and my purse. [Tsumu exits, her eyes wide on Paris.] PARIS. Helena ! Helena ! [Helena looks about her and takes up the papyrus that Menelaus has flung to the floor.] HELENA. A last word to the King. [She looks at the papyrus.] No, this won't do; I shall have to take this with me. PARIS. W r hat is it? HELENA. Maskanda's discourse on the hip. [A trumpet sounds below in the courtyard.] PARIS [excitedly]. Leave it or your hip may cost me my head. We haven't a minute to spare. Hurry! Hurry! [Helena takes up an eyebrow pencil and writes on the back of the papy- rus. She looks for a place to put it and seeing the shield she smears it with some of the ointment and sticks the papyrus to it.] PARIS [watching her in ecstasy]. You are the fairest of all fair women and your name will blaze as a symbol through- out eternity. [Tsumu enters with the purse and the Queen's outer robe.] HELENA [tossing the purse to Paris]. Here, we may need this. PARIS [throwing it back to Tsitmu}. This for your silence, daughter of dark- ness. A prince has no need of purses. TSUMU [looking at him]. A prince! HELENA'S HUSBAND 453 HELENA [gloriously]. My prince of poetry. My deliverer ! PARIS [divinely]. My queen of love! [They go out, Tsumu looking after them in speechless amazement. Suddenly she sees the papyrus on the shield, runs over and reads it and then rushes to the door of the * library.] TSUMU [calling], Analytikos. [She hides the pur"se in her bosom: Analytikos enters, scroll in hand.] ANALYTIKOS. Has the Queen sum- moned me? TSUMU [mysteriously], A terrible thing has happened. ANALYTIKOS. What's the matter? TSUMU. Where's the King? ANALYTIKOS. In the library. TSUMU. I have news more precious than the gold of Midas. ANALYTIKOS [giving her a purse], Well! What is it? TSUMU [speaking very dramatically and watching the effect of her words]. The Queen has deserted Menelaus. ANALYTIKOS [receiving the shock phil- osophically]. Swift are the ways of Na- ture. The Gods have smiled upon him. TSUMU. The Gods have forsaken the King to smile upon a prince. ANALYTIKOS. What? TSUMU. He was a prince. ANALYTIKOS [apprehensively]. Why do you say that? TSUMU [clutching her bosom]. I have a good reason to know. [ There is a' sound of voices below in the courtyard. Mene- laus rushes in expectantly. Tsumu falls prostrate before him.] Oh, King, in thy bottomless agony blame not a blameless negress. The Queen has fled ! MENELAUS [in his delight forgetting himself and flinging her a purse]. Is it true? TSUMU. Woe ! Woe is me ! MENELAUS [storming]. Out of my sight, you eyeless Argus! ANALYTIKOS [to Tsumu]. Quick, send a messenger. Find out who he was. [Tsumu sticks the third purse in her bosom and runs out.] MENELAUS [with radiant happiness, kneeling before the bust of Zeus]. Ye Gods, I thank ye. Peace and a happy life at last. [The shouts in the courtyard grow louder.] ANALYTIKOS. The news has spread through the palace. MENELAUS [in trepidation, springing up]. No one would dare stop the prog- ress of the Queen. TSUMU [rushes in and prostrates her- self before the King], Woe is me! They have gone by the road to the harbor. MENELAUS [anxiously]. Yes! Yes! TSUMU. By the King's orders no man has dared gaze upon Her Majesty. They all fell prostrate before her. MENELAUS. Good! Good! [Attempt- ing to cover his delight.] Go! Go! You garrulous dog. [Tsumu gets up and points to shield. Analytikos and the Kirtg look to- ward it. Analytikos tears off the papyrus and brings it to Mene- laus. Tsumu, watching them, exits. ] MENELAUS [reading], " I am not a bad woman. I did what I had to do." How Greek to blame fate for what one wants to do. [Tsumu again comes tumbling in.] TSUMU [again prostrate before the King]. A rumor flies through the city. He he ANALYTIKOS [anxiously]. Well? Well? TSUMU. He he MENELAUS [furiously to Analytikos]. Rid me of this croaking raven. TSUMTT. Evil has fallen on Sparta. He ANALYTIKOS. Yes yes MENELAUS [in a rage]. Out of my sight, perfidious Nubian. [Sounds of confusion in the court- yard. Suddenly she springs to her feet and yells at the top of her voice.] TSUMU. He was Paris, Prince of Troy! [They all start back. Analytikos stumbles into a seat. Menelaus turns pale. Tsumu leers like a black Nemesis.] ANALYTIKOS [very ominously]. Who can read the secret of the Fates? MENELAUS [frightened]. What do you mean? ANALYTIKOS. He is the son of Priam, King of Troy. 454 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS TSUMU [adding fuel]. And of Hec- uba, Queen of the Trojans. [She rushes out to spread the news.] ANALYTIKOS. That makes the matter international. MENELAUS [quickly]. But we have treaties with Troy. ANALYTIKOS. Circumstances alter trea- ties. They will mean nothing. MENELAUS. Nothing? ANALYTIKOS. No more than a scrap of papyrus. Sparta will fight to regain her Queen. MENELAUS. But I don't want her back. ANALYTIKOS. Can you tell that to Sparta? Remember, the King can do no wrong. Last night I dreamed of war. MENELAUS. No! No! Don't say that. After the scandal I can't be expected to fight to get her back. ANALYTIKOS. Sparta will see with the eyes of chivalry. MENELAUS [fuming]. But I don't be- lieve in war. ANALYTIKOS [still obdurate]. Have you forgotten the oath pledged of old, with Ulysses and Agamemnon? They have sworn, if ever the time came, to fight and defend the Queen. MENELAUS [bitterly]. I didn't think of the triple alliance. ANALYTIKOS. Can Sparta ask less of her King? MENELAUS. Let's hear the other side. We can perhaps arbitrate. Peace at any price. ANALYTIKOS. Some bargains are too cheap. MBNELAUS [hopelessly]. But I am a pacifist. ANALYTIKOS. You are Menelaus of Sparta, and Sparta's a nation of sol- diers. MENELAUS [desperately], I am too proud to fight! ANALYTIKOS. Here, put on your shield. [A great clamor comes up from the court- yard. Analytikos steps out on the bal- cony and is greeted with shouts of " The King! The King!" Addressing the crowd.] People of Sparta, this calamity has been forced upon us. [Menelaus winces.] We are a peaceful people. But thanks to our unparalleled efficiency, the military system of Sparta is the most powerful in all Greece and we can mobil- ize in half an hour. [Loud acclaims from the jyeople. Menelaus, the papyrus still in hand, crawls over and attempts to stop Analytikos.] ANALYTIKOS [not noticing him]. In the midst of connubial and communal peace the thunderbolt has fallen on the King. [Menelaus tugs at Analytikos' robe.] Broken in spirit as he is, he is already pawing the ground like a battle steed. Never will we lay down our arms! We and Jupiter! [Cheers.] Never unfcil the Queen is restored to Menelaus. Never, even if it takes ten years. [Mene- laus squirms. A loud cheer.] Even now the King is buckling on his shield. [More cheers. Analytikos steps farther forward and then with bursting elo- quence.} One hate we have and one alone! [Yells from below.} Hate by water and hate by land, Hate of the head and hate of the hand, Hate of Paris and hate of Troy That has broken the Queen for a moment's toy. [The yells grow fiercer.} Zeus' thunder will shatter the Trojan throne. We have one hate and one alone ! [Menelaus sits on the floor dejectedly looking at the papyrus. A thunder of voices from the people.] We have one hate and one alone. Troy! Troy! [Helmets and swords are thrown into the air. The cheers grow tumul- tuous, trumpets are blown, and the Curtain falls.] THE SHADOWED STAR BY MABY MACMILLAN Copyright, 1913, by Stewart & Kidd Company. All rights reserved* CAST A WOMAN, the mother. AN OLD WOMAN, the grandmother, Two GIRLS, the daughters. A MESSENGER BOY. A NEIGHBOR. ANOTHER NEIGHBOR. THE SHADOWED STAR is reprinted from " Short Plays " by Mary MacMillan by per- mission of Messrs. Stewart & Kidd Company, Cincinnati, Ohio. The acting rights of this play are reserved by the author. Address all correspondence to the author in regard to production. THE SHADOWED STAR BY MARY [A very bare room in a tenement house, uncarpeted, the boards being much worn, and from the walls the bluish whitewash has scaled away; in the front on one side is a cooking-stove, and farther back on the same side a window; on the opposite side, in a door opening into a hallway; in the middle of the room there is a round, worn dining-room table, on which stands a stunted, scraggly bit of an evergreen- tree; at the back of the room, near the window, stands an old-fashioned safe with perforated tin front; next it a door open- in// info an inner room, and next it in the corner a bed, on which lies a palid woman; another woman, very old, sits in a rocking-chair in front of the stove and rocks. There is silence for a long space, the old woman rocking and the woman on the bed giving an occasional low sigh or groan. At last the old woman speaks.] THE OLD WOMAN. David an' Michael might be kapin' the Christmas wid us to- morrow night if we hadn't left the ould counthry. They'd never be crossin' the sea all the many weary miles o' wet- ness an' fog an' cold to be kapin' it wid us here in this great house o' brick walls in a place full o' strange souls. They would nover be for crossin' all that weary, cold, green wather, groanin' an' tossin' like it was the grave o' sivin thou- san' divils. Ah, but it would be a black night at sea! [She remains silent for a few minutes, staring at the stove and rocking slowly.] If they hadn't to cross that wet, cold sea they'd maybe come. But wouldn't they be afeard o' this great city, an' would they iver find us here? Six floors up, an' they niver off the ground in their lives. What would ye be thinkin'? [The other woman does not answer her. She then speaks petu- lantly.] What would ye be thinkin'? Mary, have ye gone clane to slape? [Turns her chair and peers around the back of it at the pallid woman on the bed, who sighs and answers.] THE WOMAN. No, I on'y wisht I could. Maybe they'll come I don't know, but father an' Michael wasn't much for thravel. [After a pause and very wearily.] Maybe they'll not come, yet [slowly], maybe I'll be kapin' the Christmas wid them there. [The Old Woman seems not to notice this, wander- ing from, her question back to her mem- ories.] THE OLD WOMAN. No, they'll niver be lavin' the ould land, the green land, the home land. I'm wishing I was there wid thim. [Another pause, while she stares at the stove.] Maybe we'd have a duck an' potatoes, an' maybe something to drink to kape us warm against the cold. An' the boys would all be dancin' an' the girls have rosy cheeks. [There is an- other pause, and then a knock at the door. " Come in," the two women call, in reedii, weak voices, and a thin, slat- ternly Irish woman enters.] THE NEIGHBOR. God avnin' to ye; I came in to ask if I might borrow the loan o' a bit o' tay, not havin' a leaf of it left. THE WOMAN. We have a little left, just enough we was savin' for ourselves to-night, but you're welcome to it maybe the girls will bring some. Will ye get it for her, mother? Or she can help herself it's in the safe. It's on the lower shelf among the cups an' sau- cers an' plates. [The Old Woman and Neighbor go to the safe and hunt for the tea, and do not find it readily. The safe has little in it but a few cracked and broken dishes.] 457 458 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS THE NEIGHBOR [holding up a tiny paper bag irith an ounce perhaps of tea in it.] It's just a scrap! THE OLD WOMAN. To be sure! We use so much tay ! We're that exthrava- gant ! THE NEIGHBOR. It hurts me to take it from ye maybe I'd better not. THE OLD WOMAN. The girls will bring more. We always have a cupboard full o' things. We're always able to lend to our neighbors. THE XEIGHROB. It's in great luck, ye are. For some of us be so poor we don't know where the next bite's comin' from. An' this winter whin iverything's so high an' wages not raised, a woman can't find enough to cook for her man's dinner. It isn't that ye don't see things oh, tlv.y're in the markets an' the shops, an' it makes yer mouth wather as ye walk along the sthrates this day before the Christmas to see the turkeys an' the ducks ye'll niver ate, an' the little pigs an' the or'nges an' bananies an' cranberries an' the cakes an' nuts an' it's worse, I'm thinkin', to see thim whin there's no money to buy than it was in the ould counthry, where there was nothing to buy wid the money ye didn't have. THE WOMAN. It's all one to us poor folk whether there be things to buy or not. [She speaks gaspingly, as one who is short of breath.] I'm on'y thinkin' o' the clane air at home if I could have a mornin' o' fresh sunshine these fogs an' smoke choke me so. The girls would take me out to the counthry if they had time an' I'd get well. But they haven't time. [She falls into a fit of coughing.] THE OLD WOMAN. But it's like to be bright on Christmas Day. It wouldn't iver be cloudy on Christmas Day, an' maybe even now the stars would be crap- in' out an' the air all clear an' cold an' the moon a-shinin' an' iverything so sthill an' quiet an' bleamin' an' breathless [her voice falls almost to a whisper], awaitin' on the Blessed Virgin. [She goes to the window, lifts the blind, and peers out, then throws up the sash and leans far out. After a moment she pulls the sash down again and the blind and turns to those in the room with the look of pathetic disappointment in little things, of the aged.] No, there's not a sthar, not one little twinklin' sthar, an' how'll the shepherds find their way? Iverything's dull an' black an' the clouds are hang^n' down heavy an' sthill. How'll the shep- herds find their way without the sthr to guide thim? [Then almost whimper- ing^] An' David an' Michael will niver be crossin' that wet, black sea! An' the girls how'll they find their way home? They'll be lost somewhere along by the hedges. Ohone, ohone ! THE NEIGHBOR. Now, grannie, what would ye be sayin'? There's niver a hedge anywhere but granite blocks an' electric light poles an' plenty o' light in the city for thim to see all their way home. [Then to the woman.] Ain't they late? THE WOMAN. They're always late, an' they kape gettin' lather an' lather. THE NEIGHBOR. Yis, av coorse, the sthores is all open in the avnin's before Christmas. THE WOMAN. They go so early in the mornin' an' get home so late at night, an' they're so tired. THE NEIGHBOR [whiningly]. They're lucky to be young enough to work an' not be married. I've got to go home to the childer an' give thim their tay. Pat's gone to the saloon again, an' to- morrow bein' Christmas I misdoubt he'll be terrible dhrunk again, an' me on'y jist well from the blow in the shoulder the last time. [She wipes her eyes and moves towards the door.] THE OLD WOMAN. Sthay an' kape Christmas wid us. We're goin' to have our celebratin' to-night on Christmas Eve, the way folks do here. I like it be>t on Christmas Day, the way 'tis in the ould counthry, but here 'tis Christmas Eve they kape. We're waitin' for the girls to come home to start things they know- in' how Mary an' me on'y know how to kape Christmas Day as 'tis at home. But the girls'll soon be here, an' they'll have the three an' do the cookin' an' all, an' we'll kape up the jollity way into the night. THE NEIGHBOR [looks questioningly and surprised at the Woman, whose eyes are on the mother.} Nay, if Pat came home dhrunk an' didn't find me, he'd kill me. We have all to be movin' on to our own throubles. [She goes out, and the old woman leaves the Christmas-tree which she has been fingering and admir- THE SHADOWED STAR 459 ing, and sits down in the rocking-chair again, After a while she croons to her- self in a high, broken voice. This lasts some time, when there is the noise of a slamming door and then of footsteps ap- proaching.] THE WOMAN. If I could on'y be in the counthry ! THE OLD WOMAN. Maybe that would be the girls! [She starts tremblingly to her feet, but the steps come up to the door and go by.] If David and Michael was to come now an' go by there bein' no sthar to guide thim! THE WOMAN. Nay, mother, 'twas the shepherds that was guided by the sthar an' to the bed o' the Blessed Babe. THE OLD WOMAN. Aye, so 'twas. What be I thinkin' of? The little Blessed Babe ! [She smiles and sits staring at the stove again for a little.] But they could not 'find Him to-night. 'Tis so dark an' no sthars shinin.' [After an- other pause.] An' what would shep- herds do in a ghreat city? 'Twould lie lost they'd be, quicker than in any bog. Think ye, Mary, that the boys would be hootin' thim an' the p'lice, maybe, would want to be aristin' thim for loitherin'. They'd niver find the Blessed Babe, an' they'd have to be movin' on. [Another pause, and then there is the sound of ap- proaching footsteps again. The Old Woman grasps the arms of her chair and leans forward, intently listening.] That would sure be the girls this time! [But again the footsteps go by. The Old Woman sighs.] Ah, but 'tis weary waitin'! [There is another long pause.] 'Twas on that day that David an' me was plighted a brave Christmas Day wid a shinin' sun an' a sky o' blue wid fair, white clouds. An' David an' me met at the early mass in the dark o' the frosty mornin' afore the sun rose an' there was all day good times an' a duck for dinner and puddin's an' a party at the O'Brady's in the evenin', whin David an' me danced. Ah, but he was a beautiful dancer, an' me, too I was as light on my feet as a fairy. [She begins to croon an old dance tune and hobbles to her feet, and, keeping time with her head, tries a grotesque and feeble sort of danc- ing. Her ei/es brighten and she smiles proudly.] Aye, but I danced like a fairy, an' there was not another couple so sprightly an' handsome in all the country. [She tires, and, looking piti- ful and disappointed, hobbles back to her chair, and drops into it again.] Ah, but I be old now, and the strength fails me. [She falls into silence for a few minutes.] 'Twas the day before the the little man, the little white dove, my next Christmas that Michael was born little son! [There is a moment's pause, and then the pallid woman on the bed has a violent fit of coughing.] THE WOMAN. Mother, could ye get me a cup o' wather? If the girls was here to get me a bite to ate, maybe it would kape the breath in me the night. THE OLD WOMAN [starts and stares at her daughter, as if she hardly compre- hended the present reality. She gets up and goes over to the window under which there is a pail full of water. She dips some out in a tin cup and carries it to her bed.] Ye should thry to get up an' move about some, so ye can enjoy the Christmas threat. 'Tis bad bein' sick on Christmas. Thry, now, Mary, to sit up a bit. The girls'll be wantin' ye to be merry wid the rest av us. THE WOMAN [looking at her mother with a sad wist fulness}. I wouldn't spoil things for the girls if I could help. Maybe, mother, if ye'd lift me a little I could sit up. [The Old Woman tugs at her, and she herself tries hard to get into a sitting posture, but after some effort and panting for breath, she falls back again. After a pause for rest, she speaks gaspingly.} Maybe I'll feel sthronger lather whin the girls come home they could help me [with the plaint of longing in her voice} they be so late! [After another pause.} Maybe I'll be sthrong again in the mornin' if I'd had a cup of coffee. Maybe I could get up an' walk about an' do the cook- in'. [There is a knock at the door, and again they call, " Come in," in reedy, weak voices. There enters a little mes- senger boy in a ragged overcoat that reaches almost to his heels. His eyes are large and bright, his face pale and dirty, and he is fearfully tired and worn.] THE WOMAN. W T hy, Tim, boy, come in. Sit ye down an' rest, ye're lookin' weary. THE OLD WOMAN. Come to the stove, 460 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS Timmie, man, an' warm yourself. We always kape a warm room an' a bright fire for visitors. THE BOY. I was awful cold an' hun- gry an' I come home to get somethin' to eat before. I started out on another trip, but my sisters ain't home from the store yit, an' the fire's gone out in the stove, an' the room's cold as outside. I thought maybe ye'd let me come in here an' git warm. THE Oi.n WOMAN. Poor orphan ! Poor lamb ! To be shure ye shall get warm by our sthove. THE BOY. The cars are so beastly col' an' so crowded a feller mostly has to stand on the back platform. [The Old Woman fakes him by the shoulder and pushes him towa/rd the stove, but he re- sists.] THE BOY. No, thank ye I don't want to go so near yet; my feet's all numb an' they allays hurt so when they warms up fast. THE OLD WOMAN. Thin sit ye down off from the sthove. [Moves the rocking- chair farther away from the stove for him.] THE BOY. If ye don't mind I'd rather stand on 'em 'til they gets a little used to it. They been numb off an' on mos' all day. THE WOMAN. Soon as yer sisters come, Timmie, ye'd betther go to bed 'tis the best place to get warm. THE BOY. I can't I got most a three-hour trip yet. I won't get home any 'fore midnight if I don't get lost, and maybe I'll get lost I did once out there. I've got to take a box o' 'Merican Beauty roses to a place eight mile out, an' the house ain't on the car track, but nearly a mile off, the boss said. I wisht they could wait till mornin', but the or- ders was they just got to get the roses to-night. You see, out there they don' have no gas goin' nights when there's a moon, an' there'd ought to be a moon to-night, on'y the clouds is so thick there ain't no light gets through. THE OLD 'WOMAN. There's no sthar shinin' to-night, Tim. [She shakes her head ominounly. She goes to the win- dow for (he second time, opens it as be- fore, and looks out. Shutting the win- dow, she comes back and speaks slowly and sadly.] Niver a sthar. An' the shepherds will be havin' a hard time, Tim, like you, findin' their way. THE BOY. Shepherds? In town? What shepherds? THE WOMAN. She means the shep- herds on Christmas Eve that wint to find the Blessed Babe, Jesus. THE OLD WOMAN. 'Tis Christmas Eve, Timmie; ye haven't forgot that, have ye? THE BOY. You bet I ain't. I know pretty well when Christmas is comin', by the way I got to hustle, an' the size of the boxes I got to carry. Seems as if my legs an' me would like to break up parcl- nership. I got to work till midnight every night, an' I'm so sleepy I drop off in the cars whenever I get a seat. An' the girls is at the store so early an' late they don't get time to cook me nothin' to eat. THE WOMAN. Be ye hungry, Timmie? THE BOY [diffidently and looking at the floor]. No, I ain't hungry now. THE WOMAN. Be ye shure, Timmie? THE BOY. Oh, I kin go till I git home. THE WOMAN. Mother, can't you find something for him to eat? THE OLD WOMAN. To be shure, to be shure. [Bustling about.] We always kapes a full cupboard to thrate our neighbors wid whin they comes in. [She goes to the empty safe and fusses in it to find something. She pretends to be very busy, and then glances around at the boy with a sly look and a smile.] Ah, Timmie, lad, what would ye like to be havin', now? If you had the wish o' yer heart for yer Christmas dinner an' a good, fairy to set it all afore ye? Ye'd be wishin' maybe, for a fine roast duck, to begin wid, in its own gravies an' some apple sauce to go wid it; an' ye'd be thinkin' o' a little bit o' pig nicely browned an' a plate of potaties; an' the little fairy woman would be bringin' yer puddin's an' nuts an' apples an' a dish o' the swatest tay. [The Boy smiles rather ruefully.] THE WOMAN. But, mother, you're not gettin' Tim something to ate. THE BOY. She's makin' me mouth water all right. [The Old Woman goes back to her search, but again turns about with a cunning look, and says to the boy:] THE OLD WOMAN. Maybe ye'll meet THE SHADOWED STAR 461 that little fairy woman out there in the counthry road where ye're takin' the roses! [Nods her head knowingly, turn- ing to the safe again.} Here's salt an here's pepper an' here's mustard an' a crock full o' sugar, an', oh ! Tim, here's some fine cold bacon fine, fat, cold bacon an' here's half a loaf o' white wheat bread! Why, Timmie, lad, that's just the food to make boys fat! Ye'll grow famously on it. 'Tis a supper, whin ye add to it a dhrop o' iligant milk, that's fit for a king. [She bustles about with great show of being busy and hav- ing much to prepare. Puts the plate of cold bacon upon the table where stands the stunted bit of an evergreen-tree, then brings the half-loaf of bread and cuts it into slices, laying pieces of bacon on the slices of bread. Then she pours out a glass of milk from a dilapidated and broken pitcher in the safe and brings it to the table, the Boy all the while watch- ing her hungrily. At last he says rather apologetically to the woman.] THE BOY. I ain't had nothin' since a wienerwurst at eleven o'clock. THE OLD WOMAN. Now, dhraw up, Timmie, boy, an' ate yer fill; ye're more thin welcome. [The boy does not sit down, but stands by the table and eats a slice of bread and bacon, drinking from the glass of milk occasionally.] THE WOMAN. Don't they niver give ye nothin' to ate at the gran' houses when ye'd be takin' the roses? THE BOY. Not them. They'd as soon think o' feedin' a telephone or an auto- mobile as me. THE WOMAN. But don't they ask ye in to get warm whin ye've maybe come so far? THE BOY. No, they don't seem to look at me 'zacly like a caller. They gener- ally steps but long enough to sign the receipt-book an' shut the front door be- hin' 'em so as not to let the house get col' the length o' time I'm standin' there. Well, I'm awful much obleeged to ye. Now, I got to be movin' on. THE OLD WOMAN. Sthop an' calibrate the Christmas wid us. We ain't started to do nothin' yet because the girls haven't come they know how [nodding her head] an' they're goin' to bring things all kinds o' good things to ate an' a branch of rowan berries ah, boy, a great branch o' rowan wid scarlet ber- ries shinin' [gesticulating and with gleam- ing eyes], an' we'll all be merry an' kape it up late into the night. THE BOY [in a little fear of her}. I guess it's pretty late now. I got to make that trip an' I guess when I get home I'll be so sleepy I'll jus' tumble in. Ye've been awful good to me, an' it's the first time I been warm to-day. Good-by. [He starts toward the door, but the Old Woman follows him and speaks to him coaxingly.] THE OLD WOMAN. Ah, don't ye go, Michael, lad ! Now, bide wid us a bit. [The Boy, surprised at the name, looks queerly at the Old Woman, who then stretches out her arms to him, and sai/s beseechingly:] Ah, boy, ah, Mike, bide wid us, now ye've come! We've been that lonesome widout ye ! THE BOY [frightened and shaking his head], I've got to be movin'. THE OLD WOMAN. No, Michael, little lamb, no ! THE BOY [almost terrified, watching her with staring eyes, and backing out], I got to go! [The Boy goes out, and the Old Woman breaks into weeping, totters over to her old rocking-chair and drops into it, rocks to and fro, wailing to herself.] THE OLD WOMAN. Oh, to have him come an' go again, my little Michael, my own little lad ! THE WOMAN. Don't ye, dearie; now, then, don't ye! 'Twas not Michael, but just our little neighbor boy, Tim. Ye know, poor lamb, now if ye'll thry to remember, that father an' Michael is gone to the betther land an' us is left. THE OLD WOMAN. Nay, nay, 'tis the fairies that took thim an' have thim now, kapin' thim an' will not ever give thim back. THE WOMAN. Whisht, mother ! Spake not of the little folk on the Holy Night! [Crosses herself.] Have ye for- fot the time o' all the year it is? Now, hry yer eyes, dearie, an' thry to be cheerful like 'fore the girls be comin' home. [A noise is heard, the banging of a door and footsteps.] Thim be the girls now, shure they be comin' at last. [But the sound of footsteps dies away.] But they'll be comin' soon. [Wearily, but with the inveterate hope.\ 462 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS [The two women relapse into silence again, which is undisturbed for a few minutes. Then there is a knock at the door, and together in quavering, reedy voices, they call, " Come in," as before. There enters a tall, big, broad-shouldered woman with a cold, discontented, hard look upon the face that might have been handsome some years back; still, in her eyes, as she looks at the pallid woman on the bed, there is something that de- notes a softness underneath it all.] THE OLD WOMAN. Good avnin' to ye ! We're that pleased to see our neigh- bors! THE NEIGHBOR [without paying any at- tention to the Old Woman, but entirely addressing the woman on the bed.\ How's yer cough? THE WOMAN. Oh, it's jist the same niayhe a little betther. If I could on'y get to the counthry! But the girls must be workin' they haven't time to take me. Sit down, won't ye? [The Neigh- bor goes to the bed and sits down on the foot of it.] THE NEIGHBOR. I'm most dead, I m so tired. I did two washin's to-day went out and did one this mornin' and then my own after I come home this afternoon. I jus' got through sprink- lin' it an' I'll iron to-morrow. THE WOMAN. Not on Christmas Day ! THE NEIGHBOR [with a sneer]. Christ- mas Day! Did ye hear 'bout the Beck- ers? Well, they was all put out on the sidewalk this afternoon. Becker's been sick, ye know, an' ain't paid his rent an' his wife's got a two weeks' old baby. It sort o' stunned Mis' Becker, an' she sat on one of the mattresses out there an' wouldn't move, an' nobody couldn't do nothin' with her. But they ain't the only ones has bad luck Smith, the painter, fell off a ladder an' got killed. They took him to the hospital, but it wasn't no use his head was all mashed in. His wife's got them five boys an' Smith never saved a cent, though he warn't a drinkin' man. It's a good thing Smith's children is boys they can make their livin' easier! THE WOMAN [smiling faintly]. Ain't ye got no cheerful news to tell? It's Christmas Eve, ye know. THE NEIGHBOR. Christmas Eve don't seem to prevent people from dyin' an' bein' turned out o' house an' home. Did ye hear how bad the dipthery is? They say as how if it gits much worse they'll have to close the school in our ward. Two o' the Homan children's dead with it. The first one wasn't sick but two days, an' they say his face all turned black 'fore he died. But it's a good thing they're gone, for the Homan s ain't got enough to feed the other six. Did ye hear 'bout Jim Kelly drinkin' again? Swore off for two months, an' then took to it harder'n ever perty near killed the baby one night. THE WOMAN [with a wan, beseeching smile]. Won't you please not tell me any more? It just breaks me heart. THE NEIGHBOR [grimly], I ain't got no other kind o' news to tell. I s'pose I might's well go home. THE WOMAN. No, don't ye go. I like to have ye here when ye're kinder. THE NEIGHBOR [fingering the bed clothes and smoothing them over the woman]. Well, it's gettin' late, an' I guess ye ought to go to sleep. THE WOMAN. Oh, no, I won't go to slape till the girls come. They'll bring me somethin' to give me strength. If they'd on'y come soon. THE NEIGHBOR. Ye ain't goin' to set up 'til they git home? THE OLD WOMAN. That we are. We're kapin' the cilebratin' till they come. THE NEIGHBOR. What celebratin'? THE OLD WOMAN. Why, the Christ- mas, to be shure. We're goin' to have high jinks to-night. In the ould coun- thry 'tis always Christmas Day, but here 'tis begun on Christmas Eve, an' we're on'y waitin' for the girls, because they know how to fix things betther nor Mary an' me. THE NEIGHBOR [staring]. But ain't they workin' in the store? THE OLD WOMAN. Yes, but they're comin' home early to-night. THE NEIGHBOR [laughing ironically], Don't ye fool yerselves. Why, they've got to work harder to-night than any in the whole year. THE WOMAN [wistfully]. But they did say they'd thry to come home early. THE NEIGHBOR. The store's all THE SHADOWED STAR 463 crowded to-night. Folks 'at's got money to spend never remembers it till the last minute. If they didn't have none they'd be thinkin' 'bout it long ahead. Well, I got to be movin'. I wouldn't stay awake, if I was you. THE OLD WOMAN. Sthay and kape the Christmas wid us ! We'll be havin' high jinks by an' by. Sthay, now, an' help us wid our jollity! THE NEIGHBOR. Nay, I left my chil- dren in bed, an' I got to go back to 'em. An' I got to get some rest myself I got that ironin' ahead o' me in the morn- in'. You folks better get yer own rest. [She rises and walks to the door.] THE OLD WOMAN [beamingly]. David an' Michael's comin'. [The Neighbor stands with her back against the door and her hand on the knob, staring at the Old Woman.] THE OLD WOMAN [smiling raptur- ously]. Yis, we're goin' to have a gran' time. [The Neighbor looks puzzled and fearful and troubled, first at the Woman and then at the Old Woman. Finally, without a word, she opens the door and goes out.] THE OLD WOMAN [going about in a tottering sort of dance]. David an' Michael's comin' an' the shepherds for the fairies will show thim the way. THE WOMAN. If the girls would on'y come ! If they'd give me somethin' so as I wouldn't be so tired ! THE OLD WOMAN. There's niver a sthar an' there's nobody to give thim a kind word an' the counthry roads are dark an' foul, but they've got the little folk to guide thim! An' whin they reach the city the poor, lonesome shep- herds from the hills ! they'll find naught but coldness an' hardness an' hurry. [Questioningly.] Will the fair- ies show thim the way? Fairies' eyes be used to darkness, but can they see whe-e it is black night in one corner an' a blaze o' light in another? [She goes to the window for the third time, opens it and leans far out for a long time, then turns about and goes on in her mono- tone, closing the window. She seems by this time quite to have forgotten the presence of the pallid woman on the bed, who has closed her eyes, and lies like one dead.] THE OLD WOMAN. Nay, there's niver a sthar, an' the clouds are hangin' heavier an' lower an' the flakes o' snow are fallin'. Poor little folk guidin' thim poor lost shepherds, leadin' thim by the hand' so gently because there's no others to be kind to thim, an' bringin' thim to the manger o' the Blessed Babe. [She comes over to her rocking-chair and again sits down in it, rocks slowly to and fro, nodding her head in time to the motion.] Poor little mite of a babe, so cold an' unwelcome an' forgotten save by the silly ould shepherds from the hills! The silly ould shepherds from the strength o' the hills, who are comin' through the dark- ness in the lead o' the little folk! [She speaks slower and lower, and finally drops into a quiet crooning it stops and the Old Woman has fallen asleep.] [Curtain.] [ While the curtain is down the pallid, sick woman upon the bed dies, the Old Woman being asleep does not notice the slight struggle with death. The fire has gone out in the stove, and the light in the lamp, and the stage is in complete darkness when the two girls come stumbling in. They are too tired to speak, too weary to show sur- prise that the occupants of the room are not awake. They fum- ble about, trying to find matches in the darkness., and finally dis- cover them and a candle in the safe. They light the candle and place it upon the table by the scraggy little evergreen-tree. They turn about and discern their grandmother asleep in the rock- ing-chair. Hurriedly they turn to the bed and discover their mother lying there dead. For a full min- ute they stand gazing at her, the surprise, wonder, awe, misery in- creasing in their faces; then with screams they run to the bed, throw themselves on their knees and bury their faces, sobbing, in the bed- clothes at the Woman's feet.] [Curtain.] ILE A PLAT BY EUGENE G. O'NEILL All rights reserved. CHARACTERS BEN [the cabin boy]. THE STEWARD. CAPTAIN KEENEY. SLOCUM [second mate]. MBS. KEENEY. JOE [a harpooner]. Members of the crew of the Atlantic Queen. ILE was first produced by the Provincetown Players, New York City, on the night of November 30th, 1917, with the following cast: BEN [the cabin boy] Harold Conley. THE STEWARD Robert Edwards. CAPTAIN KEENEY H. Collins. MR. SLOCUM [second mate] Ira Remsen. MRS. KEENEY Clara Savage. JOE [the harpooner] Lewis B. Ell. Produced under the direction of Miss NINA MOISE. Scenery by MR. LEWIS B. Eix. Reprinted from " The Moon of the Caribbees and Six Other Plays of the Sea " by special permission of Eugene O'Neill. The professional and amateur stage rights on this play are strictly reserved by the author. Applications for permission to produce the play should be made to Mr. Eugene G. O'Neill, Provincetown, Mass. ILE A PLAY [SCENE: Captain Keeney's cabin on board the steam whaling ship Atlantic Queen a small, square compartment about eight feet high with a skylight in the center looking out on the poop deck. On the left (the stern of the ship) a long bench with rough cushions is built in against the wall. In front of the bench a table. Over the bench, several cur- tained port-holes. In the rear left, a door leading to the captain's sleeping quarters. To the right of the door a small organ, looking as if it were brand new, is placed against the wall. On the right, to the rear, a marble- topped sideboard. On the sideboard, a woman's sewing basket. Farther for- ward, a doorway leading to the compan- ionway, and past the officers' quarters to the main deck. In the center of the room, a stove. From the middle of the ceiling a hang- ing lamp *s suspended. The walls of the cabin are painted white. There is no rolling of the ship, and the light which comes through the sky-light is sickly and faint, indicating one of those gray days of calm when ocean and sky are alike dead. The silence is unbroken except for the measured tread of some one walking up and down on the poop deck overhead. It is nearing two bells one o'clock in the afternoon of a day in the year 1895. * At the rise of the curtain there is a moment of intense silence. Then The Steward enters and commences to clear the table of the few dishes which still re- main on it after the Captain's dinner. He is an old, grizzled man dressed in dungaree pants, a sweater, and a woolen 467 BY EUGENE G. O'NEILL cap with ear flaps. His manner is sullen and angry. He stops stacking up the plates and casts a quick glance upward at the skylight; then tiptoes over to the closed door in rear and listens with his ear pressed to the crack. What he hears makes his face darken and he mutters a furious curse. There is a noise from the doorway on the right and he darts back to the table. Ben enters. He is an over-grown gawky boy with a long, pinched face. He is dressed in sweater, fur cap, etc. His teeth are chattering with the cold and he hurries to the stove where he stands for a moment shivering, blowing on his hands, slapping them against his sides, on the verge of crying.] THE STEWARD [in relieved tones see- ing who it is]. Oh, 'tis you, is it? What- 're ye shiverin' 'bout? Stay by the stove where ye belong and ye'll find no need of chatterin'. BEX. It's c-c-cold. [Trying to con- trol his chattering teeth derisively.] Who d'ye think it were the Old Man? THE STEWARD [makes a threatening move Ben shrinks away]. None o' your lip, young un, or I'll learn ye. [More kindly.] Where was it ye've been all o' the time the fo'c's'tle? BEN. Yes. THE STEWARD. Let the Old Man see ye up for'ard monkeyshinin' with the hands and ye'll get a hidin' ye'll not forget in a hurry. BEN. Aw, he don't see nothin'. [A trace of awe in his tones he glances upward.] He jest walks up ana down like he didn't notice nobody and stares at the ice to the no'the'ard. THE STEWARD [the same tone of awe creeping into his voice]. He's always 468 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS starin' at the ice. [In a sudden rage, shaking his fist at the skylight.] Ice, ice, ice! Damn him and damn the ice! Holdin' us in for nigh on a year nothin' to see but ice stuck in it like a fly in molasses! BEN [apprehensively], Ssshh! He'll hear ye. THE STEWARD [raging]. Aye, damn, and damn the Arctic seas, and damn this rotten whalin' ship of his, and damn me for a fool to ever ship on it! [Subsiding as if realizing the uselessness of this out- burst shaking his head slowly, with deep conviction.] He's a hard man as hard a man as ever sailed the seas. BEN [solemnly}. Aye. THE STEWARD. The two years we all signed up for are done this day ! Two years o' this dog's life, and no luck in the fishin', and the hands half starved with the food runnin' low, rotten as it is; and not a sign of him turnin' back for home! [Bitterly.] Home! I begin to doubt if ever I'll set foot on land again. [Excitedly.] What is it he thinks he's goin' to do? Keep us all up here after our time is worked out till the last man of us is starved to death or frozen? We've grub enough hardly to last out the voyage back if we started now. What are the men goin' to do 'bout it? Did ye hear any talk in the fo'c's'tle? BEX { going over to him in a half whisper]. They said if he don't put back south for home to-day they're goin' to mutiny. THE STEWARD [with grim satisfaction]. Mutiny? Aye, 'tis the only thing they can do; and serve him right after the manner he's treated them 's if they weren't no better nor dogs. BEN. The ice is all broke up to s'uth'ard. They's clear water s'far 's you can see. He ain't got no excuse for not turnin' back for home, the men says. THE STEWARD [bitterly]. He won't look nowheres but no'the'ard where they's only the ice to see. He don't want to see no clear water. All he thinks on is gettin' the ile 's if it was our fault he ain't had good luck with the whales. [Shaking his head.] I think the man's mighty nigh losin' his senses. BEN- [awed]. D'you really think he's crazy? THE STEWARD. Aye, it's the punish- ment o' God on him. Did ye ever hear of a man who wasn't crazy do the things he does? [Pointing to the door in rear.] Who but a man that's mad would take his woman and as sweet a woman as ever was on a rotten whalin' ship to the Arctic seas to be locked in by the ice for nigh on a year, and maybe lose her senses forever for it's sure she'll never be the same again. BEN [sadly]. She useter be awful nice to me before [His eyes grow wide and frightened.] she got like she is. THE STEWARD. Aye, she was good to all of us. 'Twould have been hell on board without her; for he's a hard man a hard, hard man a driver if there ever was one. [With a grim laugh.] I hope he's satisfied now drivin' her on till she's near lost her mind. And who could blame her? 'Tis a God's wonder we're not a ship full of crazed people with the ice all the time, and the quiet so thick you're afraid to hear your own voice. BEN [with a frightened glance toward the door on right]. She don't never speak to me no more jest looks at me 's if she didn't know me. THE STEWARD. She don't know no one but him. She talks to him when she does talk right enough. BEN. She does nothin' all day long now but sit and sew and then she cries to herself without makin' no noise. I've seen her. THE STEWARD. Aye, I could hear her through the door a while back. BEN [tiptoes over to the door and lis- tens]. She's cryin' now. THE STEWARD [furiously shaking his fist], God send his soul to hell for the devil he is ! [There is the noise of some one com- ing slowly down the companion- way stairs. The Steward hurries to his stacked-up dishes. He is so nervous from fright that he knocks off the top one which falls and breaks on the floor. He stands aghast, trembling with dread. Ben is violently rubbing off the organ with a piece of cloth which he has snatched from his pocket. Cap- tain Keeney appears in the door- way on right and comes into the ILE 469 cabin, removing his fur cap as he does so. He is a man of about forty, around five-ten in height but looking much shorter on account of the enormous proportions of his shoulders and chest. His face is massive and deeply linfd, with gray-blue eyes of a bleak hardness, and a tightly-clenched, thin-lipped mouth. His thick hair is long and gray. He is dressed in a heavy blue jacket and blue pants stuffed into his sea-boots. He is followed into the cabin by the Second Mate, a rangy six-footer with a lean weather-beaten face. The Mate is dressed about the same as the cap- tain. He is a man of thirty or so.} KEENEY [comes toward The Steward with a stern look on his face. The Stew- ard is visibly frightened and the stack of dishes rattles in his trembling hands. Keeney draws back his fist and The Stew- ard shrinks away. The fist is gradually lowered and Keeney speaks slowly], 'Twould be like hitting a worm. It is nigh on two bells, Mr. Steward, and this truck not cleared yet. THE STEWARD [stammering]. Y-y-yes, sir. KEENEY. Instead of doin' your right- ful work ye've been below here gossipin' old women's talk with that boy. [To Ben, fiercely.] Get out o' this you! Clean up the chart room. [Ben darts past the Mate to the open doorway.] Pick up that dish, Mr. Steward! THE STEWARD [doing so with diffi- culty]. Yes, sir. KEENEY. The next dish you break, Mr. Steward, you take a bath in the Behring Sea at the end of a rope. THE STEWARD [trembling]. Yes, sir. [He hurries out. The Second Mate walks slowly over to the Captain.] MATE. I warn't 'specially anxious the man at the wheel should catch what I wanted to say to you, sir. That's why I asked you to come below. KEENEY [impatiently]. Speak your say, Mr. Slocum. MATE [unconsciously lowering his voice]. I'm af eared there'll be trouble with the hands by the look o' things. They'll likely turn ugly, every blessed one o' them, if you don't put back. The two years they signed up for is up to- day. KEENEY. And d'you think you're tell- in' me something new, Mr. Slocum? I've felt it in the air this long time past. D'you think I've not seen their ugly looks and the grudgin' way they worked? [The door in rear is opened and Mrs. Keeney stands in the doorway. She is a slight, sweet-faced little woman, primly dressed in black. Her eyes are red from weeping and her face drawn and pale. She takes in the cabin with a frightened glance and stands as if fixed to the spot by some nameless dread, clasping and unclasping her hands nervously. The two men turn and look at her.] KEENEY [with rough tenderness]. Well, Annie? MRS. KEENEY [as if awakening from a dream]. David, I [She is silent. The Mate starts for the doorway.] KEENEY [turning to him sharply]. Wait! MATE. Yes, sir. KEENEY. D'you want anything, An- nie? MRS. KEENEY [after a pause during which she seems to be endeavoring to collect her thoughts], I thought maybe I'd go up on deck, David, to get a breath of fresh air. [She stands humbly awaiting his per- mission. He and The Mate ex- change a significant glance.] KEENEY. It's too cold, Annie. You'd best stay below. There's nothing to look at on deck but ice. MRS. KEENEY [monotonously]. I know ice, ice, ice ! But there's nothing to see down here but these walls. [She makes a gesture of loathing.] KEENEY. You can play the organ, An- nie. MRS. KEENEY [dully], I hate the organ. It puts me in mind of home. KEENEY [a touch of resentment in his voice], 1 got it jest for you! MRS. KEENEY [dntty], I know. [She turns away from them and walks slowly to the bench on left. She lifts up one of the curtains and looks through a port- hale; then utters an exclamation of joy.] 470 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS Ah, water! Clear water! As far as I can see! How good it looks after all these months of ice ! [She turns round to them, her face transfigured with joy.] Ah, now I must go up on deck and look at it, David! KEEXEY [frowning]. Best not to-day, Annie. Best wait for a day when the sun shines. MBS. KEEXEY [desperately]. But the sun never shines in this terrible place. KEEXEY [a tone of command in his voice]. Best not to-day, Annie. MBS. KEEXEY [crumbling before this command abjectly]. Very well, David. [She stands there, staring straight before her as if in a daze. The two men look at her uneasily.] KEEXEY [sharply]. Annie! MBS. KEEXEY [dully]. Yes, David. KEEXEY. Me and Mr. Slocum has busi- ness to talk about ship's business. MBS. KEEXEY. Very well, David. [She goes slowly out, rear, and leaves the door three-quarters shut behind her.] KEEXEY. Best not have her on deck if they's goin' to be any trouble. MATE. Yes, sir. KEEXEY. And trouble they's going to be. I feel it in my bones. [Takes a re- volver from the pocket of his coat and examines it.] Got your'n? MATE. Yes, sir. KEEXEY. Not that we'll have to use 'em not if I know their breed of dog jest to frighten 'em up a bit. [Grimly. ] I ain't never been forced to use one yit; and trouble I've had by land and by sea s'long as I kin remember, and will have till my dyin' day, I reckon. MATE [hesitatingly]. Then you ain't goin' to turn back? KEEXEY. Turn back! Mr. Slocum, did you ever hear o' me pointin' s'uth for home with only a measly four hundred barrel of ile in the hold? MATE [hastily]. But the grub's gittin' low. KEENEY. They's enough to last a long time yit, if they're careful with it; and they's plenty of water. MATE. They say it's not fit to eat what's left; and the two years they signed on fur is up to-day. They might make- trouble for you in the courts when we git home. KEENEY. Let them make what law trouble they kin! I don't give a damn 'bout the money. I've got to git the ile ! [Glancing sharply at the Mate.] You ain't turnin' no sea lawyer, be you, Mr. Slocum? MATE [flushing]. Not by a hell of a sight, sir. KEENEY. What do the fools want to go home fur now? Their share o' the four hundred barrel wouldn't keep them in chewin' terbacco. MATE [slowly]. They wants to git back to their old folks an' things, I s pose. KEEXEY [looking at him searchingly]. 'N you want to turn back too. [The Mate looks down confusedly before his sharp gaze.] Don't lie, Mr. Slocum. It's writ down plain in your eyes. [ With grim sarcasm.] I hope, Mr. Slocum, you ain't agoin' to jine the men agin me. MATE [indignantly]. That ain't fair, sir, to say sich things. KEEXEY [with satisfaction]. I warn't much afeard o' that, Tom. You been with me nigh on ten year and I've learned ye whalin'. No man kin say I ain't a good master, if I be a hard one. MATE. I warn't thinkin' of myself, sir 'bout turnin' home, I mean. [Desper- ately.] But Mrs. Keeney, sir seems like she ain't jest satisfied up here, ailin' like what with the cold an' bad luck an' the ice an' all. KEEXEY [his face clouding rebuk- ingly, but not severely]. That's my busi- ness, Mr. Slocum. I'll thank you to steer a clear course o' that. [A pause.] The ice'll break up soon to no'the'ard. I could see it startin' to-day. And when it goes and we git some sun Annie'll pick up. [Another pause then he bursts forth.] It ain't the damned money what's keepin' me up in the Northern seas, Tom. But I can't go back to Home- port with a measly four hundred barrel of ile. I'd die fust. I ain't never come back home in all my days without a full ship. Ain't that true? MATE. Yes, sir; but this voyage you been ice-bound, an' KEEXEY [scornfully]. And d'you s'pose any of 'em would believe that any o' them skippers I've beaten voyage after voyage? Can't you hear 'em laughin' and sneerin' Tibbots n' Harris n' Simms and the rest and all o' Home- ILE 47i port makin' fun o' me? "Dave Keeney, what boasts he's the best whalin' skipper out o' Homeport, comin' back with a measly four hundred barrel of ile !" [The thought of this drives him into a frenzy and he smashes his fist down on the marble top of the sideboard.] I got to git the ile, I tell you! How could I figger on this ice? It's never been so bad before in the thirty year I been acomin' here. And now it's breakin' up. In a couple o' days it'll be all gone. And they's whale here, plenty of 'em. I know they is and I ain't never gone wrong yit. I got to git the ile! I got to git it in spite of all hell, and by God, I ain't agoin' home till I do git it! [There is the sound of subdued sob- bing from the door in rear. The two men stand silent for a moment, listening. Then Keeney goes over to the door and looks in. He hesi- tates for a moment as if he were going (o enter then closes the door softly. Joe, the harpooner, an enormous six-footer with a bat- tered, ugly face, enters from right and stands waiting for the Captain to notice him.] KEENEY [turning and seeing him]. Don't be standin' there like a hawk, Har- pooner. Speak up! JOE [confusedly]. We want the men, sir they wants to send a depita- tion aft to have a word with you. KEENEY [furiously]. Tell 'em to go to [Checks himself and continues grim- ly.] Tell 'em to come. I'll see 'em. JOE. Aye, aye, sir. [He goes out.] KEENEY [with a grim smile]. Here it comes, the trouble you spoke of, Mr. Slocum, and we'll make short shift of it. It's better to crush such things at the start than let them make headway. MATE [worriedly]. Shall I wake up the First and Fourth, sir? We might need their help. KEENEY. No, let them sleep. I'm well able to handle this alone, Mr. Slocum. [There is the shuffling of footsteps from outside and five of the crew crowd into the cabin, led by Joe. All are dressed alike sweaters, sea boots, etc. They glance un- easily at the Captain, twirling their fur caps in their hands.] KEENEY [after a pause]. Well? Who's to speak fur ye? JOE [stepping forward with an air of bravado]. I be. KEENEY [eyeing him up and down coldly]. So you be. Then speak your say and be quick about it. JOE [trying not to wilt before the Cap- tain's glance and avoiding his eyes]. The time we signed up for is done to-day. KEENEY [icily]. You're tellin' me nothin' I don't know. JOE. You ain't p'intin' fur home yit, far s'we kin see. KEENEY. No, and I ain't agoin' to till this ship is full of ile. JOE. You can't go no further no'the with the ice before ye. KEENEY. The ice is breaking up. JOE [after a slight pause, during which the others mumble angrily to one an- other]. The grub we're gittin' now is rotten. KEENEY. It's good enough fur ye. Better men than ye are have eaten worse. [There is a chorus of angry exclama- tions from the crowd.] JOE [encouraged by this support]. We ain't agoin' to work no more less you puts back for home. KEENEY [fiercely]. You ain't, ain't you? JOE. No; and the law courts'll say we was right. KEENEY. To hell with your law courts ! We're at sea now and I'm the law on this ship! [Edging up toward the har- pooner.] And every mother's son of you what don't obey orders goes in irons. [There are more angry exclamations from the crew. Mrs. Keeney ap- pears in the doorway in rear and looks on with startled eyes. None of the men notice her.] JOE [with bravado]. Then we're agoin' to mutiny and take the old hooker home ourselves. Ain't we, boys? [As he turns his head to look at the others, Keeney's fist shoots out to the side of his jaw. Joe goes down in a heap and lies there. Mrs. Keeney gives a shriek and hides her face in her hands. The men pull out their sheath knives and start a rush, but stop when they find themselves confronted by the re- volvers of Keeney and the Mate.] 472 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS KEENEY [his eyes and voice snapping]. Hold still ! [ The men stand huddled to- gether in a sullen silence. Keeney's voice is full of mockery.] You's found out it ain't safe to mutiny on this ship, ain't you? And now git for'ard where ye be- long, and [He gives Joe's body a con- temptuous kick.] drag him with you. And remember, the first man of ye I see shirkin' I'll shoot dead as sure as there's a sea under us, and you can tell the rest the same. Git for'ard now! Quick! [The men leave in cowed silence, carry- ing Joe with Ihem. Keeney turns to the Mate with a short laugh and puts his re- volver back in his pocket.] Best get up on deck, Mr. Slocum, and see to it they don't try none of their skulkin' tricks. We'll have to keep an eye peeled from now on. I know 'em. MATE. Yes, sir. [He goes out, right. Keeney hears his wife's hysterical weeping and turns around in surprise then walks slowly to her side.] KEENEY [putting an arm around her shoulder with gruff 1 tenderness]. There, there, Annie. Don't be feared. It's all past and gone. MRS. KEENEY [shrinking away from him]. Oh, I can't bear it! I can't bear it any longer ! KEENEY [gently]. Can't bear what, Annie? MRS. KEE*VEY [hysterically}. All this horrible brutality, and these brutes of men, and this terrible ship, and this prison cell of a room, and the ice all around, and the silence. [After this outburst she calms down and wipes her eyes with her hand- kerchief.] KEEXEY [after a pause during which he looks down at her with a puzzled frown]. Remember, I warn't hankerin' to have you come on this voyage, An- nie. MRS. KEENEY. I wanted to be with you, David, don't you see? I didn't want to wait bark there in the house all alone as I've been doing these last six years since we were married wailing, and watching, and fearing with nothing to keep my mind occupied not able to go back teaching school on account of being Dave Keeney's wife. I used to dream of sailing on the great, wide, glorious ocean. I wanted to be by your side in the danger and vigorous life of it all. I wanted to see you the hero they make you out to be in Homeport. And instead [Her voice grows tremulous] all I find is ice and cold and brutality! [Her voice breaks.] KEEXEY. I warned you what it'd be, Annie. "Whalin' ain't no ladies' tea party," I says to you, " and you better stay to home where you've got all your woman's comforts." [Shaking his head.] But you was so set on it. MRS. KEENEY [wearily]. Oh, I know it isn't your fault, David. You see, I didn't believe you. I guess I was dream- ing about the old Vikings in the story books and I thought you were one of them. KEENEY [protestingly]. I done my best to make it as cozy and comfortable as could be. [Mrs. Keeney looks around her in wild scorn.] I even sent to the city for that organ for ye, thinkin' it might be soothin' to ye to be playin' it times when they was calms and things was dull like. MRS. KEENEY [wearily]. Yes, you were very kind, David. I know that. [She goes to left and lifts the curtains from the porthole and looks out I1:en sud- denly bursts forth]: I won't stand it I can't stand it pent up by these walls like a prisoner. [She runs over to him and throws her arms around him, weep- ing. He puts his arm protectingly over her shoulders.] Take me away from here, David ! If I don't get away from here, out of this terrible ship, I'll go mad ! Take me home, David ! I can't think any more. I feel as if the cold and the silence were crushing down on my brain. I'm afraid. Take me home! KEEXEY [holds her at arm's length and looks at her face anxiously]. Best go to bed, Annie. You ain't yourself. You got fever. Your eyes look so strange like. I ain't never seen you look this way before. MRS. KEEXEY [laughing hysterically], It's the ice and the cold and the silence they'd make any one look strange. KEENEY [soothingly]. In a month or two, with good luck, three at the most, I'll have her filled with ile and then we'll give her everything she'll stand and p'int for home. ILE 473 MRS. KEENEY. But we can't wait for that I can't wait. I want to get home. And the men won't wait. They want to get home. It's cruel, it's brutal for you to keep them. You must sail back. You've got no excuse. There's clear water to the south now. If you've a heart at all you've got to turn back. KEENEY [harshly]. I can't, Annie. MRS. KEENEY. Why can't you? KEENEY. A woman couldn't rightly understand my reason. MRS. KEENEY [wildly]. Because it's a stubborn reason. Oh, I heard you talk- ing with the second mate. You're afraid the other captains will sneer at you be- cause you didn't come back with a full ship. You want to live up to your silly reputation even if you do have to beat and starve men and drive me mad to do it. KEENEY [his jaw get stubbornly]. It ain't that, Annie. Them skippers would never dare sneer to my face. It ain't so much what any one'd say but [He hesitates, struggling to express his meaning J you see I've always done it since my first voyage as skipper. I always come back with a full ship and it don't seem right not to some- how. I been always first whalin' skip- per out o' Homeport, and don't you see my meanin', Annie? [He glances at her. She is not looking at him, but star- ing dully in front of her, not hearing a word he is saying.] Annie! [She comes to herself with a start.] Best turn in, Annie, there's a good woman. You ain't well. MRS. KEENEY [resisting his attempts to guide her to the door in rear], David! Won't you please turn back? KEENEY [gently]. I can't, Annie not yet awhile. You don't see my meanin'. I got to git the ile. MRS. KEENEY. It'd be different if you needed the money, but you don't. You've got more than plenty. KEENEY [impatiently]. It ain't the money I'm thinkin' of. D'you think I'm as mean as that? MRS. KEENEY [dully]. No I don't know 1 can't understand. [Intensely.] Oh, I want to be home in the old house once more, and see my own kitchen again, and hear a woman's voice talking to me and be able to talk to her. Two years 1 It seems so long ago as if I'd been dead and could never go back. KEENEY [worried by her strange tone and the far-away look in her eyes.] Best go to bed, Annie. You ain't well. MRS. KEENEY [not appearing to hear him]. I used to be lonely when you were away. I used to think Homeport was a stupid, monotonous place. Then I used to go down on the beach, especially when it was windy and the breakers were roll- ing in, and I'd dream of the fine, free life you must be leading. [She gives a laugh which is half a sob.] I used to love the sea then. [She pauses; then continues with slow intensity.] But now I don't ever want to see the sea again. KEENEY [thinking to humor her]. 'Tis no fit place for a woman, that's sure. I was a fool to bring ye. MRS. KEENEY [after a pause passing her hand over her eyes with a gesture of pathetic weariness]. How long would it take us to reach home if we started now? KEENEY [frowning], 'Bout two months, I reckon, Annie, with fair luck. MRS. KEENEY [counts on her fingers then murmurs with a rapt smile}. That would be August, the latter part of Aug- ust, wouldn't it? It was on the twenty- fifth of August we were married, David, wasn't it? KEENEY [trying to conceal the fact that her memories have moved him gru//ly]. Don't you remember? MRS. KEENEY [vaguely again passes her hand over her eyes]. My memory is leaving me up here in the ice. It was so long ago. [A pause then she smiles dreamily. \ It's June now. The lilacs will be all in bloom in the front yard and the climbing roses on the trellis to the side of the house they're budding [She suddenly covers her face with her hands and commences to sob.] KEENEY [disturbed]. Go in and rest, Annie. You're all worn out cryin' over what can't be helped. MRS. KEENEY [suddenly throwing her arms around his neck and clinging to him]. You love me, don't you, David? KEENEY [in amazed embarrassment at this outburst]. Love you? Why d'you ask me such a question, Annie? MRS. KEENEY [shaking him fiercely]. But you do, don't you, David? Tell me! 474 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS KEENEY. I'm your husband, Annie, and you're my wife. Could there be aught but love between us after all these years? MBS. KEENEY [shaking him again still more fiercely]. Then you do love me. Say it ! KEENEY [timply], I do, Annie. MRS. KEENEY [gives a sigh of relief her hands drop to her sides. Keeney re- gards her anxiously. She passes her hand across her eyes and murmurs half to her- telf] i I sometimes think if we could only have had a child [Keeney turns away from her, deeply moved. She grabs his arm and turns him around to face her intensely.] And I've always been a good wife to you, haven't I, David? KEENEY [his voice betraying his emo- tion]. No man has ever had a better, Annie. MRS. KEENEY. And I've never asked for much from you, have I, David? Have I? KEENEY. You know you could have all I got the power to give ye, Annie. MRS. KEENEY [wildly]. Then do this, this once, for my sake, for God's sake take me home! It's killing me, this life the brutality and cold and horror of it. I'm going mad. I can feel the threat in the air. I can't bear the silence threat- ening me day after gray day and every day the same. I can't bear it. [Sob- bing.] I'll go mad, I know I will. Take me home, David, if you love me as you say. I'm afraid. For the love of God, take me home ! [She throws her arms around him, weeping against his shoulder. His face betrays the tremendous strug- gle going on within him. He holds her out at arm's length, his ex- pression softening. For a moment his shoulders sag, he becomes old, his iron spirit weakens as he looks at her tear-stained face.] KEENEY [dragging out the words with an effort]. I'll do it, Annie for your sake if you say it's needful for ye. MRS. KEENEY [with wild joy kissing him]. God bless you for that, David! [He turns away from her silently and walks toward the companion- way. Just at that moment there is a clatter of footsteps on the stairs and the Second Mate enters the cabin. ] MATE [excitedly]. The ice is breakin' up to no'the'ard, sir. There's a clear pas- sage through the floe, and clear water beyond, the lookout says. [Keeney straightens himself like a man coming out of a trance. Mrs. Keeney looks at the Mate with terrified eyes.] KEENEY [dazedly trying to collect his thoughts]. A clear passage? To no'- the'ard ? MATE. Yes, sir. KEENEY [his voice suddenly grim with determination]. Then get her ready and we'll drive her through. MATE. Aye, aye, sir. MRS. KEENEY [appealingly], David! David ! KEENEY [not heeding her]. Will the men turn to willin' or must we drag 'em out? MATE. They'll turn to willin' enough. You put the fear o' God into 'em, sir. They're meek as lambs. KEENEY. Then drive 'em both watches. [With grim determination.] They's whale t'other side o' this floe and we're agoin' to git 'em. MATE. Aye, aye, sir. [He goes out hurriedly. A moment later there is the sound of scuffling feet from the deck outside and the Mate's voice shouting orders.] KEENEY [speaking aloud to himself derisively]. And I was agoin' home like a yaller dog! MRS. KEENEY [imploringly], David! KEENEY [sternly]. Woman, you ain't adoin' right when you meddle in men's business and weaken 'em. You can't know my feelin's. I got to prove a man to be a good husband for ye to take pride in. I got to git the He, I tell ye. MRS. KEENEY [supplicating ly]. David! Aren't you going home? KEENEY [ignoring this question com- mandingly]. You ain't well. Go and lay down a mite. [He starts for the door.] I got to git on deck. [He goes out. She cries after him in anguish, "David!" A pause. She passes her hand across her eyes then commences to laugh hys- terically and goes to the organ. She sits down and starts to play ILE 475 wildly an old hymn, " There is rest for the weary." Keeney reenters from the doorway to the deck and stands looking at her angrily. He comes over and grabs her roughly by the shoulder.] KEENEY. Woman, what foolish mock- in' is this? [She laughs wildly and he starts back from her in alarm.] Annie! What is it? [She doesn't answer him. Keeney's voice trembles.] Don't you know me, Annie? [He puts both hands on her shoulders and turns her around so that he can look into her eyes. She stares up at him with a stupid expression, a vague smile on her lips. He stumbles away from her, and she commences softly to play the organ again.] KEENEY [swallowing hard ma hoarse whisper, as if he had difficulty in speak- ing]. You said you was agoin' mad God! [A long wail is heard from the deck above, "Ah, bl-o-o-o-ow ! '' A mo- ment later the Mate's face appears through the skylight. He cannot see Mrs. Keeney.] MATE [in great excitement]. Whales, sir a whole school of 'em off the star-b'd quarter 'bout five miles away big ones ! KEENEY [galvanized into action]. Are you lowerin' the boats? MATE. Yes, sir. KEENEY [with grim decision]. I'm acomin' with ye. MATE. Aye, aye, sir. [Jubilantly.] You'll git the ile now right enough, sir. [His head is withdrawn and he can be heard shouting orders.] KEENEY [turning to his wife]. Annie! Did you hear him? I'll git the ile. [Sh doesn't answer or seem to know he is there. He gives a hard laugh which is almost a groan.] I know you're foolin' me, Annie. You ain't out of your mind [Anxiously.] be you? I'll git the ile now right enough jest a little while longer, Annie then we'll turn home'ard. I can't turn back now, you see that, don't you? I've got to git the ile. [In sudden terror.] Answer me! You ain't mad, be you? [She keeps on playing the organ, but makes no reply. The Mate's face appears again through the sky- light.] MATE. All ready, sir. [Keeney turns his back on his wife and strides to the doorway, where he stands for a moment and looks back at her in anguish, fighting to control his feelings.] MATE. Comin', sir? KEENEY [his face suddenly grows hard with determination]. Aye. [He turns abruptly and goes out. Mrs. Keeney does not appear to notice his departure. Her whole attention seems centered in the organ. She sits with half-closed eyes, her body swaying a little from side to side to the rhythm of the hymn. Her fingers move faster and faster and she is playing wildly and discordantly as the Curtain falls.] THE NURSERY MAID OF HEAVEN A MIRACLE PLAY BY THOMAS WOOD STEVENS Based on a story by Vernon Lee. Copyright, 1920, by Thomas Wood Stevens. All rights reserved. THE NURSERY MAID OF HEAVEN was first produced by the School of the Drama, Carnegie Institute of Technology, Pittsburgh, Pa., on the night of November 14, 1919, with the following cast: SISTER BENVENUTA Hazel Beck. SISTER GRIMANA A licia S. Guthrie. SISTER ROSALBA Grey McAuley. THE ABBESS Dorothy Rubinstein. VHE SISTER SACRISTAN Inez D. R. Hazel. ATALANTA BADOER [a novice] Carolyn McCampbell. ABBE FILOSI Wm. R. Dean. THE PUPPET MAN Lawrence Paquin. BEELZEBUBB SATANASSO James S. Church. SCENE I: The Chapter-Room of the Convent of Our Lady of the Rosebush, Cividale. SCENE II: Benvenuta's cell. SCENE I II: The Chapter-Room. TIME: Early in the eighteenth century. Some days elapse between scenes. Stage settings and properties by ALEXANDER WYCKOFF and DAVID S. GAITHER. Lightning by ARLEIGH B. WILLIAMSON. Costumes by SARA E. BENNETT and LELA MAY AULTMAN. Music by CHARLES PEARSON. The amateur and professional stage rights to THE NURSERY MAID OF HEAVEN are reserved by the author. Applications for permission to produce the play should be addressed to Frank Shay, Stewart & Kidd Company, Cincinnati, Ohio. No per- formance may be given without his consent. A MIRACLE PLAY [SCENE I: Atalanta, the novice, sits, re- bellions and sullen, on the steps of the Mother Superior's dais. From time to time nuns and novices pass across the stage to the left, on their way to the re- fectory. Sister (jfrimana, an old nun, comes down to Atalanta purposefully.] GRIMAXA. Sulking again, are you? Waiting for Sister Benvenuta, are you? [Atalanta is silent.] Remembering things that are really no concern of yours; and thinking they con- cern you because you remember them doubtless quite inaccurately. I know. It's a way of the Badoer family and of the Loredani, too, for that matter. When you were a child there was confiture with the bread and you threw away the crust; and they let you do it, and now you can't find your vocation. [She taps her foot impatiently.] Well well will you come ? [Atalanta is still silent, her face hard with resolution.] I might mention it to the Sister Sacris- tan. She'd fetch you. [Atalanta gives her a look of scorn- ful disgust.] It's as well you didn't say that in so many words, Sister. [Atalanta looks straight before her, a statue of silence. ] Perhaps there is some one you would prefer to have me call, before the Sister Sacristan comes to fetch you? Sister Rosalba? [No response.] So it must be Sister Benvenuta, must it? ATALAXTA. I would speak with her. GRIMAXA. Oho! You would speak with her ! And so you shall for the love I bore your mother when we were children together. But what good she BY THOMAS WOOD STEVENS can do you, with her chatter and laugh- ing childish laughing and chatter I can't see. I'll send her to you. And meantime, count your buttons. That's my advice. Count your buttons. [She comes close and speaks more confidentially.] That helps greatly it did when I was your age. [Orimana goes off. Atalanta me- chanically runs her fingers over the buttons of her novice's cape; as she arrives at the end of the row, she mutters.] ATALAXTA. Even you, Benvenuta ! [At the second word she rises abruptly, her hands on the veil.] Heaven forgive me ! [She tears off the veil just as Ben- venuta enters from the left. Ben- venuta limps down around the Mother Superior's throne, and on seeing Atalanta with her veil off, bursts into laughter.] ATALAXTA. Even you, Benvenuta! What amuses you so? BEXVEXUTA. It's your hair. It's so funny it's so long since I've seen your hair, Atalanta, dear. ATALAXTA [sullenly]. It's not that I want to talk to you about. You needn't have laughed. BEXVEXUTA. I know, dear. I shouldn't have laughed, but I always do. I'm so unworthy. I can't seem to help it, though 1 tell myself, often and often, that it's trifling and worldly to laugh so much, and undignified, too, before the children and novices. I will try not to laugh, Atalanta. Sister Grimana said you wanted me. What is it, dear? [She looks at Atalanta and smothers another laugh.] Put on your veil, child. ATALAXTA. Don't call me child I'm 479 48o FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS only three years younger than you, and I'm taller. [She puts on the veil again, still sullen.] BENVENUTA. You're only a novice and I call you a child very properly, too. And if you want me to talk to you, you must listen like a good child. [A step is heard approaching and a rattle of keys; Atalanta pulls at Benvenuta's dress as if to draw her down beside her.} ATALANTA. It's the Sister Sacristan. Now she'll make me go, and there's some- thing you must tell me you must I beg of you. [The Sister Sacristan comes in and goes straight to Atalanta, ignoring Benvenuta. Her keys are audible as she walks.] THE SISTER SACRISTAN. Well, Mistress Perverse and Disobedient? Not come to reason yet? BENVEXUTA. Pray you, Sister Sacris- tan, pardon her. Let me speak with her a little while only a little while. Her tasks can wait SISTER SACRISTAN. Her tasks ! Praise the Blessed Mother, in this noble house we need not depend on the novices for any- thing. It's not that it's the discipline in the pigeon cot. The Mother Abbess will be displeased BENVE.VUTA. Pray you, Sister Sacris- tan. This novice has asked of me some spiritual admonition. She is my kins- woman, and I cannot refuse it. So I ask you for a little time with her, to speak to her of spiritual things, and perlnps bring her some comfort, to the end that her holy vocation may the sooner come. I ask it in humility, Sister Sascristan. SISTER SACRISTAN [crossing to the closet, which she unlocks]. Admonition, eh? [She takes out some vestments, which she hangs over her arm, closing the door.] BENVEXUTA. I ask you to remember, Sister, that last Thursday I took upon myself the vexed matter of the hair of the two new novices, and that it throve in my charge. SISTER SACRISTAN. Yes throve. You so coddled them that they cried for you each night after, and are more trouble to the lay sisters than ever. But since she's your kinswoman have it as you will. I look for little effect from your admonitions, I may as well tell you. [She removes her keys and goes out, without locking the closet.] ATALANTA. That was good of you, Benvenuta. Now, listen to me. I am unworthy. I am unhappy. I feel no call. Tell me tell me about the world, Sister Benvenuta I beg you, tell me BENVENUTA. I will tell you of God's love, and of this holy life ATALANTA [leading her to the stairway, where she sits down]. Yes I know. But first, tell me about the world. BENVENUTA. I only tell you by way of admonition that you may see how hollow is the world, and full of delu- sion ATALANTA. I understand you. Go on. [She draws Benvenuta down beside her.] BENVENUTA. You must know then, that I even I, Sister Benvenuta, was a most worldly little girl. I can remember so clearly how I used to run madly through the gardens, and roll on the grass like like a wild puppy, and bury my face in the roses till they scratched my nose and the warm scent made me dizzy. And then I would climb on the wall and watch the barges go by, with the strong men sculling them, and the women under the awnings sorting crabs and prawns. ATALANTA. Tell me about the barge people. BENVENUTA. That was all I saw of them. And then they would take me to my lady mother, of a forenoon, while she was having her hair powdered and curled; and there would be a black page bringing her chocolate, and her serving cavalier would be leaning beside her mirror taking snuff. ATALANTA. Yes tell me about the cavalier servant. BENVENUTA. That was all I ever saw of him. But he was very worldly, I am sure. ATALANTA. I wish you had seen more of him. And your mother? Did she have little children? BENVENUTA. You know well I was the youngest of our family. That was why THE NURSERY MAID OF HEAVEN 48^ I was destined for the benefice we pos- sessed in this high born convent. ATALAXTA. Tell me about your father? BEVVEXUTA. I used only to see him once in a month, and I was much fright- ened of him he was so noble and so just. ATALAXTA. Oh, he was a father of that sort, was he? BEXVEXUTA. And when he did receive me, he had a handkerchief like a turban around his head, and horn spectacles on his nose, and he would be making gold with an astrologer, or putting devils in retorts. That was what he said he was doing, but I know now that he deceived me; he was a very worldly man, though he was so noble and just. ATALAXTA. Tell me, Benvenuta, when you were in the world, did you ever see mothers and babies tiny babies not old at all? BEXVEXUTA. The only one was in the picture in our chapel the panel in the center with the Blessed Mother and the little Child Christ. He was so sweet, and his eyes were as if they would open in a moment and then I should know what color of eyes they were. ATALAXTA [glancing toward the Sac- risty closet]. And that's why you so love the Bambino they keep in the Sacristy closet? BEXVEXUTA. Yes. ATALAXTA [more passionately]. And was it easy for you, Benvenuta always easv in your heart, to give up the world? BEXVEXUTA. I was destined for this, dear. ATALAXTA [riring], I am not sure. I was not destined. I am BEXVEXUTA. Ssh! Dear Atalanta. Be quiet. Be calm. Yes, I was worldly, and I gave it up willingly ATALAXTA. Yes, it was easy for you, and so you think it should be for me. You never even saw a little baby with her mother. You were destined, and you were the youngest BEXVEXUTA. It was for the best, was unworthy, but I gave up the world willingly ATALAXTA [bitterly]. Willingly you were lame, and [She stops, biting her lips. There is a pause,} BEXVEXUTA. Yes. I was a little lame. But I was a worldly little girl. ATALAXTA. Forgive me, dear sister. I meant no hurt. j; BEXVEXUTA. You did not hurt me. [Another pause.] ATALAXTA. Dear Benvenuta, one thing I must tell you. I must. It happened just before I came here. [Benvenuta looks at her soberly.] BEXVENUTA. Are you sure it is to me you should tell it? ATALAXTA. It is not a sin not some- thing I could confess, dear. It was this. Just as you looked over the wall at the barges, it was. In our gardens there was a time when the old gardener brought a vinedresser to hlp him. And the vine- dresser's wife came with his dinner and their baby. And I came on them eating, under the ilex trees, very secretly, of course. And the baby was clambering over her. She was no older than I am now the vinedresser's wife. And she fed the baby at her breast in the deep shade under the ilexes. And I talked to her. Then the old gardener came, and of course I walked away, very haughtily, as became a daughter of the house. But hear me, sister. I cannot forget her, the vinedresser's wife with the baby clam- bering over her, under the shade of the ilex trees. I cannot put her out of my thoughts. BENVEXUTA. I understand you, dear. I cannot put out of my thoughts the poor little Bambino in the Sacristy closet all the year around, shut up with the saint's bones and the spare vestments, and he with only a piece of stiff purple and gold stuff around his middle. ATALAXTA. I cannot think that the same. The vinedresser's baby was alive so alive. BEXVEXUTA. It is much the same, I think. ATALAXTA. Anyway, I am glad I told you, Benvenuta. Why can I not forget about it? BEXVEXUTA [laying her hand on Ata- lanta' s head]. It would be better if you could forget it, Atalanta. You must go now. ATALAXTA. One moment don't take your hand away. I had to tell somebody. [Both look off in a sort of dreamy ecstasy, thinking of the two babies* 482 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS Grimana enters again. Atalanta rises. } i ATALANTA. I am full of thankfulness, Sister Benvenuta. I will go to my task. [Atalanta bows her head and follows Grimana out. A muffled droning chorus is heard from the chapel. Benvenuta watches the others go off, and then speaks to the Bambino through the door of the Sacristy closet.} BENVENUTA. My dear my dear little Great One, can you hear my voice through the door? Dear little child Christ, I am so sorry for you, alone for days and days in the closet with the holy relics and the wax lights. And at night it must be very cold for you. I wish I might touch you, dear little Great One, with my hands. [She tries the door and, finding it unfastened, draws back from it a moment.] It is open; the Sister Sacristan has left it unlocked. For this I am thankful, for I am sure you put it into her mind to leave it so or that you by your divine power and foresight put it out of her mind to lock it as she intended. [She opens the door and looks in.] If only I could get appointed Sacristan ! But I am too young and being lame would prevent my getting on to the step-ladders, as a Sacristan must. But I would never leave you alone among the relics in their cotton-wool, little Great One. And now just for a moment lest the Sister Sacristan come back I will take you out of the closet. [She brings out the Bambino.] I will show you the chapter room, for while you have seen all places, and th a high heavens and all the hells, it will be pleasant to you to see the chapter room, after so long in the closet. See, yonder is the seat of the Mother Abbess. She is very great, and very holy, and of the high house of the Morosini. And that way is to the refectory and the work room. And that way is to ths chapel up the stairs. And up that way are our cells, where I sleep and where I pray to dream of you, little Great One. Touch my cheek, I pray you. . . . How cold your hands are ! . . . Touch my cheek as she said the vinedresser's babe touched his mother's [She stops suddenly, and then rever- ently returns the Bambino to his place. She kneels before the open door.] Forgive me, dear little Child Christ. I spoke not in vain glory. But all my life 1 have waited, not knowing for what . . . but happy . . . dreaming that some- time ... If it be a sin I will confess it I will. [Again the rattle of keys is heard. Benvenuta stands up hurriedly and speaks in a half whisper.] She is coming back to lock the closet. But I will get you a coat for the cold nights. Your hands were so cold. I will get you a warm coat that I promise, dear little Great One. [She closes the door and stands be- fore it looking consciously inno- cent, as the Sister Sacristan enters. The Sister Sacristan is not de- ceived, however.] SISTER SACRISTAN. By your leave, Sis- ter Benvenuta. [She ostentatiously locks the closed door.] BENVENUTA. Sister Sacristan, I trust the novice you left in my charge has re- turned to her task. SISTER SACRISTAN]. I trust she has. BENVENUTA [after a pause]. I wish I might help you with your duties some- times, Sister. SISTER SACRISTAN. I do not need you, little sister. BENVENUTA. I am sorry. [Mechanically she counts her but- tons.] [Enter the Abbess.] THE ABBESS [to the Sacristan]. Sister, go into the chapel and tell the Reverend Father that the Bolognese puppet man is waiting, and say that I wish to see him here; and bid the Reverend Father bring the manuscript of his poem for Shrove Tuesday. [The Sister Sacristan goes out. Ben- vtnuta remains, waiting patiently for a word from the Abbess.] Well, my little sister? BEXVEXUTA. I pray you, Mother. ABBESS. I listen, little sister. BEXVEXUTA. It is about the little Child Christ. I pray you that a coat may be made for him a warm coat of soft silk; for at Christmas he lies out in the draughty manger before the altar, and THE NURSERY MAID OF HEAVEN 483 even at other times he is very cold at night here in the Sacristy closet. And I pray you, Mother? ABBESS. I listen. [Reenter the Sister Sacristan.] BENVEXUTA. That I may help with the making of the coat, for all that I sew so badly. ABBESS [smiling]. Truly, our little sis- ter Benvenuta Loredan was born to be the nursery-maid of Heaven. SISTER SACRISTAN. Is it for me to know also, Mother? ABBESS. Our little sister wishes that a coat of warm silk be made for the little Bambino, against next Christmas in the cold of the chapel. SISTER SACRISTAN. I suspected some- thing of that kind. ABBESS. You do not approve, sister? SISTER SACRISTAN. No, mother. It would be taking the time and money from the redressing of the skeleton of Saint Prosdoscimus, which is a most creditable relic, of unquestioned authenticity, with real diamond loops in his eye holes; this skeleton ought to be made fit to exhibit for veneration. And besides, this Bam- bino never had any clothes, and so far as I know never wanted any. The purple sash is only for modesty's sake. And as for such a new-fangled proposal coming from Sister Benvenuta that alone ABBESS. That will do. Fie, fie, little sister. The Sacred Bambino is not your serving Cavalier, that you should wish to cover him with silk and velvet. Is the Reverend Father coming? SISTER SACRISTAX. Immediately, mother. He only stayed to gather his manuscript. ABBESS. Call in the man with the pup- pets. [Exit Sister Sacristan.] And now, little sister, you may go. You see it is not wise, . . . your thought for the Bambino. BENVENITTA. No, mother. I see it is not wise. [Benvenuta goes up the staircase and off at the left. The Abbess seats herself in the chair of State. The Father Confessor comes in from the Chapel.} ABBESS. You are welcome, Father. ABBE FILOSI [bowing very low]. Happy greetings, Reverendissima. ABBESS. 1 have sent for you because the puppet man, the Bolognese one you sent for, has come to make his bargain for the Shrove-tide play, and I wished you to be present, lest he fail to serve your inspiration worthily. ABBE FILOSI. I am grateful for your care in the matter, Reverendissima. [Enter Sister Sacristan.] ABBESS. The fellow is waiting? [The Sister Sacristan bows.] Show him in. [The Sister Sacristan goes out.] And now, Father, I pray that you will make terms for your play, as you please. ABBE FILOSI. Perhaps I had better not do that, Reverendissima. Poets are pro- verbially improvident ABBESS. That does not matter in the least. Whatever he charges, I shall beat him down. [The Sister Sacristan brings in the Puppet Man, who carries a bag of his puppets on his arm. He bows extravagantly to the Abbess.] PUPPET MAN. Excellenza Reverendis- sima, my prayers shall in the future be lightened by the memory of your pres- ence. Reverend Father, I am humbly your servant. [The Abbess nods to Father Filosi.] ABBE FILOSI. You have been sum- moned here, sir, with regard to the Shrove Tuesday play which her Excellenza con- descends to give for the edification of the friends of this noble convent. She has commissioned me to write the poem, and she graciously proposes to allow you to perform it with your puppets. PUPPET MAN. I am honored, and in me all my craft is honored. ABBE FILOSI. I have here the manu- script of my poor device. PUPPET MAN. I cannot have so excel- lent a work so slightly spoken of. ABBE FILOSI. A trifle ... a trifle. But I trust, when you have done your part, it may amuse the novices and the ladies noble guests of Our Lady of the Rosebush. PUPPET MAN. Is it from the gospels, or a saint's story? ABBE FILOSI. Humbly, it is the story of Judith. PUPPET MAN. Humbly, as an artist, I am filled with delight. And I have for it just the figures you could wish. A Judith, lovely beyond the power of song, 484. FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS and a Prince, heavy with gold, and a cavalier for the lady ABBE FILOSI. That will not serve. In my play she goes with only her maid- servant to the tent of the Holophernes. PUPPET MAX. It is not usual, in Ven- ice. Will it not be deemed strange by the ladies present? ABBE FILOSI. Better so, than its author be deemed ignorant by the learned Rev- erendissima, who will grace your per- formance personally. PUPPET MAN [stiffly], I bow to your learning, Reverend Father. ABBE FILOSI. My poem will require of you some artistry, and not all of the stale and accustomed sort. [The Puppet Man bows.] I shall require, for example, that the head of the Holophernes be actually and visibly severed. PUPPET MAN. I will undertake it, and moreover, I will promise a goodly flow of red blood from the corpus of the Holo- phernes. ABBE FILOSI. Excellent. Further, there is required a Triumph of Judith, in a car of state, and a figure of Time, speak- ing, and a Religion, out of the clouds, who speaks some verse in praise of the Rev- erendissima and of the noble house of the Morosini. All this must be carried out precisely. PUPPET MAN. All this I undertake, seeing how famous is this convent, and of how illustrious a house is its Abbessa. Suffer me to inquire if the entire poem is of a lofty and tragic nature. ABBE FILOSI. Certainly. PUPPET MAN. This is a great honor to me, but a ruinous one as well. For I see I shall have no opportunity to bring on my most potent figures my Harle- quino with the seven wires, and ABBE FILOSI. Harlequino does not ap- pear in the poem. PUPPET MAN. But might he not ap- pear in an interlude? Let me suggest, in all humility, that I might perform an interlude between the Harlequino and the serving-wench of Judith, after the death of the Holophernes? ABBE FILOSI. Dio, dio what a prof- anation ! ABBESS. Come, come, your Reverence, I see no profanation in it. We must not be too severe too lofty. Think of our guests, and of the novices, mere children in heart who will be witnessing our play. Let there be something in it for the liking of all, I should say. ABBE FILOSI. But, Reverendissima PUPPET MAN. I could assure you of the success of the poem, if you would permit it. ABBESS. I am sure it will be permitted. And now, sir, there are some other mat- ters to be settled. First, we shall re- quire that you bring here your puppets, in advance of the play, for our inspec- tion, lest there be anything ungodly and unfit about them. PUPPET MAN. It is the custom. I have brought some; and you shall have the others when I have conned the reverend Father's poem, and know which ones shall be required. [Opens his bag and takes out pup- pets.] Here is a lady who might serve for Judith. And here a Prince, though I have a richer one, better perhaps for the Holophernes. And here a devil a Satanasso, and here ABBESS. Leave them all on the table. I will have them examined at leisure. Now, sir, tell me what you expect to be paid for this performance? PUPPET MAN [fingering his manu- script], Reverendissima, considering the difficulties of the poem, and the Holo- phernes to be visibly beheaded, and the great fame of this convent, that is said to require of every novice sixteen quarter- ings to her crest and a thousand ducats of dowry, and considering the illustrious family of which the Abbessa herself descends I will perform the poem in the best manner for twelve ducats. ABBESSA. Considering just the matters you mention, and the honor to you to bring your puppets into this convent at all, you shall have five ducats. PUPPET MAN. Five ducats Rever- endissima, I cannot have heard you aright five ducats. ABBESS. Fire ducats. PUPPET MAN. Mercy of the Saints! Five ducats for Shrove Tuesday, and a Holophernes to be visibly beheaded in a most illustrious convent, too. It is ruin to me, Reverendissima black ruin. ABBESS. Five ducats you shall have. PUPPET MAN [starting to put his pup- pets back in the bag]. It is not possible, Reverendissima. No one of my craft could do it even the worst of them would ask more than I have. Mere jug- glers and bunglers from Padua would ask twenty ducats. And the fame of this convent ! I see I have been deceived, ABBESS. Be silent, sir. You cannot trifle with me. Put down your trinkets. Do you know who I am, and of what family in the world? Well, sir? PUPPET MAX [slowly putting down his puppets again]. Maybe it will profit me in the sight of the Saints ABBESS. I need not warn you further. Be prepared for the performance in the best style against Shrove Tuesday. And if all goes well, I may add a ducat to your fee. [She taps a gong on the table, and the Sister Sacristan enters. The Puppet Man, dismissed, bows him- self out, clutching the manuscript to his breast. The Sacristan follows him out, returning at once.] Now, Father, since the play is yours, it shall also be yours to pass on the propriety of the figures. ABBE FILOSI. I do not seek the respon- sibility, Reverendissima. Will you not excuse me? ABBESS. You have some intention in this, Father? ABBE FILOSI. Will you not excuse me? ABBESS [smiling]. Certainly not. What troubles you about it? ABBE FILOSI. Reverendissima, I would gladly have passed it in silence. Your wisdom in matters of the world and of the Church is greater than mine. But look you now. This Judith I think shows more of her bosom than is seemly. ABBESS [with asperity]. I will instruct you. By the laws on the serene Republic, a Venetian lady may show one-half of her bosom and no more, and there is no immodesty in the proceeding. This law the lady Judith obeys. ABBE FILOSI. I do not dissent from your wisdom, nor from the law of Venice. Still, it seems to me there would be more propriety in it if we were to have a collarette of tissue pinned about her the eyes of all the novices, remember ABBESS. I remember also our guests, many of them ladies of the first houses, who would certainly take it amiss, and as a reflection upon themselves ABBE FILOSI. I wish with all my heart, Reverendissima, you had excused me. ABBESS [turning to Sister Sacristan]. I will ask the Sisters Grimana Emo and Rosalba Foscarini to examine the pup- pets. [The Sister Sacristan goes out.] Their learning in theology may not be profound, but they know the world's judgment, coming as they do of the first families. [The Abbe Filosi bows low.] ABBE FILOSI. I shall be at your ser- vice, Reverendissima. ABBESS. I thank you enough for the poem. Farewell. [He bows himself out, at right, as Sister Orimana and Sister Ro- salba enter left.] GRIMANA. You have sent for us, Mother? ABBESS. In the matter of the Shrove Tuesday play yes. The puppets will be brought in advance, as usual. These few the show-man has already left. GRIMANA. You wish them to be looked over, as usual? ABBESS. Not quite as usual. This year they are to appear in a play or poem which the Father Confessor has written for us dealing with the story of Judith. Now the good Abbe, though a man of great learning and a graceful poet withal, has not the advantage of family that some of our sisters GRIMANA. And some of our guests ROSALBA. I remember once, at a fete in the gardens of my uncle, the Doge ABBESS. I need instruct you no further. I do not wish anything ungodly or unfit to appear; nor do I wish anything in the play to suggest that there is any im- propriety in the illustrious audience. GRIMANA. I understand, Mother. It is chiefly a question of the dressing of the ladies. ABBESS. Precisely. I shall leave it in your charge. Remembering, Sister Grimana, the laws of Venice and the cus- toms of the house of your father, the most illustrious Admiral, and you Sister Rosalba, the fetes in the gardens of your uncle, the Doge surely it will be prop- erly cared for. {Exit the Abbess.] * 4 86 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS GRIMANA. All this because we have been given a bourgeois Confessor ROSALBA. No matter for that, Sister. I love puppets. We had once a puppet festival, when they played the whole his- tory of the Serene Republic, and there were great ships with puppet sailors [They begin to separate the puppets with their wires and strings. Enter Sister Benvenuta.] BENVENUTA. Oh, the joy! Are these for the Shrove Tuesday play? If only we could show them to [She glances toward the Sacristy closet, stops, and goes on.] Sister Rosalba, can you make them dance? GRIMANA. Dance, forsooth to what music, sister? ROSALBA. You might sing for them, Sister. GRIMANA. Aye, so I might. Time was when I knew tunes enough. BENVENUTA. There is a lute in the cloister left from the musical mass. And my cousin Atalanta can play it I should like to hear some music here. [She glances at the closet.] I'll fetch her. [She goes off to find Atalanta.] GHIMANA. What personages have we here? This lady for Judith? ROSALBA. That can scarcely be, Judith was black haired. GRIMANA. Nothing of the sort. She had hair of a dark red a smoldering color. ROSALBA. Was she not of the tribe? GRIMANA. What matters the tribe? In her picture by Titian, in the great hall of my father's house ROSALBA. We had a Judith also by Jacopo Bellini. He was Titian's master. Her hair was black. GRIMANA. You may be right. In our picture by Titian, now I remember it, the head was so covered with a wonderful jeweled crown that we could see little of the hair. [Rosalba is somewhat put down by the splendor of Orimana's Titian. Benvenuta comes back with Ata- lanta, who carries a lute. As she appears Orlmana untangles and holds up another puppet the Beelzebubb.] GRIMANA. Here's a personage of ter- ror. [She turns the figure and moves it threateningly toward Benvenuta, who looks at Beelzebubb and is in- stantly seized with a wild fit of laughter.] Saint Mark preserve us ! You are queerly pleased, Sister. It's not many that laugh at this figure. ROSALBA [reading the figure's label]. He's Beelzebubb Satanasso, Prince of all Devils. BENVENUTA. I pray your pardon. I could not keep from laughing. I can never look at a devil without laughing. He seems so anxious to understand, and so important with the responsibility of being Prince of all Devils. ROSALRA. You may laugh if you like, but you should remember how ready he is to slip away with the unwary souls of people who laugh at him. How he is always in wait, by day and by night, for a wavering thought or a rift in one's faith GRIMANA. See here the pouch he car- ries to put your soul in.' Truly, Sister, he might pluck you off like a cherry. ATALANTA [shuddering]. Dear Sister Grimana I beg of you GRIMANA. And he comes at the .call of the secret thought that's what makes him look so anxious lest he should not be listening when you call him, and the Saints come to your soul first, and warn it ATALANTA. Sister Grimana! BENVENUTA. Still, I can never look at him without laughing. He is droll. Ata- lanta, the lute. [Atalanta brings forward the lute and tries the strings. Rosatba takes up the puppet of the lady.] I saw the show-man. He was a most ill-favored man. Sister Rosalba, do you think he was excommunicate. ROSALBA. Of course not. And if he were, that would not make his puppets excommunicate. GRIMANA. What if it did? A noble convent has privileges. It would not matter to us. ATALANTA. What shall I play? GRIMANA. Can you play? \ She sing s\: Go visto una colomba el cielo andare Che la svolava su per un giardino THE NURSERY MAID OF HEAVEN 487 In mezzo '1 peto la gavea do ale E in boca la tegniva un zenzamino ! ATALAXTA. I do not know the air. But I can play a furlana. BEXVEXUTA. That will be gay, Ata- lanta. Play a furlana, I beg you. GRIMAXA. That will serve, Sister Ro- salba, your prince. [As Atnlanta plays, Grimana manip- ulates the Judith and Rosalba the Prince. They are unskillful and the puppets dance crudely, but Benvenuta looks on in ecstasy, falling slowly back until she stands by the door of the closet. As she does so two or three more nuns and novices come furtively in at the back and stand watching the per- formance. As the dance of the puppets grows more animated the Abbess enters with the Sister Sacristan. For a moment the others do not see her, and the play continues. Then she speaks coldly and evenly.] ABBESS. Sisters, is this the solemn judgment I bespoke on these trinkets? Sister Grimana ! [Grimana lays down the puppets and comes forward.} Sister Rosalba ! [Rosalba also comes forward.] I will consider this, and will give out the penances in chapter. GRIMAXA. Yes, Mother. [Rosalba stands with her head bowed and her fingers run along the but- tons of her cape.] ABBESS. There has been too much play- ing of lutes, too much worldly anticipa- tion and imagining among us. So I have decided that all the holy relics shnll be re-furbished, and all the vestments mended and cleaned, against Shrove Tues- day. And all other work, whether of embroidery or of whatever nature, shall wait till this be done. Sister Sacristan, let the tasks be set at once. [The sisters bow their heads and go out, the Sister Sacristan following Rosalba and Grimana off. Ben- venuta stands still in an attitude of deep humility.] Well, little Sister? BEXVEXUTA. Holy Mother, I am wait- ing for my penance. ABBESS. Your penance, Benvenuta? BEXVEXUTA. The fault was mine. I brought Atalanta with her lute. I was to blame for it all. I am heedless, and unworthy, and stained with worldliness, Mother. ABBESS. There, there, my child. I will overlook it. [Benvenuta turns away, weeping furtively.] Come here, little Sister. Why should you weep? I have said I will overlook it. BEXVEXUTA. I weep because I am un- worthy to be penanced. I am nothing. ABBESS. You are nothing? Is not this the very essence of humility? Little Sis- ter, when I forgave you your fault, did you doubt my wisdom? BEXVEXUTA. Yes, holy Mother. Oh, I have sinned in vain glory. I doubted. But I did not mean to doubt. ABBESS [smiling]. Come hither, little Sister. If I must set you a penance, what would you have it be? BEXVEXUTA. I would have it ... no [She hesitates.] ABBESS. Speak, Sister. BEXVEXUTA. I would have you set me to the making of a coat for the Holy Bambino, as I asked of you before. ABBESS. That would hardly be a pen- ance. And, besides, you sew so badly. BENVEXUTA. Yes, Mother. I sew badly. And it would not really be a pen- ance. [The Sister Sacristan comes in and takes from the closet some cloth and a reliquary or two. She lays them on the table, preparing them for u'ork.] ABBESS. I will speak of this another time. Another time, little Sister. [Benvenuta stands very still. The Abbess turns to the Sister Sacris- tan.] What have you there? SISTER SACRISTAX. The fine lawn for the surplices for His Eminence. ABBESS. That can wait. I do not think it wise to leave the workroom alone while the relics are being done over. [She stands in the doorway. The Sister Sacristan is about to follow, but notices Benvenuta and goes over ostentatiously to lock the closet; then she goes out after the Abbess. Benvenuta stands still FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS and her eyes go from the closet to the cloth and takes up a piece of lawn, and carries it with her to the closet door.] BENVENUTA. Dear little Great One, I see no way but this to keep my promise. I do not understand what the Holy Mother means. But I will do my pen- ance when she determines it. I do sew very badly, dear little Great One, but I will make the stitches slowly, night by night in my cell, and every one of them, no matter how far askew, shall have all the love of my heart drawn tight in it. I have promised you a coat, little Great One, and I will surely keep my promise. [She steals upstairs in the gathering darkness. The organ in the chapel ii> heard, faintly at first, then sivell- ing in exultation. Slowly, after she disappears, the door of the closet opens of itself, and from within a golden light glows across the room and up the stair. The Curtain Falls.] [SCENE II. In her white-walled cell, with its one high windoio looking over the tree tops into the night sky, Ben- venuta sits alone, sewing, with great labor and difficulty, by the light of a candle. There is a soft knock, and Atalanta slips in, bringing something concealed under her cape.] BENVENUTA. Have you brought it, dear? ATALANTA. I've got the coat of the gardener's child, but I fear it is not what you wanted. BENVENUTA. I'm sure it will serve. Why do you fear for it? ATALANTA. Because it's the little girl's coat. The boy's I could not set, for he has but the one, and the nights are so cold. BEXVENUTA. So they are and we wouldn't have the poor lad shivering. Perhaps the girl's will serve. Did you get the thread of gold? ATALANTA. Yes, dear. [There is a pause.] You wouldn't be happier telling me all about it? Or letting me help you, perhaps? BENVENUTA. What good were there in that? You sew as badly as I do, child. ATALANTA. It's not kind of you to say so. BENVENUTA. I'm sorry, Atalanta, dear. And it's most ungrateful of me for you are helping me helping me very much. And as for my telling you it's a great secret, and you should be content to know as much as you do of it. ATALANTA. I'm afraid I know too much of it now. I'm afraid I ought to be confessing what I know already. BENVENUTA. Confessing it. Oh, no; Atalanta, dear ATALANTA. I'm afraid I ought un- less you tell me more. BENVENUTA. Oh, I see. Now, listen, my child. This matter is one concerning my devotions a private matter surely, and needing no confessions from you. ATALANTA. Then why these secret mes- sages, and the gold thread, and the gar- dener's child's coat to be got by stealth? BENVENUTA. For what I am doing, I would call for help from you or from any one from the Evil One himself, if it would serve. But it is surely no sin though it might get you into trouble to help me with it, Atalanta, dear. ATALANTA. Prt! That's not what I mind. BENVENUTA. You you love me enough to be troubled for my sake, a little, dear? ATALANTA \breaking out]. I would flout the Mother Abbess to her face for you, Benvenuta. It's that you try to keep me in the dark that I mind about it. I'm going. [Atalanta turns sharply and goes. Benvenuta lai/s out the little coat of the gardener's child, and lays her lawn, already cut, upon it. She seems discouraged, turns it over, and tries again. Then with an air of resolution, she takes it up and sews fiercely, pricking her fingers, slopping to put (hem to her mouth, and going on doggedly.] BENVENUTA. I promised it, dear little Great One, and I would give my soul to keep my promise, but I fear me it will never comfort you. [She sews for a minute in silence. Then lifts her head with a sudden thought, and says aloud with a firm resolution] : I would give my soul. THE NURSERY MAID OF HEAVEN 489 [She waits. After a moment there is a light tapping of footsteps; then a marked rapping, as of hoofs on a pavement; she shivers, and starts up in sudden terror, as Beel- zebubb Satanasso confronts her. He is like the Devil Puppet in every respect, but the size of a small man. He bows low in a mechanical sort of way as if jointed. She gazes at him in won- der, laughs nervously and sup- presses her laughter.] BEELZEBUBB fm a voice like a Jews' harp]. Sister Benvenuta, did I hear you call for me, or wish for me to come? BEXVENUTA. Yes, I called you. BEELZEBUBB. You wished me to help you? BENVENUTA. Yes. BEELZEBUBB. You know who I am. [He points to his label.] BEXVEXUTA. I know. You are Beel- zebubb Satanasso, Prince of all Devils. [She suppresses a laugh.] BEELZEBUBB. You have made a prom- ise, and you cannot keep it, so you call for help. I come, for I am always ready. Now tell me precisely what it is you want. BEXVEXUTA. I have promised a coat to the little Child BEELZEBUBB. That will do. It were better not to speak the name. What sort of a coat do you wish? BEXVEXUTA. May I have just what I like? BEELZEBUBB. Certainly you may, my dear if you are ready to pay for it. BEXVEXUTA. I am ready. And I should like a little coat like the one on the second of the Magi in the Adoration by Bellini that is over the altar in our chapel at home in the house of the Duke Loredano. BEELZEBUBB. Let me understand ex- actly. The coat is to be like the coat on the second figure to the left from the cen- ter of the picture? BEXVEXUTA. Yes no, there's a Saint Joseph also at the back. He would be the third from the Holy BEELZEBUBB. I pray you, keep the names of these people out of it. BEXVEXUTA. These people! [Benvenuta' 's hand moves as if she icere about to cross herself.] BEELZEBUBB. And let your hand fall. You were about to make to make some sort of sign with it. These practices are very distasteful to me. I cannot help you or even stay for an interview if you persist in them. BEXVEXUTA. I beg your forgiveness. I hnd no intention BEELZEBUBB. I believe that it is merely a habit you have learned but it is distasteful to me. BEXVENUTA. I will not offend you again. BEELZEBUBB. Now to business. You wish of me a coat, a rich coat like that on the third figure from the center of the picture that is in your father's chapel at Venice. And the size BEXVEXUTA. To fit the little Child BEELZEBUBB [interrupting sharply]. I bee: of you ! I understand. The coat is of what color? BEXVEXUTA. It is the coat of the sec- ond of the Magi [He puts up his hand, and she checks It is of carmine silk damask with gold thread, and the inner vest is of white lawn. 1 wish it precisely like the pic- ture, since you promise so much. BEELZEBUBB. It shall be so. I will undertake to bring you the coat. And in exchange I ask only that you sign your name here. [He takes out a parchment contract, with a great red seal on it.] I regret that ink will not do. You must prick one of your fingers. I am very sorry, but there is no other way. BEXVEXUTA. Prick my finger? Once? BEELZEBUBB. Only once, to secure the drop of blood. I am sorry to ask it, but BEXVENUTA. As though it never hap- pened to me before ! [She pricks her finger and squeezes out a drop of Blood. He whips out a quill pen, and deftly wets it with the blood.] BEELZEBUBB. You will sign here. BEXVEXUTA. And what does it say? I should be loath to sign anything un- worthy of my family, or of this noble convent BEELZEBUBB. There is nothing novel about it the form is quite usual, and has been signed, I assure you, by many of the highest families in Venice. It 490 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS merely binds me at once to furnish you the rich coat, and you to give me your little flame of a soul when I come for it. That is all. BENVEXUTA. Give me the pen. [She signs the contract. He passes his hand thrice across the pouch and then takes from it the coat, and lays it across her lap. He steps back and bows stiffly, folding the contract and smiling.] BEELZEBUBB. My dear young lady my dear little sister. [He bows again, and vanishes; again the organ is heard, and Benvenuta is left, her face glowing in ecstasy, the carmine coat across her knees.] [Curtain.] [SCENE III: The Chapter Room. Night. The Abbess giving orders to Grimana, Rosalba, the Sister Sacristan and others, about the midnight office.] ABBESS. All are to be present. None are to be indulged. I beg you, so inform the sisters. [Rosalba goes out.] And the novices are all to be in their places. I know the hour is late for them, and many are young, but this is an ex- ceptional night. Stay. The novice Ata- lanta Badoer I shall require her apart from the others. She will be needed with her lute. GRIMANA. I will look to it, Reverend Mother. [She sets about to gather her em- broidery.] ABBESS. Now in the matter of the relics and vestments? SISTER SACRISTAN. The relics are all re-furbished and repacked in new cotton- wool, Reverend Mother. ABBESS. And the vestments? SISTER SACRISTAN. The vestments are all in order [She is about to mention something about the vestments, but stops her- self.] ABBESS. Go on. SISTER SACRISTAN. I must report, as a matter of duty, Reverend Mother, that certain goods a piece of fine lawn cannot be found. It was laid out here to be used for the new surplice for His Eminence. ABBESS. I do not like this. Tell me what you know of it. SISTER SACRISTAN. This is all I know. Except that when I returned here, the door to the Sacristy Closet was open ABBESS. Who was here at the time? SISIER SACRISTAN. Sister Benvenuta was left here. When I returned she was gone, and the closet was open, and the lawn GRIMANA [interceding]. I beg you, Reverend Mother ABBESS. Sister Grimana, I have given you your task. Be about it. [Grimana touches the buttons of her cape one by one, and then turns and goes out.] Sister, remember that the Sister Ben- venuta comes of the noble house of the Loredani. Guard your tongue. [The Sister Sacristan stands gloom- ily biting her lips.] If she has removed the cloth to some other place, it does not matter. Remem- ber who she is, and that she is after all a child in mind, in heart. We will speak no more of this. SISTER SACRISTAN. No, Reverend Mother. ABBESS. Send Sister Rosalba to me. SISTER SACRISTAN. She is coming now, Reverend Mother. [Rosalba comes in and the Sister Sacristan goes out.] ABBESS. I wish to speak with Benven- uta, Sister. ROSALRA. I will fetch her, Reverend Mother. ABBESS. One moment. You have ob- served her of late? ROSALBA. Yes, Mother. ABBESS. She seems pale, and not so strong as she was. And her mind but then she was always a simple child. ROSALBA. Of course, I do not know the cause of her pallor. Perhaps a pen- ance she is undergoing secretly. [The suggestion is half a question as are those of the Abbess as well.] She is still very young, Reverend Mother. ABBESS. She has confided nothing to you, nor to Grimana? ROSALBA. Not to me, Mother. Shall I call Sister Grimana? ABBESS. No. Send Benvenuta to me. THE NURSERY MAID OF HEAVEN 491 And ask Grimana to send the novice Ata- lanta also a little later. [Rosalba goes out. The Abbess goes over and examines the Sacristy Closet door, tries the lock, finds It fast, and returns to her chair. Benvenuta enters. She is more pale than before, and looks frailer, and her limp is more apparent, but her eyes are wide, and rove about the room, and her expression is of one u'ho has found her happiness. The Abbess speaks to her kindly.] ABBESS. My child, I have called you to me because you have seemed so pale, and I fear you have burdened yourself beyond your strength. BENVENUTA. No, Reverend Mother. I am not burdened. ABBESS. You are not performing any secret penance? BENVENUTA. None, Mother. ABBESS. Answer me truly, Benvenuta. You have not been contemplating some penance, and so been filled with anxiety. BENVENUTA. I look for no penance in this life, Reverend Mother, beyond such as may be imposed upon me. ABBESS. Nothing beyond your strength will be imposed. If you have need of more sleep, I would be willing to relax for you, for a time. BENVENUTA. I do not need it, Rev- erend Mother. [Atalanta enters, sees the Abbess, and stands waiting.] ABBESS. If you should find yourself overburdened, little Sister, come to me. That will do. Atalanta, one moment. [Atalanta steps forward. Benven- uta starts to go, but lingers.] I shall need your help with the lute to- night. I know you play it well. The best lute player among the lay sisters is ill. You can play from notes? ATALANTA. If it be not too difficult, Reverend Mother. ABBESS. It is simple. But I will have them give you the music, against the time when you will be needed. [The Abbess goes out toward the Chapel. Benvenuta comes down to Atalanta.] BENVENUTA. Atalanta, dear ! ATALANTA. Yes, Benvenuta. BENVENUTA. There is something must talk to you about. I have put it off because I have been deep in my own thoughts. You told me not so long ago that you could not find your call, that the world still beckoned you. ATALANTA. Yes, it did. But I have been calmer since we spoke of it. There was a thing in my heart that had to be spoken out BENVENUTA. Yes. ATALANTA. I spoke it out to you, and since then it has not troubled me. BENVENUTA. It was about the vine- dresser's baby in your father's garden? ATALANTA. Yes. BENVENUTA. You told me about it here in this room, was it not? ATALANTA. Yes. Surely it was here. How strangely you speak, Benvenuta. Have you forgotten? It was after that you asked me to get the gold thread, and the child's coat. BENVENUTA. So I did. I had almost forgotten it. ATALANTA. It was a great comfort to me to tell you, Sister and to serve you. Why have you asked nothing more of me? BENVENUTA. I have all the help I need, now. [A pause. Atalanta looks at Ben- venuta wonderingly.] The vinedresser's baby did you ever hold him in your arms? ATALANTA. No. BENVENUTA. Nor ever felt his lips soft and moist against your cheek, nor his fingers warm on your neck? ATALANTA. No. I only saw the child, as I told you. BENVENUTA. I remember now. You only saw him. [Another pause. Benvenuta is look- ing toward the Sacristy closet.] Atalanta, dear, do you know that we can only be happy by pleasing those we love most that is what people live for, I think. And dear, remember this: the happiness you saw on the face of the vinedresser's wife was as torment beside the joy that is glowing in me. [Her eyes meet Atalanta's for a mo- ment.] Don't, dear don't think it too strange. Everything is strange, after all. ATALANTA. Your face was like hers, then. BENVENUTA. Please don't say that, 492 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS dear. It's it's foolish isn't it? But I told you once I was waiting for some- thing all my life waiting. And now and now ! [She touches Atalanta's head, lightly, and goes off upstairs toward her cell. Atalanta is left looking after her. Grimana comes in.] GBIMANA. Well, mistress. Prideful over not sitting with the novices this night, eh? The lute-playing comes in well at last, does it? ATALANTA. Oh, Sister Grimana, I [She stops, confused.] GRIMANA. What is it, child? ATALANTA. It's Benvenuta. Have you seen her? Have you? GRIMANA. Yes, dear, I've seen. She's young. These times come to all of us, I suppose. But they pass. Calm, child. Count your buttons. ATALANTA. I was frightened, Sister Grimana. GRIMANA. Aye, you'll frighten the novices just so in your turn. But just the same, I wish she wouldn't [The Abbess r centers, as a bell strikes from the chapel. Rosalba comes on from the left, with two or three sisters.] ABBESS. It is time. Let us all proceed to the chapel. [The Sister Sacristan carrying the lute and some music, enters from the chapel.] Are all the sisters assembled? SISTER SACRISTAN. All save those who are here, and Sister Benvenuta. ABBESS. Please you, Sister Grimana, go for Benvenuta. [Grimana goes up the stairs.] SISTER SACRISTAN. Here is the lute, Atalanta Badoer. The notes are clear, and the times you are to play them are written there. ATALANTA. My hands tremble so. I'm afraid I shall fail in it. ABBESS. Courage, child. I know it is the first time, but you will do well I am sure you will do well. Come, let us take our places. [Grimana enters on the steps, in great trouble of mind. She carries in her hand the puppet of the Beel- zebubb, twisted and shattered and singed with fire.] GRIMANA. Reverend Mother, forgive me. I have seen I have seen [She clasps and unclasps her hands, unable to speak.] ABBESS. What was it, Grimana? GHIMANA. I scarcely know, Mother. Mary be my shield ! ABBESS. Speak, Sister. GHIMANA. There was a great light through every crevice of the door of her cell. And music in the air like harps and viols d'amour. And on the floor out- side I found this shattered and half burnt this puppet. And from within, sounds ABBESS. Tell me all, Sister. GRIMANA [her fingers on the buttons of her cape]. Sounds as of a mother and her babe* cooing and kissing and caressing each other. ABBESS. Call the Father Confessor. [The Sister Sacristan goes out to- ward the chapel.] We must look to this. If her mind have broken under some penance ATALANTA. Let me go ABBESS. No. She was so pale [The Sister Sacristan returns with the Abbe Filosi.] Reverend Father, the little sister of the house of Loredan [Then, the upper corridor is filled with a growing light the same radiant gold that streamed from the Sacristy closet. The sisters bless themselves and most of them fall on their knees. In the light Benvenuta appears walking erect, her lameness gone, and holding be- fore her the Christ Child, in a won- drous robe of carmine silk damask. She laughs softly with the babe as she passes, and when she has passed off toward the chapel, whence the organ is again heard, the light ABBE FILOSI [in a hushed voice]. A miracle ! ABBESS. She is healed! A miracle of the Holy Child. Blessed Mother thy Holy Child in our house. [Atalanta goes swiftly up the steps and off after Benvenuta.] ABBE FILOSI. Let there be a special service of thanksgiving. ABBESS. Let all hearts be uplifted ! [Atalanta returns, trailing her lute behind her, and sinks down at the head of the stairway, sobbing.] [Curtain.] THREE TRAVELERS WATCH A SUNRISE A PLAY BY WALLACE STEVENS Copyright, 1916, by Wallace Stevens. All rights reserved. Reprinted from "Poetry" (Chicago) by permission of Mr. Wallace Stevens and Miss Harriet Monroe. Applications for permission to produce this play should be addressed to Mr. Wallace Stevens, 125 Trumbull Street, Hartford, Conn. THREE TRAVELERS WATCH A SUNRISE A PlAY [The characters are three Chinese, two negroes and a girl. The scene represents a forest of heavy trees on a hilltop in eastern Pennsylvania. To the right is a road, obscured by bushes. It is about four o'clock of a morning in August, at the present time. When the curtain rises, the stage is dark. The limb of a tree creaks. A negro carrying a lantern passes along the road. The sound is repeated. The negro comes through the bushes, raises his lan- tern and looks through the trees. Dis- cerning a dark object among the branches, he shrinks back, crosses stage, and goes out through the wood to the left. A second negro comes through the bushes to the right. He carries two large baskets, which he places on the ground just inside of the bushes. Enter three Chinese, one of whom carries a lantern. They pause on the road,] SECOND CHINESE. All you need, To find poetry, Is to look for it with a lantern. [The Chinese laugh.] THIRD CHINESE. I could find it with- out, On an August night, If I saw no more Then the dew on the barns. [The Second Negro makes a sound to attract their attention. The three Chinese come through the bushes. The first is short, fat, quizzical, and of middle age. The second is of middle height, thin and turning gray; a man of sense and sym- pathy. The third is a young man, intent, detached. They wear Euro- pean clothes.] SECOND CHINESE [glancing at the bas- kets]. Dew is water to see, Not water to drink: We have forgotten water to drink. Yet I am content Just to see sunrise again. I have not seen it Since the day we left Pekin. It filled my doorway, Like whispering women. FIRST CHINESE. And I have never seen it. If we have no water, Do find a melon for me In the baskets. [The Second Negro, who has been opening the baskets, hands the First Chinese a melon.] FIRST CHINESE. Is there no spring? [The negro takes a water bottle of red porcelain from one of the bas- kets and places it near the Third Chinese.] SECOND CHINESE [to Third Chinese]. Your porcelain water bottle. [One of the baskets contains cos- tumes of silk, red, blue and green. During the following speeches, the Chinese put on these costumes, with the assistance of the negro, and seat themselves on the ground.] THIRD CHINESE. This fetches its own water. [Takes the bottle and places it on the ground in the center of the stage.] I drink from it, dry as it is, As you from maxims, [To Second Chi- nese.] Or you from melons. [To First Chi- nese.] FIRST CHINESE. Not as I, from melons. Be sure of that. 495 496 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS SECOND CHINESE. Well, it is true of maxims. [He finds a book in the pocket of his costume, and reads from it.] "The court had known poverty and wretchedness; humanity had in- vaded its seclusion, with its suffer- ing and its pity." [The limb of the tree creaks.] Yes: it is true of maxims, Just as it is true of poets, Or wise men, or nobles, Or jade. FIRST CHINESE. Drink from wise men? From jade? Is there no spring? [Tvrniny to the negro, who has taken a jug from one of the baskets.] Fill it and return. [The negro removes a large candle from one of the baskets and hands it to the First Chinese; then takes the jug and the lantern and enters the trees to the left. The First Chinese lights the candle and places it on the ground near the water bottle.] THIRD CHINESE. There is a seclusion of porcelain That humanity never invades. FIRST CHINESE [with sarcasm]. Porce- lain ! THIRD CHINESE. It is like the seclusion of sunrise, Before it shines on any house. FIRST CHINESE. Pooh! SECOND CHINESE. This candle is the sun; This bottle is earth: It is an illustration Used by generations of hermits. The point of difference from reality Is this: That, in this illustration, The earth remains of one color It remains red, It remains what it is. But when the sun shines on the earth, In reality It does not shine on a thing that re- mains What it was yesterday. The sun rises On whatever the earth happens to be. THIRD CHINESE. And there are inde- terminate moments Before it rises, Like this, [With a backward gesture.] Before one can tell What the bottle is going to be Porcelain, Venetian glass, Egyptian . . . Well, there are moments When the candle, sputtering up, Finds itself in seclusion, [He raises the candle in the air.] And shines, perhaps, for the beauty of shining. That is the seclusion of sunrise Before it shines on any house. [Replac- ing the candle.] FIRST CHINESE [wagging his head]. As abstract as porcelain. SECOND CHINESE. Such seclusion knows beauty As the court knew it. The court woke In its windless pavilions, And gazed on chosen mornings, As it gazed On chosen porcelain. What the court saw was always of the same color, And well shaped, And seen in a clear light. [He points to the candle.] It never woke to see, And never knew, The flawed jars, The weak colors, The contorted glass. It never knew The poor lights. [He opens his book significantly.] When the court knew beauty only, And in seclusion, It had neither love nor wisdom. These came through poverty And wretchedness, Through suffering and pity. [He pauses.] It is the invasion of humanity That counts. [The limb of the tree creaks. The First Chinese turns, for a moment, in the direction of (he sound.] FIRST CHINESE [thought fully]. The light of the most tranquil candle Would shudder on a bloody salver. SECOND CHINESE [with a gesture of dis- regnrd]. It is the invasion That counts. If it be supposed that we are three figures Painted on porcelain THREE TRAVELERS WATCH A SUNRISE 497 As we sit here, That we are painted on this very bottle, The hermit of the place, Holding this candle to us, Would wonder; But if it be supposed That we are painted as warriors, The candle would tremble in his hands; Or if it be supposed, for example, That we are painted as three dead men, He could not see the steadiest light, For sorrow. It would be true If an emperor himself Held the candle. He would forget the porcelain For the figures painted on it. THIRD CHINESE [shrugging his shoul- ders]. Let the candle shine for the beauty of shining. I dislike the invasion And long for the windless pavilions. And yet it may be true That nothing is beautiful Except with reference to ourselves, Nor ugly, Nor high, [Pointing to the sky.] Nor low. [Pointiny to the candle.] No: not even sunrise. Can you play of this [Mockingly to First Chinese.] For us? [He stands up.] FIRST CHINESE [hesitatingly]. I have a song Called Mistress and Maid. It is of no interest to hermits Or emperors, Yet it has a bearing; For if we affect sunrise, We affect all things. THIRD CHINESE. It is a pity it is of women. Sing it. [He takes an instrument from one of the baskets and hands it to the First Chinese, who sings the follow- ing song, accompanying himself, somewhat tunelessly, on the instru- ment. The Third Chinese takes various things out of the basket for tea. He arranges fruit. The First Chinese watches him while he plays. The Second Chinese gazes at the ground. The sky shows the first signs of morning.} FIRST CHINESE. The mistress says, in a harsh voice, " He will be thinking in strange coun- tries Of the white stones near my door, And I I am tired of him." She says sharply, to her maid, " Sing to yourself no more." Then the maid says, to herself, " He will be thinking in strange coun- tries Of the white stones near her door; But it is me he will see At the window, as before. " He will be thinking in strange coun- tries Of the green gown I wore. He was saying good-by to her." The maid drops her eyes and says to her mistress, " I shall sing to myself no more." THIRD CHINESE. That affects the white stones, To be sure. [They laugh.} FIRST CHINESE. And it affects the green gown. SECOND CHINESE. Here comes our black man. [The Second Negro returns, some- what agitated, with water but with- out his lantern. He hands the jug to the Third Chinese. The First Chinese from time to time strikes the instrument. The Third Chi- nese, who faces the left, peers in the direction from which the negro has come.] THIRD CHINESE. You have left your lantern behind you. It shines, among the trees, Like evening Venus in a cloud-top. [The Second Negro grins but makes no explanation. He seats himself behind the Chinese to the right.] FIRST CHINESE. Or like a ripe straw- berry Among its leaves. [They laugh.] I heard to-night That they are searching the hill For an Italian. He disappeared with his neighbor's daughter. SECOND CHINESE [confidently], I am sure you heard The first 'eloping footfall, And the drum 498 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS Of pursuing feet. FIRST CHINESE [amusedly]. It was not an elopement. The young gentleman was seen To climb the hill, In the manner of a tragedian Who sweats. Such things happen in the evening. He was Un miserable. SECOND CHINESE. Reach the lady quickly. [The First Chinese strikes the instru- ment twice as a prelude to his nar- rative.] FIRST CHINESE. There are as many points of view From which to regard her As there are sides to a round bottle. [Pointing to the water bottle.] She was represented to me As beautiful. [Then lav oh. The First Chinese strikes the instrument, and looks at the Third Chinese, who yawns.] FIRST CHINESE [reciting]. She was as beautiful as a porcelain water bottle. [He strikes the instrument in an in- sinuating manner.] FIRST CHINESE. She was represented to me As young. Therefore my song should go Of the color of blood. [He strikes the instrument. The limb of the tree creaks. The First Chinese notices it and puts his hand on the knee of the Second Chinese, who is seated between him and the Third Chinese, to call attention to the sound. They are all seated so that they do not face the spot from which the sound comes. A dark object, hanging to the limb of the tree, becomes a dim silhouette. The sky grows constantly brighter. No color is to be seen until the end of the play.] SECOND CHINESE [to First Chinese]. It is only a tree Creaking in the night wind. THIRD CHINESE [shrugging his shoul- ders]. There would be no creaking In the windless pavilions. FIRST CHINESE [resuming]. So far the lady of the present ballad Would have been studied By the hermit and his candle With much philosophy; And possibly the emperor would have cried, " More light ! " But it is a way with ballads That the more pleasing they are The worse end they come to; For here it was also represented That the lady was poor The hermit's candle would have thrown Alarming shadows, And the emperor would have held The porcelain in one hand . . . She was represented as clinging To that sweaty tragedian, And weeping up the hill. SECOND CHINESE [with a grimace}. It does not sound like an elopement. FIRST CHINESE. It is a doleful ballad, Fit for keyholes. THIRD CHINESE. Shall we hear more? SECOND CHINESE. Why not? THIRD CHINESE. We "came for isola- tion, To rest in sunrise. SECOND CHINESE [raising his book slightly]. But this will be a part of sunrise, And can you tell how it will end? Venetian, Egyptian, Contorted glass . . . [He turns toward the light in the ski/ to the right, darkening the candle with his hands.] In the meantime, the candle shines, [In- dicating the sunrise.] As you say, [To the Third Chinese.] For the beauty of shining. FIRST CHINESE [sympathetically]. Oh! it will end badly. The lady's father Came clapping behind them To the foot of the hill. He came crying, "Anna, Anna, Anna!" [Imitating.] He was alone without her, Just as the young gentleman Was alone without her: Three beggars, you see, Begging for one another. [The First Negro, carrying two lan- terns, approaches cautiously through the trees. At the sight of him, the Second Negro, seated ne.ar the Chinese, jumps to his feet. THREE TRAVELERS WATCH A SUNRISE 499 The Chinese get up in alarm. The Second Negro goes around the Chinese toward the First Negro. All see the body of a man hanging to the limb of the tree. They gather together, keeping their eyes fixed on it. The First Negro comes out of the trees and places the lan- terns on the ground. He looks at the group and then at the bod;/.} FIRST CHINESE [moved]. The young gentleman of the ballad. THIRD CHINESE [slowly, approaching the body]. And the end of the bal- lad. Take away the bushes. [The negroes commence to pull away the bushes.] SECOND CHINESE. Death, the hermit, Needs no candle In his hermitage. [The Second Chinese snuffs out the candle. The First Chinese puts out the lanterns. As the bushes are pulled away, the figure of a girl, sitting half stupefied under the tree, suddenly becomes appar- ent to the Second Chinese and then to the Third Chinese. They step back. The negroes move to the left. When the First Chinese sees the girl, the instrument slips from his hands and falls noisily to the ground. The girl stirs.] SECOND CHINESE [to the girl]. Is that you, Anna? [The girl starts. She raises her head, looks around slowly, leaps to her feet and screams.] SECOND CHINESE [gently]. Is that you, Anna? [She turns quickly toward the body, looks at it fixedly and totters up the stage.] ANNA [bitterly]. Go. Tell my father: He is dead. [The Second and Third Chinese sup- port her. The First Negro whis- pers to the First Chinese, then takes the lanterns and goes through the opening to the road, where he disappears in the direction of the valley.] FIRST CHINESE [to Second Chinese}. Bring up fresh water From the spring. [The Second Negro takes the jug and enters the trees to the left. The girl comes gradually to herself. She looks at the Chinese and at the sky. She turns her back toward the body, shuddering, and does not look at it again.] ANNA. It will soon be sunrise. SECOND CHINESE. One candle replaces Another. [The First Chinese walks toward the bushes to the right. He stands by the roadside, as if to attract the attention of any one passing.] ANNA [simply]. When he was in his fields, I worked in ours Wore purple to see; And when I was in his garden 1 wore gold ear-rings. Last evening I met him on the road. He asked me to walk with him To the top of the hill. I felt the evil, But he wanted nothing. He hanged himself in front of me. [She looks for support. The Second and Third Chinese help her toward the road. At the roadside, the First Chinese takes the place of the Third Chinese. The girl and the two Chinese go through the bushes and disappear down the road. The stage is empty except for the Third Chinese. He walks slowly across the stage, pushing the instrument out of his way with his foot. It reverberates. He looks at the wa- ter bottle.] THIRD CHINESE. Of the color of blood Seclusion of porcelain . . . Seclusion of sunrise . . . [He picks up the water bottle.] The candle of the sun Will shine soon On this hermit earth. [Indicating the bottle.] It will shine soon Upon the trees, And find a new thing [Indicating the body.] Painted on this porcelain, [Indicating the trees.] But not on this. [Indicating the bottle.] [He places the bottle on the ground. A narrow cloud over the valley be- 5 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS comes red. He turns toward it, then walks to the right. He finds the book of the Second Chinese ly- ing on tXe ground, picks it up and turns over the leaves.] Red is not only The color of blood, Or [Indicating the body.] Of a man's eyes, Or [Pointedly.] Of a girl's. And as the red of the sun Is one thing to me And one thing to another, So it is the green of one tree [Indicat- ing.] And the green of another, Which without it would all be black. Sunrise is multiplied, Like the earth on which it shines, By the eyes that open on it, Even dead eyes, As red is multiplied by the leaves of trees. [Toward the end of this speech, the Second Negro comes from the trees to the left, without being seen. The Third Chinese, whose back is turned toward the negro, walks through the bushes to the right and disappears on the road. The negro looks around at the object on the stage. He sees the instrument, seats himself before it and strikes it several times, listening to the sound. One or two birds twitter. A voice, urging a horse, is heard at a distance. There is the crack^of a whip. The negro stands up, walks to the right and remains at the side of the road. [The Curtain Falls Slowly.] SHAM A SOCIAL SATIRE BY FRANK G. TOMPKINS Copyright, 1920, by Stewart & Kidd Co. All rights reserved. THREE PEOPLE CHARLES, the Householder. CLARA, his Wife. THE THIEF. Originally produced by Sam Hume as the dedicatory piece of the new Arts & Crafts Theater, Detroit, and by Maurice Browne of the Chicago Art Theater. Reprinted from "The Stewart-Kidd Modern Plays," edited by Frank Shay. The professional and amateur stage rights on this play are strictly reserved by the author. Applications for permission to produce this play should be made to Mr. Frank Shay, care Stewart & Kidd Co., Cincinnati, U. S. A. SHAM A SOCIAL SATIRE [SCENE: A darkened room. After a moment the door opens, admitting a streak of light. A man peers in cau- tiously. As soon as he is sure that the room is unoccupied, lie steps inside and feels along the wall until he finds the switch which floods the room with light. He is dressed in impeccable taste evi- dently a man of culture. From time to time he bites appreciatively on a ham sandwich as he looks about him, appar- ently I'iewing the room for the first time. Nothing pleases him until a vase over the mantel catches his eye. He picks it up, looks at the bottom, puts it (linen hard, and mutters, " Imitation." Other articles receive the same disdain- fit! verdict. The whole room is beneath his notice. He starts to sit down before the fire and enjoy his sandwich. Sud- denly he pauses to listen, looks about him hurriedly for some place to hide, thinks better of it, and takes his stand opposite the door, smiling pleasantly and expectantly. The door opens and a yovng woman enters with a man at her heels. As she sees the thief she stifles a scream, and retreats, backing the man out behind her. The thief smiles and iraits. Soon the door opens again, and the man enters with the woman clinging to him. They stand opposite the thief and stare at him, not sure what they ought to say or do.] THIEF [pleasantly]. Good evening! [Pause.] Good evening, good evening. You surprised me. Can't say I expected you home so soon. Was the play an awful bore? [Pause.] We-e-ell, can't one of you speak. I CAN carry on a conversation alone, but the question-and- answer method is usually preferred. If one of you will ask me how I do, we might get a step farther. BY FRANK G. TOMPKINS CLARA [ breathlessly ] . You you [With growing conviction.] You're a thief! THIEF. Exactly. And you, madame? The mistress of the house, I presume. Or are you another thief? The tradi- tional one that it takes to catch the first? CLARA. This this is OUR house. Charles, why don't you do something? Don't stand there like a Make him go away! Tt-11 him he mustn't take any- thing. [Advancing toward the thief and speaking all in one sentence.] What have you taken? Give it to me instantly. How dare you! Charles, take it away from him. CHARLES [apparently not afraid, a little amused, but uncertain what to do, finally adopting the bullying tone.] I say, old man, you'd better clear out. We've come home. You know you can't come now, give it up. Be sensible. I don't want to use force THIEF. I don't want you to. CHARLES. If you've got anything of ours We aren't helpless, you know. [He starts to draw something black and shiny from his overcoat pocket. It might be a> pistol, but he does not r-eveal its shape.] THIEF. Let's see those glasses. Give them here. [Takes them from the un- certain Charles.] Perhaps they're better than mine. Fine cases. [Tries them.] Humph! Window glass! Take them back. You're not armed, you know. I threw your revolver down the cold-air shaft. Never carry one myself in business hours. Yours was in the bot- tom of your bureau drawer. Bad shape, those bureau drawers were in. Nice and neat on top; rat's nest below. Shows up your character in great srnpe, old man. Always tell your man by his bureau 503 504 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS drawers. Didn't it ever occur to you that a thief might drop in on you some night? What would he think of you? CHARLES. I don't think THIEF. You should. I said to myself when I opened that drawer : " They put up a great surface, but they're shams. Probably streak that runs through every- thing they do." You ought to begin with real neatness. This other sort of thing is just a form of dishonesty. CLARA. You! Talking to US about honesty in our house ! THIEF. Just the place for honesty. Begin at home. Let's CLARA. Charles, I won't stand this? Grab hold of him. Search him. You hold him. I'll telephone. , THIEF. You can't. CLARA. You've cut the wires. THIEF. Didn't have to. Your tele- phone service has been cut off by the company. I found that out before I came. I suspect you neglected the bill. You ought not to, makes no end of trou- ble. Inconvenienced me this evening. Better get it put in right away. CLAHA. Charles, do I have to stand here and be insulted? THIEF. Sit down. Won't you, please! This is your last ham-sandwich, so I can't offer you any, but there's plenty of beer in the cellar, if you care for it. I don't recommend it, but perhaps you're used to it. CLARA [almost crying], Charles, are you going to let him preach to us all night ! I won't have it. Being lectured by a thief! CHARLES. You can't stop a man's talk- ing, my dear, especially this sort of man. Can't you see he's a born preacher ? Old man, while advice is going round, let me tell you that you've missed your calling. Why don't you go in for re- form? Ought to go big. CLARA. Oh, Charles! Don't talk to him. You're a good deal bigger than he is. THIEF. Maybe I'll jiu-jitsu him. CLARA. He's insulting you now, Charles. Please try. I'll hold his feet. THIEF. No doubt you would. But that wouldn't stop my talking. You'd be taking an unfair advantage, too; I couldn't kick a lady, could I? Besides, there are two of you. You leave it to Charles and me. Let's have fair play, at least. CLARA. Fair play? I'd like to know THIEF. Ple-e-ase, don't screech! My head aches and your voice pierces so. Let's sit down- quietly and discuss the situation like well-bred people, and when we've come to some understanding, I'll go. CLARA. Yes, after you've taken every- thing in the house and criticized every- thing else you can't take, our manners and our morals. CHARLES. But he isn't taking any- thing now, is he? Let the poor chap criticize, can't you? I don't suppose he often meets his er customers so- cially. He's just dying for a good old visit. Lonesome profession, isn't it, old man? CLARA. If you WON'T do anything, I'll call the neighbors. THIEF. No neighbors to call. Near- est one a block away, and he isn't at home. That comes of living in a fash- ionable suburb. Don't believe you can afford it, either. WON'T you sit down, madame? I can't till you do. Well, then I shall have to stand, and I've been on my feet all day. It's hardly considerate [plaintively]. I don't talk so well on my feet, either. It will take me much longer this way. [Clara bounces into a chair, meaningfully.] Thank you, that's better [sighs with relief as he sinks into the easy chair]. I knew I could appeal to your better nature. Have a cigar- ette? [Charles accepts one from his beautiful case.] And you, madame? CLARA [puts out her hand, but with- draws it quickly]. Thank you, I don't care to smoke with a thief. THIEF. Right. Better not smoke, any- way. I'm so old-fashioned, I hate to see women smoke. None of the women in my family do it. Perhaps we're too con- ventional CLARA. I don't know that I care to be like the women of your family. I will have one, if you please. No doubt you get them from a man of taste. THIEF. Your next-door neighbor. This is was his case. Exquisite taste. Seen this case often, I suppose? [He eyes them closely.] Great friends? Or perhaps you don't move in the same cir- .cles. [Clara glares at him.] Pardon SHAM 505 me. Tactless of me, but how could I guess? Well, here's your chance to get acquainted with his cigarettes. Will you have one now? CLARA. I don't receive stolen goods. THIEF. That's a little hard on Charles, isn't it? He seems to he enjoying his. CHARLES. Bully cigarette. Hempsted's a connoisseur. Truth is we don't know the Hempsteds. They've never called. THIEF. That's right, Charles. Tell the truth and shame [with a jerk of his head toward Clara] you know who. CLARA. Charles, there isn't any rea- son, I'm sure THIEF. Quietly, please. Remember my head. I'm sorry, but I must decline to discuss your social prospects with you, and also your neighbors' shortcom- ings, much as we should all enjoy it. There isn't time for that. Let's get down to business. The question we've got to decide and decide very quickly is, What would you like to have me take? CI.AHA \aghast]. What would we what would we like to have you take? Why why you can't take anything now; we're here. Of all the nerve! What would we like THIEF. It gains by repetition, doesn't it? CHARLES. You've got me, old man. You'll have to come again. I may be slow, but I don't for the moment see the necessity for your taking anything. THIEF. I was afraid of this. I'll have to begin farther back. Look here now, just suppose I go away and don't take anything [infh an air of triumph]. How would you like that? CHARLES. Suits me to a " T." How about you, my dear? Think you can be firm and bear up under it? THIEF. Don't be sarcastic. You're too big. Only women and little men should be sarcastic. Besides, it isn't fair to me, when I'm trying to help you. Here am I, trying to get you out of a mighty ticklish situation, and you go and get funny. It isn't right. CHARLES. Beg pardon, old man. Try us in words of one syllable. You see this is a new situation for us. But we're anx- ious to learn. THIEF. Listen, then. See i-f you can follow this. Now there's nothing in your house that I want; nothing that I could for a moment contemplate keeping with- out a good deal of pain to myself. CLARA. We're trying to spare you. But if you care to know, we had the advice of Elsie de Wolfe. THIEF [ wonder ing ly]. Elsie de Wolfe? Elsie, how could you! Now, if you had asked me to guess, I should have said the Pullman Company. I shudder to think of owning any of this bric-a-brac myself. But it must be done. Here am I 'offering to burden myself with some- thing I don't want, wouldn't keep for worlds, and couldn't sell. [Growing a little oratorical.] Why do I do this? CHARLES. Yes, why do you? CLARA. Hush, Charles; it's a rhetori- cal question; he wants to answer it him- self. THIEF. I do it to accommodate you. Must I be even plainer? Imagine that I go away, refusing to take anything in spite of your protests. Imagine it's to- morrow. The police and the reporters have caught wind of the story. Some- thing has been taken from every house in Sargent Road except one. The na- ture of the articles shows that the thief is a man of rare discrimination. To be quite frank a connoisseur. CLARA. A connoisseur of what? Humph ! THIEF. And a connoisseur of such judgment that to have him pass your Rubens by is to cast doubt upon its authenticity. I do not exaggerate. Let me tell you that from the Hempsteds [Clara leans forward, all interest.] but that would take too long. [She leans back.] The public immediately asks, Why did the thief take nothing from 2819 Sargent Road? The answer is too obvious: There is nothing worth taking at 2819 Sargent Road. CHARLES [comprehcndingly], Um-hu-m ! THIEF. The public laughs. Worse still, the neighbors laugh. What be- comes of social pretensions after that? It's a serious thing, laughter is. It puts anybody's case out of court. And it's a serious thing to have a thief pass you by. People have been socially marooned for less than that. Have I made myself clear? Are you ready for the question? What would you like to have me take? CHARLES, Now, old man, I say that's neat, Sure you aren't a lawyer? 5o6 FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS THIEF. I have studied the law but not from that .side. CLARA. It's all bosh. Why couldn't we claim we'd lost something very val- uable, something we'd never had? THIEF [solemnly]. That's the most shameless proposal I've ever heard. Yes, you could lie about it. I can't conceal from you what I think of your moral standards. CHARLES. I can't imagine you conceal- ing anything unpleasant. CLARA. It's no worse than THIEF. Your moral sense is blunted. But I can't attend to that now. Think of this: Suppose, as I said, I should take nothing and you should publish that bare-faced lie, and then I should get caught. Would I shield you? Never. Or suppose I shouldn't get caught. Has no one entered your house since you have been here? Doesn't your maid know what you have? Can you trust her not to talk? No, no, it isn't worth the risk. It isn't even common sense, to say noth- ing of the moral aspects of the case. Why do people never stop to think of the practical advantages of having things stolen ! Endless possibilities ! Why, a woman loses a $5 brooch and it's imme- diately worth $15. The longer it stays lost, the more diamonds it had in- it, until she prays God every night that it won't be found. Look at the advertis- ing she gets out of it. And does she learn anything from it? Never. Let a harmless thief appear in her room and she yells like a hyena instead of saying to him, like a sensible woman: " Hands up; I've got you right where I want you; you take those imitation pearls off my dresser and get to hell out of here. If I ever see you or those pearls around here again, I'll hand you over to the police." That's what she ought to say. It's the chance of her life. But unless she's an actress, she misses it absolutely. A thief doesn't expect gratitude, but it seems to me he might at least expect un- derstanding and intelligent cooperation. Here are you facing disgrace, and here am I willing to save you. And what do I get? Sarcasm, cheap sarcasm! CHARI.ES. I beg your pardon, old man. I'm truly sorry. You're just too ad- vanced for us. Clara, there's an idea in it. What do you think? CLARA. It has its possibilities. Now if he'll let me choose Isn't there a joker in it somewhere? Let me think. We might let you have something. What do you want? THIEF [indignantly]. What do I want? I don't want anything. Can't you see that? The question is, What do you want me to have? And please be a little considerate. Don't ask me to take the pianola or the ice-box. Can't you make up your minds? Let me help you. Haven't you got some old wedding gifts? Everybody has. Regular white elephants, yet you don't dare get rid of them for fear the donors will come to see you and miss them. A discriminating thief is a godsend. All you have to do is write: "Dear Maude and Fred: Last night our house was broken into, and of course the first thing that was taken was that lovely Roycroft chair you gave us." Or choose what you like. Here's opportun- ity knocking at your door. Make it something ugly as you please, but some- thing genuine. I hate sham. CLARA. Charles, it's our chance. There's that lovely, hand-carved THIEF. Stop! I saw it [shuddering}. It has the marks of the machine all over it. Not that. I can't take that. CLARA. Beggars shouldn't be THIEF. Where's my coat? That set- tles it. CLARA. Oh, don't go ! I didn't mean it. Honestly I didn't. It just slipped out. You mustn't leave us like this THIEF. I don't have to put up with such CLARA. Oh, please stay, and take something! Haven't we anything you want? Charles, hold him; dontt let him go. No, that won't do any good. Talk to him CHARLES. Don't be so sensitive, old man. She didn't mean it. You know how those old sayings slip out just say themselves. She only called you a little beggar anyway. You ought to hear what she calls me sometimes. THIEF. I don't want to. I'm not her husband. And I don't believe she does it in the same way, either. But I'm not going to be mean about this. I'll give you another chance. Trot out your curios. CHABLES. How about this? Old luster SHAM 507 set of Clara's grandmother's. I'm no judge of such things myself, but if you could use it, take it. Granddad gave it to her when they were sweethearts, didn't he, Clara? THIEF. That! Old luster? That jug won't be four years old its next birth- day. Don't lay such things to your grandmother. Have some respect for the dead. If you gave more than $3.98 for it, they saw you coming. CLARA. You don't know anything about it. You're just trying to humil- iate us because you know you have the upper hand. THIEF. All right. Go ahead. Take your own risks. CLARA. There's this Sheffield tray? THIEF. No. CHARLES. Do you like Wedgewood? THIEF. Yes, where is it? [Looks at it.] No. . v CLARA. This darling hawthorne vase THIEF. Please take it away. It isn't hawthorne. CHARLES. I suppose Cloisonne 1 THIEF. If they were any of them what you call them. But they aren't. CHARLES. Well, if you'd consider burnt wood. That's a genuine burn. THIEF. Nothing short of cremation would do it justice. Of course I've got to take one of them, if they're all you've got. But honestly, there isn't one gen- uine thing in this house, except Charles and and the ham sandwich. CLARA [takes miniature from cabinet]. I wonder if you would treasure this as I do. It's very dear to me. It's grand- mother THIEF [suspiciously]. Grandmother again? CLARA. As a little girl. Painted on ivory. See that quaint old coral neck- lace. And those adorable yellow curls. And the pink circle comb. Would you like it? THIEF. Trying to appeal to my sym- pathy. I've a good notion to take it to punish you. I wonder if it IS your grandmother. There isn't the slightest family resemblance. Look here! ; it is! it's a copy of the Selby miniature! Woman, do you know who that IS? It's Harriet Beecher Stowe at twelve. What have you done with my over- coat? CHARLES. I give up. Here it is. Clara, that was too bad. CLARA. I wanted to see if he'd know. CHARLES. There's no use trying to save us after this. We'll just have to bear the disgrace. . THIEF. Charles, you're a trump! I'll even take that old daub for YOU. Give it to me. CHARLES. Wait a minute. You won't have to. Say, Clara, where is that old picture of Cousin Paul? It's just as bad as it pretends to be, if genuineness is all you want. THIEF [suspiciously]. Who is Cousin Paul? Don't try to ring in Daniel Web- ster on me. CHARLES. Cousin of mine. Lives on a farm near Madison, Wisconsin. THIEF. You don't claim the picture is by Sargent or Whistler? CLARA. It couldn't be THIEF [ignoring her pointedly]. Do you, Charles? CHARLES. Certainly not. It's a water color of the purest water, and almost a speaking likeness. THIEF. I'll take Cousin Paul. Prob- ably he has human interest, CHARLES. That's the last thing I should have thought of in connection with Cousin Paul. THIEF. Bring him, but wrapped, please. My courage might fail me if I saw him face to face. CHARLES [leaving room for picture}. Mine always does. THIEF. While Charles is wrapping up the picture, I want to know how you got back so early. Your maid said you were going to the Garrick. CLARA. We told her so. But we went to the moving pictures. THIEF. You ought not to go to the movies. It will destroy your literary taste and weaken your minds. CLARA. I don't care for them myself, but Charles won't see anything else. THIEF. You ought to make him. Men only go to the theater anyway because their wives take" them. They'd rather stay at home or play billiards. You have a chance right there. Charles will go where you take him. By and by he will begin to like it. Now to-night there was a Granville Barker show at the Garrick, and you went to the movies to FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS see a woman whose idea of cuteness is to act as if she had a case of arrested mental development. CHARLES [entering, doing up picture]. Silly old films, anyway. But Clara will go. Goes afternoons when I'm not here, and then drags me off again in the evening. Here's your picture, as soon as I get it tied up. Can't tell you how grateful we are. Shall we make it unan- imous, Clara? CLARA. I haven't the vote, you know. Clumsy ! give me the picture. THIEF. Don't try to thank me. If you'll give up this shamming I'll feel repaid for my time and trouble [looking at watch]. By Jove! it's far too much time. I must make tracks this minute. I'll feel repaid if you'll take my advice about the theater for one thing, and why don't you bundle all this imitation junk together and sell it and get one genuine good thing? [Clara leaves, apparently for more string.] CHARLES. Who'd buy them? THIEF. There must be other people in the world with taste as infallibly bad as yours. CHARLES. Call that honest? THIEF. Certainly. I'm not telling you to sell them as relics. You couldn't in the first place, except to a home for the aged and indigent blind. But I know a man who needs them. They'd rejoice his heart. They'd be things of beauty to him. I wish I could help you pick out something with your money. But I don't dare risk seeing you again. CLARA [reentering, with the picture tied]. Why not? There's honor among thieves. THIEF. There is. If you were thieves, I'd know just how far to trust you. Now, I'd be willing to trust Charles as man to man. Gentleman's agreement. But [looking at Clara] I don't know CHARLES. Clara is just as honest as we are with her own class. But your profession puts you outside the pale with her; you're her natural enemy. You haven't any rights. But you've been a liberal education for us both. THIEF. I've been liberal. You meet me -listen! 'there are footsteps on the porch. I I've waited too long. Here I've stood talking CHARLES. Well, stop it now, can't you? I don't see how you've ever got any- where. Hide ! THIEF. No, it can't be done. If you'll play fair, I'm safe enough here in this room, safer than anywhere else. Pre- tend I'm a friend of yours. You will? Gentleman's agreement? [He shakes hands with Charles.] CHARLES. Gentleman's agreement. My word of honor. CLARA [offers her hand as Charles starts for the door]. Gentleman's agree- ment, but only in this. I haven't for- given you for what you've said. If I ever get you in a tight place look out. THIEF [taking her hand]. Don't tell more than one necessary lie. It's so easy to get started in that sort of thing. Stick to it that I'm a friend of the fam- ily and that I've been spending the even- ing. God knows I have ! CLARA. I'll try to stick to that. But can't I improvise a little? It's such fun! THIEF. Not a bit. Not one little white lie. CHARLES [entering with a young man behind him]. It's a man from the News. He says he was out here on another story and he's got a big scoop. There's been some artistic burglary in the neigh- borhood and he's run onto it. I told him we . hadn't lost anything and that we don't want to get into the papers; but he wants us to answer a few questions. REPORTER. Please do. I need some stuff about the neighborhood. CLARA. I don't know, Charles, but that it's our duty. [She smiles wick- edly at the thief.] Something we say may help catch the thieves. Perhaps we owe it to law and order. REPORTER. That's right. Would you object if I used your name? [Charles and the thief motion to Clara to keep still, but throughout the rest of the conversation she disregards their frantic signals, and sails serenely on.] CLARA. I don't know that we should mind if you mention us nicely. Will the Hempsteds be in? I shan't mind it, if they don't. REPORTER. Good for you. Now, have you SHAM 509 CLARA. We have missed something. We haven't had time to look thoroughly, but we do know that one of our pictures is gone. [The men are motioning to her, but she goes on sweetly.} REPORTER. A-a-ah! Valuable picture. He hasn't taken anything that wasn't best of its class. Remarkable chap. Must be the same one that rifled the Pierpont collection of illuminated manu- scripts. Culled the finest pieces without a mistake. THIEF [interested]. He made one big mistake. He [stops short], REPORTER. Know the Pierponts? THIEF. Er ye-es. I've been in their house. [Retires from the conversation. Clara smiles.] REPORTER. Well, believe me, if he's taken anything, your reputation as col- lectors is made. Picture, eh? Old mas- ter, I suppose? CLARA. A family portrait. We treas- ured it for that. Associations, you know. REPORTER. Must have been valuable, all right. Depend on him to know. He doesn't run away with any junk. Who was the artist? CLARA. We don't know definitely. REPORTER. Never heard it attributed to anybody? CLARA. We don't care to make any point of such things. But there have been people who have thought it was not a a Gilbert Stuart. CHARLES. Clara! CLARA. I don't know much about such things myself. But our friend [nods to- ward the thief], Mr. Mr. Hibbard who has some reputation as a collector, has always said that it was not. In spite of that fact, he had offered to take it off our hands. CHARLES. Clara, you're going too far REPORTER. She's quite right. You're wrong, Mr. Hibbard. You may be good, but this fellow KNOWS. Too bad you didn't take it while the taking was good. This fellow never sells. Of course he can't exhibit. Just loves beautiful things. No, sir, it was real. THIEF [between his teeth]. It wasn't. Of all the CLARA [gmiliny]. You take your beat- ing so ungracefully, Mr. Hibbard. The case, you see, is all against you. THIEF. Be careful. The picture may be found at any minute. Don't go too far. CLARA. I hardly think it will be found unless the thief is caught. And I have such perfect confidence in his good sense that I don't expect that. REPORTER. Lots of time for a geta- way. When was he here? CLARA. He was gone when we came from the theater. But we must almost have caught him. Some of our finest things were gathered together here on the table ready for his flight. How he must have hated to leave them, all the miniatures and the cloisonne^ I almost feel sorry for him. CHARLES. I do. CLARA. You see, we went to the Gar- rick for the Granville Barker show. Mr. Hibbard took us [she smiles sweetly at him], I'm devoted to the best in drama and I always insist that Charles and Mr. Hibbard shall take me only to the finest things. And now we come home to find our you're sure it was a Gilbert Stuart? gone. THIEF. I've got to be getting out of here! Can't stay a minute longer! Charles, I wish you luck in that reform we were speaking of, but I haven't much hope [looking at Clara], There is such a thing as total depravity. Oh, here! [taking package from under his arm]. What am I thinking of? I was running away with your package [hands it to Clara]. CLARA [refusing it]. Oh, but it's yours, Mr. Hibbard. I couldn't think of taking it. Really, you must keep it to remember us by. Put it among your art treasures at home, next to your lovely illuminated manuscripts, and whenever you look at it remember us and this de- lightful evening, from which we are all taking away so much. You must keep it that's part of the bargain, isn't it? And now are we even? THIEF. Even? Far from it. I yield you your woman's right to the last word, and I admit it's the best [stoops and kisses her hand]. Good-night, Clara. [To the reporter.] May I give you a lift back to town? REPORTER. Thanks. As far as the 5iO FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS Hempsteds' corner. Good-night. Thank you for this much help. [Exeunt.] CHARLES. Thank goodness, they've gone. What relief! That pace is too rapid for me. You had me running round in circles. But he's got the pic- ture, and we're safe at last. But don't you think, Clara, you took some awful risks. You goaded him pretty far. CLARA. I had to. Did you hear him call me Clara? CHARLES [chuckling]. He doesn't know our name. But he wasn't a bad fellow, was he? I couldn't help liking him in spite of his impudence. CLARA. You showed it. You took sides with him against me all the time the reporter was here. But, you know, he was right about our house. It's all wrong. The Hempsteds would see it in a minute. I believe I'll clear out this cabinet and have this room done over in mahogany. CHARLES. Too expensive this winter. CLARA. Birch will do just as well nobody knows the difference. Listen! is he coming back? REPORTER [in the doorway]. Excuse me listen. Mr. Hibbard says you've given him the wrong package. He says you need this to go with the picture of your grandmother. And he says, sir, that you need to get wise to your own family. He's waiting for me. Good- night*! [Exit.] CHARLES [angrily]. Get wise to my own family? He may know all about art [undoing the picture], but I guess I know my own relatives. [Holds up pic- ture so that audience can sec it, but he can't.] And if that isn't a picture of my own cousin Paul, I'll eat [sees Clara laughing]. What the devil! [Looks at picture, which represents George Washington.] Clara! you did that! [laughs uproariously]. You little cheat ! [Curtain.] THE MEDICINE SHOW A COMEDY BY STUART WALXEB Copyright, 1917, by Stewart & Kidd Company. All rights reserved. THE MEDICTXE SHOW was first produced by Stuart Walker's Portmanteau Theatre, with the following cast: LUT'ER Williard Webster. Giz Edgar Stehli. DR. STEV'X VANDEXTER JLew Medbury. CHARACTERS LUT'ER. Giz. DR. STEVEN VAXDEXTER. THE SCEXE is on the south bank of the Ohio River. An old soap box, a log and a large stone are visible. The river is supposed to flow between the stage and the audience. In the background, at the top of the " grade,'' is the village of Rock Springs. Reprinted from " Portmanteau Plays " published by Stewart & Kidd Company, Cincinnati, Ohio, by special permission of Stewart and Kidd. The professional and amateur stage rights are strictly reserved by Mr. Stuart Walker. THE MEDICINE SHOW A COMEDY [PROLOGUE: This is only a quarter of a play. Its faults are many. Come, glory in them with us. You are a little boy once more lying on your rounded belly on the cool, damp sands beside the beautiful river. You are still young enough to see the wonder that fverywhere touches the world; and men are in the world all sorts of men. But you can still look upon them with the shining eyes of brotherhood. You can still feel the mystery that is true un- derstanding. Everywhere about you men and things are reaching for the infinite, each in his own way, be it big or little, be it the moon or a medicine show; and you yourself are not yet decided whether to reach for the stars or go a-fishing. Brother! Lut'er enters or rather oozes in. He is a tall, expressionless, uncoordi- nated person who might be called filthy were it not for the fact that the dirt on his skin and on his clothes seems an in- herent part of him. He has a wan smile that what there is of it is not dis- pleasing. Strangely enough, his face is always smooth-shaven. He carries a fishing pole made from a tree twig and equipped with a thread knotted fre- quently and a bent pin for hook. Lut'er looks about and his eyes light on the stone. He attempts to move it with his bare foot to the water's edge, but it is too heavy for him. Next he lo!N A BALCONY, p 1m 2w. . .Drama tic BRUNNER, Emma Beatrice. BITS OF BACKGROUND OVER AGE. p 1m 4w SPARK OF LIFE, p 2m 2w STRANGERS, p 2m Iw MAKING A MAN. p 2m 2w Four plays in one volume Knonf BRYANT, E. M. THE PEACEMAKER, c 2m 3w. . .French BRYANT, Louise THE GAME, p 2m 2w . .Shay BUCK, Gertrude MOTHER-LOVE. P 1m 3w Drama, Feb., 1919 BUNNER, H. C. COURTSHIP WITH VARIATIONS. c 1m Iw Werner BUNNER, H. C., and MAGNUS, J. A BAD CASE, c 1m 3w Baker BUSHIDO. See IZUMO (TAKEDA) BUTLER, Ellis Parker THE REVOLT, p 8w French BYNNER, Witter THE LITTLE KING. p 3m Iw Ij Kennerley TIGER, d 2m 3w Kennerley DECAULAVET, G. A. CHOOSING A CAREER, c French CALDERON, George THE LITTLE STONE HOUSE, p. .Sidgwick CAMERON, Margaret. COMEDIES IN MINIATURE Miss DOULTON'S ORCHIDS, c 3m 3w THE BURGLAR, c 5w THE KLEPTOMANIAC, c 7w THE PIPE OF PEACE, c 1m 2w A CHRISTMAS CHIME, c 2m 2w COMMITTEE ON MATRIMONY, c 1m Iw HER NEIGHBOR'S CREED and FOUR MON- OLOGUES, c 1m Iw Seven plays in one vol. . . .Doubleday PIPER'S PAY. c 7w. French THE TEETH OF THE GIFT HORSE. c 2m 3w French THE WHITE ELEPHANT. c 2m 3w French Published separately French CAMPBELL, M. D. A CHINESE DUMMY, c 6w Baker CANNAN, Gilbert. FOUR PLAYS. JAMES AND JOHN, p 3m Iw MILES DIXON. Two acts, p 3m 2w MARY'S WEDDING, p 2m 3w SHORT WAY WITH AUTHORS, p 7m Iw Four plays in one volume. .Phillips EVERYBODY'S HUSBAND. p 1m 5w Huebsch CAPUS, Alfred MY TAILOR. c 1m 2w Smart Set, Feb., 1918 THE PLAYS OF THE LITTLE THEATRE 563 CARMAN, Bliss, and KING, Mary. EARTH DEITIES, etc. THE DANCE DIURNAL, m 2m 3w i EARTH DEITIES, m 1m lOw i CHILDREN OF THE WAR. m 1m Iw 24j PAS DE TROIS. m 3m Iw Four masques in one vol. .Kennerley CARTER, Josephine Howell HlLARION. c 2m 2\v..Poet Lore, Summer, 1915 CARTHEW, L. THE AMERICAN IDEA. p 3m 2w Baker CARTON, R. C. THE NINTH WALTZ, c 1m Iw.. French CHAMBERS, C. Haddon OPEN GATE, d 2m 2w French CHATTERJI, Tapanmohan THE LIGHT-BEARER d 4m Drama, Aug., 1918 CHURCH, Virginia PIERROT BY THE LIGHT OF THE MOON, f 2m 3w.. Drama, Feb., 1919 CLEMENTS, Colin C., and SAUN- DERS, John M. LOVE IN A FRENCH KITCHEN, a Mediaeval Farce, 1m 2w..Poet Lore CLARK, Barrett H. FOUR PLAYS FOB THE FREE THEATRE DECuREL, F. THE FOSSILS. Four acts p 6m 4w JULIAN, J. THE SERENADE. Three acts, p 7m Gw PoRTO-RiCHE, G. FRANCOISE'S LUCK. c 3m 2w ANCEY, G. THE DUPE, c 1m 2w Four plays in one volume. . .Stewart COLQUHON, Donald. See REPERTORY PLAYS CONFEDERATES, d 4m Iw French CONWAY, Ed. Harold. THE WINDY SHOT. p 5m Smart Set, April, 1915 CONRAD, Joseph. ONE DAY MORE. d 4m Iw Smart Set, Feb., 1914 CONVERSE, Florence THE BLESSED BIRTHDAY. A Christ- mas Miracle Play. 19 Charac- ters Dutton COOK (George Cram) see Glaspell (Susan) COOLIDGE, H. D. DEAD RECKONING, p 2m Iw Baker COPPEE, Francois THE VIOLIN MAKER OF CREMONA. c 3m Iw supers Dramatic PATEB NOSTER. p 3m 3w French COURTLELINE, George? THE PITILESS POLICEMAN. c 3m Poet Lore BLANK CARTRIDGE. p 1m Iw ... International, July, 1914 PEACE AT HOME. c 1m Iw. . .International, Dec., 1913 PEACE AT HOME, c 1m lw...Poet Lore COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. See PHESBERY, E. COWAN, Sada THE STATE FORBIDS. d 1m 2w 2j Kennerley IN THE MORGUE. . . .Forum, April, 1916 SINTHAM OF SKAGERRAK. p 1m Iw In Mayorga's " Representative One-Act Plays " Little CRAIG, Marion Wentworth WAR BRIDES, d 3m 4w Century CRANDALL, Irene Jean BEYOND THE GATE. Two acts. p 7m 2w French CRANE, Mabel H. THE GIRLS, p 9w French CROTHERS, Rachel THE RECTOR, p 1m 6w French DANE, Essex FLEURETTE & Co. p 2w French WRONG NUMBERS, c 3w French DANGER FIELD, Trelawney OLD STUFF. p 1m 2w Smart Set, June, 1917 DARGAN, Olive Tilford. LORDS AND LOVERS LORDS AND LOVERS. p 18m 4w Scribner WOODS OF IDA. m Century, August, 1907 DAVIS, Richard Harding Miss CIVILIZATION, c 4m Iw. . .French PEACE MANOEUVERS. p 2m Iw French THE ZONE POLICE, p 4m French ORATOR OF ZAPATA CITY. p 8m Iw Dramatic DAVIES, Mary Carolyn SLAVE WITH Two FACES. a 3m 4w Arens DAVIS, Robert H. ROOM WITHOUT A NUMBER. c 3m Iw Smart Set, April, 1917 DAVIS, Robert H., and SHEEHAN, P. P. EFFICIENCY, d 3m Doran 564 THE PLAYS OF THE LITTLE THEATRE DELI., Floyd A LONG TIME AGO. f Forum, 1917 KING ARTHUR'S SOCKS, c 1m 3w..-SAay THE ANGEL INTRUDES, c 3m lw.. Arena DELAND, Margaret Dramatized by M. B. Vosburgh from "Old Chester Tales" Miss MARIA, c 2m 3w French DEMUTH, Charles THE AZURE ADDER, s 3m 4w Shay DENISON, Emily H. THE LITTLE MOTHER OF THE SLUMS Seven one-act plays Badger DENTON, Clara J. To MEET MR. THOMPSON-. c gw Baker DEPUE, Elva HATTIE. p 2m 3w Shay In " Morningside Plays " DICKENS, Charles BROWNE, H. B. Short Plays from Dickens. Contains 20 dramatized sketches from the work of Charles Dickens Scribner BARDELL vs. PICKWICK. c 6m 2w Baker A CHRISTMAS CAROL, p 6m 3w.. Baker DICKINSON, C. H., and GRIFFITHS, Arthur THE RIFT WITHIN THE LUTE. p 4m 1 w French DIX, Beulah Marie THE GLORIOUS GAME, d 6w. .A.S.P.L. THE ENEMY, d 5m A.S.P.L. CLEMENCY, d 3m lw A.S.P.L. LEGEND OF ST. NICHOLAS, d. .Poet Lore ALLISON'S LAD AND OTHEE PLAYS ALLISON'S LAD. d 6m THE HUNDREDTH THICK, d 4m THE WEAKEST LINK, d 4m THE SNARE AND THE FOWLER, d 3m THE CAPTAIN OF THK GATE, d 6m THE DARK OF THE DAWN, d 4m Six plays in one volumn. . . . .Holt DONNAY, Maurice THE GIMLET. c 1m lw Stratford, Dec., 1918 DOR AN, Marie THE GIRLS OVER HERE, p 8w... French DOREY, J. Milnor UNDER CONVICTION. d 2m 2w Drama, Feb., 1919 DOWSON, Ernest PlERHOT OF THE MlNUTE. f 1m lw Baker DOWN, Oliphant THE MAKER OF DREAMS. f 2m lw Phillips THE QUOD WRANGLE. c 5m lw French DOYLE, A. C. WATERLOO, p 3m lw French A DUET, c 3m lw French DRACHMAN, Holgar " RENAISSANCE." d 6m 2w. . .Poet Lore DRAKE, Frank C. THE ROSEBERHY SHRUB. P 1m 3w French DREISER, Theodore PLAYS OF THE NATURAL AND SUPER- NATURAL THE GIRL IN THE COFFIN, p 4m 3w THE BLUE SPHERE, f 4m 2w 2j LAUGHING GAS. f 6m 2w IN THE DARK, f llm 4w THE SPRING RECITAL, f 9m 9w LIGHT IN THE WINDOW, f 9m 7w OLD RAGPICKER, f 4m lw Seven plays in one volumn ... Lane DREW, Sylvan THE NEW PYGMALION AND GALATEA. c 3m 6w French DREYFUS, A. THE SILENT SYSTEM, c 1m lw.. Baker DRISCOLL, Louise THE POOR HOUSE. p 2m 2w Drama, Aug., 1917 THE CHILD OF GOD. p 2m 3w Seven Arts, Nov., 1916 DUNSANY, Lord. FIVE PLAYS THE GODS OF THE MOUNTAIN, p lOi THE GOLDEN DOOM, p llm lw THE GLITTERING GATE, c 2m KING ARGIMENES. p 10m 4w THE LOST SILK HAT. c 5m Five plays in one volume. .. .Little PLAYS OF GODS AND MEN A NIGHT AT AN INN. p 8m THE QUEEN'S ENEMIES, p 9m 2w THE TENTS OF THE ARABS, p 6m THE LAUGHTER OF THE GODS, p 9m 4w Three acts Four plays in one volume ... Luce THE MURDERESS. In prep. FAME AND THE POET. c 2m lw Atlantic, Aug., 1919 DYMOW, Ossip NJU. t 6m 3w 2j Knopf THE PLAYS OF THE LITTLE THEATRE 565 EARLE, Dorothy Kirchner YOU'RE SUCH A RESPECTABLE PER- SON, Miss MORRISON. c 3m 2w Smart Set, Aug., 1915 EBNER-ESCHENBACH, Marie von A MAN OF THE WORLD. p 3m Poet Lore ECHEGARAY, Jose THE STREET SINGER. p 2m 2w Drama, Feb., 1917 MADMAN OR SAINT. p 7m 4w Poet Lore EDGERTON, Lady Alex. MASQUE OF THE Two STRANGERS . . Oowans ELDRIDGE, Paul THE JEST. p 4m 2w Stratford, July, 1918 ELKINS, Felton B. THREE TREMEN- DOUR TRIFLES THE BELGIAN BABY, c 2m 2w THE QUICK AND THE DEAD, c 5m Iw FIGURATIVELY SPEAKING, c 3m 2w Three plays in one volumn. .Duffield ELLIS, Mrs. Havelock. LOVE IN DANGER THE SUBJECTION OF KEZIA. p 2m Iw THE PIXY, p 3m THE MOTHERS, p 1m 2w Three plays in one vol. . . .Houghton ENANDER, Hilma L. IN THE LIGHT OF THE STONE, p 3m Iw THE MAN WHO DID NOT UNDERSTAND. p 1m 2w ON THE TRAIL, p 4m Iw Three plays in one volume. .Badger ERVINE, St. John. Four Irish Play's THE MAGNANIMOUS LOVER THE CRITICS MIXED MARRIAGE THE ORANGE MAN Four plays in one vol Macmillan ESKIL, Ragna IN THE TRENCHES OVER THERE. c 10 m Gw Dramatic ESMOND, H. V. HER VOTE, c 1m 2w French ESTERBROOK, Anne L. THE CHRISTENING ROBE. p 1m 3w Baker EURIPIDES AI.KESTIS. Nine characters Baker ELECTRA. Nine characters THE FROGS. Twelve characters IPHIGENIA IN TAURUS. Seven charac- ters Translated by Gilbert Murray.. Allen EVANS, Florence Wilkinson. THE RIDE HOME THE MARRIAGE OF GUINETH. p 7m 3w Houghton EVREINOV, Nicholas THEATRE OF THE SOUL. f 5m 4w Henderson A MERRY DEATH, c 5m . THE BEAUTIFUL DESPOT, c 5m 3w Ij Two plays; in Bechofer: Five Rus- sian Plays FAYDON, Nita THE GREAT LOOK, c 2m 2w French FENN, Frederick THE NELSON TOUCH, c 2m 2w.. French CONVICT ON THE HEARTH. c 6m 5w French FERGUSON, J. A. CAMPBELL OF KILMHOR. p 4m 2w Phillips FERRIER, Paul THE CODICIL, c 3m Iw Poet Lore FERRIS, E., and STUART, A. NICOLETE. p 2m 2w French FEUILLET, Octave THE FAIRY, c 3m Iw French THE VILLAGE, c 2m 2w French FIELD, Rachel L. RISE UP, JENNIE SMITH. FILLMORE, J. E. " WAR." p 2m Iw Poet Lore FITZMAURICE, George MAGIC GLASSES, p 3m 3w THE PIEDISH. p 4m 2w 3j THE DANDY DOLLS, p 4m 2w 3j Witli two long plays in one vol- ume. . .' Little PLANNER, Hildegarde MANSIONS, p 1m 2w Stewart PLANNER, Mary H. THE CHRISTMAS BURGLAR. p 3m Iw French FLEXNER, Hortense VOICES, p 2w. . .Seven Arts, Dec., 1916 FLORIAN, J. P. THE TWINS OF BERGAMO. p 2m 2w Drama, Aug., 1918 FLYING STAG PLAYS. Arens, 1917- 19 CRONYN, G. THE SANDBAR QUEEN, d 6m Iw OPPENHEIM, J. NIGHT, d 4m Iw DELL, F. THE ANGEL INTRUDES, c 3m Iw HELBUHN, T. ENTER THE HERO, c 1m 3w 5 66 THE PLAYS OF THE LITTLE THEATRE MOEU.ER, P. Two BLIND BEGGARS AND ONE LESS BLIND, p 3m Iw O'BRIEN, S. BLIND, c 3m DAVIES, M. C. THE SLAVE WITH Two FACES, a 3m 4w KEMP, H. THE PRODIGAL SON. c 3m 2w ROSTETTER, ALICE. THE WIDOW'S VEIL FRANCE, Anatole THE MAN WHO MARRIED A DUMB WIFE. Two acts, c 14m 4w...Lane CRAINQUEBILLE. Three scenes. p 12m 6w French FRANK, Florence Kiper JAEL Chicago CIXDERELLINE. p 1m 4w Dramatic THE GARDEN. p 3m 3w Drama, Nov., 1918 FREDERICK, John T THE HUNTER. p 2m Iw Stratford, Sept., 1917 FREYBE, C. E. IN GARRISON, p 5m Poet Lore FROOME, John Redhead LISTENING, p 3w Poet Lore MRS. MAINWARING'S MANAGEMENT. Two acts, c French BlLI.Y AND THE DIRECTING FATES. Two acts, p 3m Dramatic FRY, Horace B. LITTLE ITALY, d 2m Iw Ij. ..Dramatic FULDA, Ludwig BY OURSELVES, c 3m 2w Badger FURNISS, Grace L. A DAKOTA WIDOW, c 1m 2w. . .French PERHAPS, c 2m Iw French GALBRAITH, Esther THE BRINK OF SILENCE, p 4m In Mayorga's "Representative One-Act Plays " Little GALLON, Tom, and LION, L. M. MAN WHO STOLE THE CASTLE. p 4m 2w French GALSWORTHY, John. THE LITTLE MAN, etc. THE LITTLE MAN. s 5m 2w HALLMARKED, s 3m 3w Two plays in one volume .. Scribner THE LITTLE DREAM. An allegory in six scenes Scribner GARLAND, Robert AT NIGHT ALL CATS ARE GRAY. p 3m Iw Smart Set, March, 1916 THE DOUBLE MIRACLE. p 4m Iw Forum, April, 1915 GERSTENBERG, Alice OVERTONES. See " Washington Square Plays." BYOND. p Iw In Mayorga's "Representative One- Act Plays " Little GIACOSA, Giuseppe. THE STRONGER, etc. SACRED GROUND, c 3m Iw Little THE WAGER, c 4m Iw French THE RIGHTS OF THE SOUL. p 2m 2w Stratford, Feb., 1918 GIBSON, Preston S. O. S. p 8m 2w French DERELICTS, p 2w French SUICIDES, p 2m French THE SECRET WAY. p 3m French THE VACUUM, p 2m Iw French CUPID'S TRICKS, c 3m 2w French GIBSON, Wilfred Wilson WOMENKTND. d 2m 3w Macmillan The following volumes of Mr. Gib- son's are replete with short, in- tensely dramatic sketches of Eng- lish labor folk. DAILY BREAD Macmillan BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGH- FARES Macmillan FIRES Macmillan GILBERT, W. S. SWEETHEARTS. Two acts, c 2m 2w French ROSEXCRANTZ AND GuiLDENSTEHX. c 5m 3w French COMEDY AND TRAGEDY. d 14m 2w French GLASPELL, Susan TRIFLES, p 3m 2w THE PEOPLE, p 10m 2w CLOSE THE BOOK, c 3m 5w THE OUTSIDE, p 3m 2w WOMAN'S HONOR, c 3m 6w BERNICE (3 Acts), p 2m 3w with Geo. Cram Cook. SUPPRESSED DESIRES, c 1m 2w TICKLESS TIME, c 2m 4w In One Vol Small GLICK, Carl. OUTCLASSED. c 4m 2w Smart Set, Sept., 1918 GLICK, C., and HIGHT, M. THE POLICE MATRON, d 3m 2w.. Baker GOLDBERG, Isaac THE BETTER SON. p 2m Iw Stratford, Oct., 1918 GOODMAN, Kenneth Sawyer BACK OF THE YARDS, d 3m 2vr...Shay THE PLAYS OF THE LITTLE THEATRE 567 DUST OF THE ROAD, d 4m 4>\v....Shay EPHRAIM AND THE WINGED BEAR. c 4m 3w Shay GAME OF CHESS, d 4m Shay BARBARA, p 2m Iw Shay DANCING DOLLS, p 4m 7w Shay A MAN CAN ONLY Do His BEST. c Cm 2w Shay GOODMAN, K. S. THE GREEN SCARF, c 1m Iw Shay GOODMAN, K. S., and HECHT, Ben THE HERO OF SANTA MARIA. c 4m Iw Shay THE WONDER HAT. f 3m 2w Shay GOODMAN, K. S., and STEVENS, T. W. HOLBEIN IN BLACKFRIARS. c 6m 2w Shay RYLAND. c 5m 2w Shay REINALD AND THE RED WOLF. m Shay CAESAR'S GODS, m Shay THE DAIMIO'S HEAD, in Shay THE MASQUE OF QUETZAL'S BOWL. m Shay MASQUE OF MONTEZUBIA. m Shay GORDON, Leon. Three Plays ".Four Seas GOULD, Felix. THE MARSH MAIDEN, etc. THE MARSH MAIDEN, p 2m 2w supers THE STRANGER, p 3m 2w IN THE MARSHES, p Iw Three plays in one vol.... Four Seas DE GOURMONT, Remy THEODAT. p 7m Iw THE OLD KING, p 3m 3w Two plays in one number Drama, May, 1916 GRAHAM, Bertha M. SPOILING THE BROTH, etc. SPOILING THE BROTH, c 2m 2w THE LAND OF THE FREE, p 2m 3w OH, THE PRESS, c 1m Iw THE ROSE WITH A THORN, c 2m 2w TAFFY'S WIFE, p 2m Iw Five plays in one volume Chapman # Hall GROSSMITH, Weedon COMMISSION', c 3m 2w French GRAY, Eunice T. WINNING OF FUJI. c 3 scenes 3m 3w Dramatic GREENE, Clay M. THE DISPENSATION, p 4m THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM, p 5m THROUGH CHRISTMAS BELLS, p 4m Iw AWAKENING OF BARBIZON. c 4m Iw Four plays in one volume. .. .Doran GREGORY, Lady SPREADING THE NEWS, c 7rn 3w HYACINTH HAI.VEY. c 3m 3w RISING OF THE MOON, c 4m THE JACKDAW, c 4m 2w THE WORKHOUSE W T ARD. c 2m Iw THE TRAVELING MAN. p 1m 2w THE GAOL GATE, p 1m 2w Seven plays in one volume Luce THE IMAGE. Three acts. p 5m 2w Maunsel CRANIA. Three acts, p 4 in Iw KINCORA. Three acts, p 8m 3w DEHVORGILLA. p 3m 3w Three plays in one volume. .Putnam THE CANAVANS. Three acts, p 3m 2w THE WHITE COCKADE. Three acts, p 10m 2w THE DELIVERERS, p 6m 3w Three plays in one volume. .Putnam THE BOGIE MAN. c 2m THE FULL MOON, c 2m COATS, c 4m Iw DAMER'S GOLD, c 4m Iw McDoNoucH's WIFE, c 1m 2w Five plays in one volume. . Putnam GREGORY, Lady, and YEATS, Wm. B. THE UNICORN FROM THE STARS. . . . Macmillan GUIMERA, Angel THE OLD QUEEN, p 7m 7w. .Poet Lore GYALUI, Wolfgang AFTER THE HONEYMOON. c 1m Iw French GYP THE LITTLE BLUE GUINEA-HEN. c 5m 4w.. Poet Lore HAGEDORN, Herman MAKERS OF MADNESS. Five scenes d 14m supers Macmillan HORSE THIEVES, c 4m 2w Harvard HEART OF YOUTH Macmillan HALE, Louise Closser THE OTHER WOMAN. p 2w Smart Set, June, 1911 PASTE CUT PASTE. p 3w Smart Set, Jan., 1912 HALMAN, Doris WILL 'o THE WISP, p 4w In Mayorga's " Representative One-Act Plays " Little 568 THE PLAYS OF THE LITTLE THEATRE HALSEY, Forrest THE EMPTY LAMP. p 1m Iw 1 j Smart Set, May, 1911 HAMILTON, Cicely JACK AND JILL AND A FRIEND. Two scenes, c 3m Iw French HAMILTON, C., and ST. JOHN, Chris- topher How THE VOTE WAS WON. c 2m 8w Dramatic HAMILTON, Cosmo. Short plays for small stages ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER, c 1m 2w SOLDIER'S DAUGHTERS, c 3w TOLLER'S WIFE, c 4m Iw WHY CUPID CAME TO EARL'S COURT, c 3m 4w Four plays in one vol Skejpngton JERRY AND A SUNBEAM. c 1m Iw French AUBREY CLOSES THE DOOR. c 3m Iw French HAN KIN, St. John THE CONSTANT LOVER, p 1m Iw Vol. III. No. 2 Theatre Arts HARE, W. B. ISOSCELES, p 2m Iw Baker HARVARD PLAYS. THE 47 WORK- SHOP FIELD, R. L. THREE PILLS IN A BOTTLE. f 5m 3w OSBORNE, H. THE GOOD MEN Do. c 3m 5w PILLOT, E. Two CROOKS AND A LADY. p 3m 3w PHOSSER, W. FREE SPEECH, c 7m Four plays in one vol Brentano THE HARVARD DRAMATIC CLUB HAWKBRIDGE, W. THE FLORIST SHOP. c 3m 2w BROCK, H. THE BANK ACCOUNT, p 1m 2w SMITH, R. C. THE RESCUE, p. 3w ANDREWS, K. AMERICA PASSES BY. p 2m 2w Four plays in one volume. .Brentano THE HARVARD DRAMATIC CLUB. 2nd Series BRAY, L. W. HARBOR OF LOST SHIPS. p 3m Iw BATES, E. W. GAHAFELIA'S HUSBAND. p 4m Iw BISHOP, F. SCALES AND THE SWORD. d Cm Iw KIXKEAD, C. THE FOUR FLUSHERS. c 4m Iw Four plays in one vol Brentano HASLETT, H. H. DOLORES OF THE SIERRA, etc. DOLORES OF THE SIERRA, p 1m Iw THE Scoop, p 2m Iw UNDERCURRENTS, p 4m 2w A MODERN MENACE, c 3m Iw Ij THE INVENTOR, p 2m Iw WHEN LOVE Is BLIND, c 1m Iw Six plays in one volume Elder HASTINGS, Basil McDonald TWICE ONE. p 2m 2w Smart Set, Jan., 1913 HAUPTMANN, Gerhart THE ASSUMPTION OF HANNELI.E. Two parts, p 7m 3w Poet Lore HAWKRIDGE, Winifred THE PRICE OF ORCHIDS. c 4m 2w Smart Set, Oct., 1915 HAY, Ian. See BEITH, Ian Hay HEAD, Cloyd GROTESQUES Poetry HEIDENSTAM, Verner von. Trans- lated by K. M. Knudsen THE SOOTHSAYER. In prep.. Four Seas THE BIRTH OF GOD. In prep. . .Four Seas HENXIQUE, Leon DEATH OF THE Due D'ENGHIEN. d Three scenes. 22m 2w . .Poet Lore HENRY, R. NORAH. p 2m Iw Dramatic HERTZ, H. Translated by T. Martin KINO RENE'S DAUGHTER. d 6m 2w Baker HERVIEU, Paul MODESTY, c 1m 2w French HENSLOWE, Leonard PERFIDIOUS MARRIAGE A HERO FOR A HUSBAND PEOPLE FROM THE PAST Three plays in one vol. .Stanley Paul iELLEM, Valcos, and D'ESTOC SABOTAGE, d 2m 2w Ij Dramatist HICKS, Seymour NEW SUB. c 8m Iw French HILBERT, Jaroslav WHOM THE GODS DESTROY. d 12m Iw Poet Lor* HOFFMAN, Pheobe MARTHA'S MOURNING. p 3w Drama, Feb., 1918 VON HOFFMANSTHALL, Hugo DEATH AND THE FOOL. d 4m 3w Four Seas MADONNA DIAXORA Four Seas THE DEATH OF TITIAN. In prep Four Seas THE PLAYS OF THE LITTLE THEATRE 569 HOGG, C. W. MIRHOH OF TIME, c 1m lw.... French HOLLEY, Horace. Read aloud plays Nine short plays Kennerley ELLEN, p 2w. . .Stratford, March, 1917 HOLT, Florence Taber THEY THE CRUCIFIED, p 7m 2w COMRADES, p 7m 2w Two plays in one volume. .Houghton HOME, Ian A DREAM ON CHRISTMAS EVE. 10 j French HOPKINS, Arthur MOONSHINE. p 2m Vol. III. No. 1... Theatre Arts HOUGHTON, Stanley. Five one-act plays THE DEAR DEPARTED, c 3m 3w FANCY FREE, c 2m 2w MASTER OF THE HOUSE, p 4m 2w PIIIPPS. c 2m lw THE FIFTH COMMANDMENT, p 2m 2w Five plays in one volume French THE DEAR DEPARTED. c 3m 3w French FANCY FREE, c 2m 2w French HOUSMAN, Lawrence As GOOD AS GOLD, p 7m French BIRD IN HAND, c French A LIKELY STORY, c French LORD OF THE HARVEST. p 6m 1 w French NAZARETH. I 13m 3w French THE SNOW MAN. p 4m 3w. . . .French RETURN OF ALCESTIS p 15m 20w French HOWARD, Bronson OLD LOVE LETTERS, c 1m lw... French HOWARD, Homer H. THE CHILD IN THE HOUSE. p 2m 2w French HOWARD, Keble COMPROMISING MARTHA. c 1 m 3w French DRAMATIST AT HOME p 1m lw French COME MICHAELMAS, p 2m 4w. .French MARTHA THE SOOTHSAYER. c 2m 3w French HUDSON, Holland THE SHEPHERD IN THE DISTANCE. 10 characters Stewart HUTCHINS, Will JEANNE D'ARC AT VAUCOULEURS. d 5m 3w.. ..Poet Lore HYDE, Douglas THE TWISTING OF THE ROPE. c 2m 3w Poet Lore IGLESIAS, Ignacio THE CEMETERY, p 2m lw...Poet Lore INDIAN PLAYS. By Helen P. Kane YOT-CHE-KE, THE EBIE. p 5 j... French YAOOWANEA. p 4m lw French CAPTURE OF OZAH. c 2m 2w. . .French IRVING, Laurence PHOENIX, p 2m 2w French IZUMO, Takeda THE PINE THEE. d 4m 3w 4j Duffield Sometimes called BUSHIDO, MATSUO, etc. JACOBS, W. W., and HUBBARD, P. E. A LOVE PASSAGE, c 3m lw French JACOBS; W. W., and ROCK, Charles THE GHOST OF JERRY BUNDLEH. p 7rn French GREY PARROT, p 4m 2w French JACOBS, W. W., and MILLS, Horace ADMIRAL PETERS, c 2m lw French JACOBS, W. W., and PARKER, L. N. THE MONKEY'S PAW. d 4m lw. .French JACOBS, W. W., and SERGENT, H. THE CHANGELING, c 2m lw French BOATSWAIN'S MATE, p 2m lw.. French IN THE LIBRARY, c French JAGENDORF, Moritz A BLUE MORNING GLORY. p 2m lw. . .International, Mar., 1914 JAKOBI, Paula THE CHINESE LILY. p 8w Forum, Nov., 1915 JAMACOIS, Eduardo. In "Contempo- rary Spanish Dramatists." THE PASSING OF THE MAGI. p 7m 5w Badger JAPANESE PLAYS See STOPES, MARIE C. IZUMO, TAKEDA POUND, EZRA, and FENOLLOSA, ERNEST NOGUCHI, YONE, TEN NOH DRAMAS JENKS, Tudor DINNER AT SEVEN SHARP. c 5ni 3w Baker JENNINGS, E. M. MRS. OAKLEY'S TELEPHONE. c 4w French DINNER AT THE CLUB, c 9w. . . .French PHINZESSEN VON BAHKHOF. c 8w French TOM'S FIANCEE. Two acts, c 5w French 570 THE PLAYS OF THE LITTLE THEATRE JENNINGS, Gertrude THE REST CUBE, c 1m 4w BETWEEN THE SOUP AND THE SAVOURY. c 3w THE PROS AND CONS, c 1m 3w ACID DROPS, p 1m 6w Four plays in one volume. .Sidgwick BETWEEN THE SOUP AND THE SAVOURY, c 3w French JEROME, Jerome K. SUNSET, c 3m 4w Dramatic BARBARA, d 2m 2w French FENNEL, d 3m Iw French JEX, John. Passion playlets VIOLET SOULS, s 3m 2w THE NEST, p 2m 3w MR. WlLLOUGHBY CALLS. p 3m Iw THE UNNECESSARY ATOM, p 3m Iw Four plays in one volume. .Cornhill JOHNS, Orrick SHADOW, p 3w Others JOHNSON, Martyn MR. AND MRS. P. ROE. c 1m 3w Chicago JONES, Henry Arthur. THE THEATRE OF IDEAS, etc. THE GOAL. 4m 2w HER TONGUE. 3m 2w GRACE MARY. 6m 2w Three plays in one volume. .Doran CLERICAL ERROR, c 3m Iw French SWEET WILL, p 1m 4w French DEACON. Two acts, c 2m 2w . .French HARMONY, d 3m Iw French BED OF ROSES, c 4m 2w French ELOPEMENT. Two acts, c 4m 3w French HEARTS OF OAK. Two acts.' c 5m 2w.. ..French KALLEN, Horace M. THE BOOK OF JOB. d. . . .Moffatt Yard KAUFMAN, S. Jay Kiss F.s. c 2m 4w Smart Set, Nov., 1915 KEMP, Harry THE PRODIGAL SON. c 3m 2w...hiral not?, by Margaret Gardiner Mayorga, M. A tittle RICE, Cale Young. THE IMMORTAL LURE GIORGIONE. p ARDUIN. p O-UME'S GODS. p. THE IMMORTAL LURE, p Four plays in one vol....Doubleday A. NIGHT IN AVIGNON, p In " Collected Plays and Poems " Doubleday RICHARDSON, Frank BONNIE DUNDEE, d 4m 2w.... French RIVOIRE, Andre THE LITTLE SHEPHERDESS. p 1m 2w French ROBINS, Gertrude. LOVING As WE Do, etc. LOVING As WE Do THE RETURN AFTER THE CASE 'ILDA'S HONOURABLE Four plays in one volume Werner Laurie MAKESHIFTS, p REALITIES, p Two plays in one volume. .. .French POT LUCK, c 3m Iw French ROGERS, Maude M. WHEN THE WHEELS RUN DOWN p 3m French ROGERS, Robert E. BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE. f 6m 2w Baker ROOF, Katherine THE WORLD BEYOND THE MOUNTAIN. p 2m 2w International, A T o., 1913 ROSENBERG, James N. THE RETURN TO MUTTON. Two acts, c 2m Iw Kennerley ROSS, Clarendon THE AVENGER. f 2m Drama, Aug., 1918 RUSCHKE, Edmont W. THE ECHO, etc. THE PLAYS OF THE LITTLE THEATRE 577 THE ECHO, c 5m 5w DEATH SPEAKS, f 2in THE INTANGIBLE, d 2m 2w Three plays in one vol Stratford RUSINOL, Santiago TiiE PRODIGAL DOLL. c 5m 6w Drama, Feb., 1917 SARDOU, Vietorien THE BLACK PEARL, c 7m 3w. .French SARGENT, Frederick Leroy OMAR AXU THE RABBI. In prep Four Seas S ARK ADI, Leo A VISION OF PAOANINI. p 2m Iw. . . .International, Feb., 1916 THE PASSING SHADOW. p 2m International, Any., 1916 THE LINE OF LIFE. p 4m 3w. . .International, Nov., 1916 SAWYER, Huth THE SmiiE OF BEN-MOR. p 1m 6w Poet Lore SCHMERT/, John R. THE MARKSMAN. p 4m Iw Sheffield, Feb., 1917 SCHNITZLER, Arthur. COMEDIES OF WORDS. Translated by Pierre Lov- ing THE HOUR OF RECOGNITION, c 3m 2w THE Bio SCENE, c 5m 2w THE FESTIVAL OF BACCHUS, c 4m 2w LITERATURE. C 2m Iw His HELPMATE, c 5m 2w Five plays in one volume. . .Stewart COUNTFSS SllZZIE. C 7lll 2\V In volume with LONELY WAT, etc Little LIVING HOURS THE WOMAN WITH THE DAGGER THE LAST MASKS LITERATURE Four plays in one volume. . .Badger GALLANT CASSIAN. Puppet Play. 3m Iw Phillips DUKE AND THE ACTRESS. e 16m 2w Badger LADY WITH THE DAGGER. d 1m Iw Poet Lore SCOTT, Clement CAPE MAIL, p 3m 4\v Dramatic SCOTTISH REPERTORY PLAYS MAXWELL, W. B. THE LAST MAN IN. p 4m Iw BRic.HorsE, H. THE PRICE OF COAL. p 1m 3w CHAPIN, H. AUGUSTUS IN SEARCH OF A FATHER, p 3m COLQUHON, D. JEAN, p 2m DOWN, O. THE MAKER OF DREAMS, f 2m Iw CHAPIN, H. DUMB AND THE BLIND, p 2m Iw 2j BRIGHOUSE, H. LONESOME-LIKE. p 2m 2w CHAPIN, H. AUTOCRAT OF THE COFFEE STALL, p CHAPIN, H. MUDDLE ANNIE, p FERGUSON, J. A. CAMPBELL OF KILM- HOR. p 4m 2w KORI, TORAIIIKO. KANAWA, the Incan- tation. 4m Iw BRIGHOUSE, H. MAID OF FRANCE, p 2m Phillips SHAKESPEARE OBERON AND TITANIA, 12 characters French. SHAW, George Bernard How HE LIED TO HER HUSBAND. c 2m Iw Brentano PRESS CUTTINGS, c 3m 3w Brentano DARK LADY OF THE SONNETS. c 1m 2w Brentano OVERRULED. p Brentano HEARTBREAK HOUSE GREAT CATHERINE O'FLATHERTY, C. V. INCA OF PERI-SAI.EM AUGUSTUS DOES His BIT THE BOLSHEVIK PRINCESS Six plays in one volume. .Brentano SHAW, Mary THE PARROT CAGE, a 1m 7w. Dramatic THE WOMAN OF IT. c 9w. . . .Dramatic SHORES, Elsa. See BELMONT, Mrs. O. H. P. SIERRA, Gregorio Martinez THE LOVER. c 1m 2w Stratford, July, 1919 LOVE MAGIC. c 4m 3w Drama, Feb., 1917 THE CRADLE SONG. 3 Two acts. 4m lOw Poet Lore SINCLAIR, Upton. Plays of Protest. THE SECOND STORY MAN. d 1m Iw Kennerley SOLOGUB, Feodor THE TRIUMPH OF DEATH.. Three short acts, d 4m 2w Drama, Aug., 1916 SOPHOCLES ANTIGONE. 11 characters Baker 578 THE PLAYS OF THE LITTLE THEATRE SOTILLO, Antonio, and MIC HO, Andres THE JUDGMENT OF POSTERITY. p 5m Iw Poet Lore SPEYER, Lady LOVE ME, LOVR MY DOG. p ;im Iw Smart Set, Jan., 1919 SPRINGER, Thomas G. SECRETS OF THE DEEP. p 7m Smart Set, June, 1914 STEELL, W. p 6m Iw Baker STERLING, George THE DBYAD. p 1m 2w Smart Set, Feb., 1919 STEVENS, Henry Bailey. A CRY OUT IN THE DARK THE MEDDLER BOLO AND BABETTE. In prep. THE MADHOUSE Three plays in one vol Four Seas STEVENS, Wallace THREE TRAVELERS WATCH A SUV- RISE, p 5m Iw i. . .Poetry, July, 1916 STEWART, Anna B. BELLES OF CANTERBURY. STEWART-KIDD MODERN PLAYS. Edited by FRANK SHAY TOMPKINS, F. G. SHAM. c 3m Iw Stewart HUDSON, HOLLAND. THE SHEPHERD IN THE DISTANCE, f 10 char- acters Stewart PLANNER, HILDEGARDE. MANSIONS. p 1m 2w Stewart OVERSTUEET, H. A. HEARTS TO MEND. f 2m Iw Stewart ST. HILL, T. N. DUTY, p 2m Sheffield, May, 1916 STRAMM, August THE BRIDE OF THE MOOR, p 4m 2w SANCTA SUSANNA, p 1m 3w Two plays in one number. .Poet Lore STRATTON, Charles THE CODA. p im 2w Drama, May, 1918 STRINDBERG, August PLAYS. First Series THE DREAM PLAY. THE LINK THE DANCE OF DEATH. Parts I and II PLAYS. Second Series CREDITORS, p Om Iw PARIAH, p 2m Miss JULIA, p 3w THE STRONGER, p 2\v THERE ARE CRIMES AND CRIMES LUCKY PEHR . . .Stewart EASTER Steicart PLAYS. Third Series SWANWHITE. A Fairy Play, p 10m 6w SIMOON, p 2m Iw DEBIT AND CREDIT, p 6m 3w ADVENT. Three acts, p 7m 3w THE THUNDERSTORM, p 8m 4w AFTER THE FIRE, p llm 4w PLAYS. Fourth Series THE BRIDAL CROWN. Six scenes, p 12m 8w others THE SPOOK SONATA, p 7m 6w THE FIRST WARNING, c 1m 4w GUSTAVUS VASA. Five acts, d 20m 8w Four volumes Scribners THE STRONGER WOMAN, p 2w MOTHERLY LOVE, p 4w Two plays in one volume. .Henderson PARIA. p 2m SIMOON, p 2m Iw Two plays in one volume. .Henderson Miss JULIE, p 1m 2w Henderson THE CREDITOR, p 2m Iw. . .Henderson THE OUTCAST SIMOON. 2m Iw DEBIT AND CHRIST, p 6m 3w Three plays in one volume. .Badger JULIE, p 2m Iw Badger THE CREDITORS, p 2m Iw Badger MOTHER LOVE, p 4w Brown SUBERT, Frantisek Adolf JAN VYRAVA. d 21m ll\v...Poet Lore SUDERMANN, Herman. ROSES STREAKS OF LIGHT, d 2m Iw M ARGOT, d 4 in 2w THE LAST VISIT, d 5m 3w FAR-AWAY PRINCESS, c 2m 7w Four plays in one volume. .Scribner MORITURI TEJA. d 7m 2w FRITZCHEN. d 5m 2w ETERNAL MASCULINE, p 5m 2w Three plays in one volume. .Scribner JOHANNES, p 40i Poet Lore SUTRO, Alfred. FIVE LITTLE PLAYS THE MAN IN THE STALLS. 2m Iw A MARRIAGE HAS BEEN ARRANGED. 1m Iw THE MAN ON THE KERB. 1m Iw THE OPEN DOOR, p 1m Iw THE BRACELET, c 5m 3w Five plays in one volume. .Brentano THE BRACELET, c 5m 3w French A MARRIAGE HAS BEEN ARRANGED. 1m Iw French THE CORRECT THING, p 1m Iw. .French ELLA'S APOLOGY, p 1m Iw ... .French THE PLAYS OF THE LITTLE THEATRE 579 A GAME OF CHESS, p Ira Iw. . .French THE GUTTER OF TIME. p 1m Iw French A MAKER OF MEN. p 1m Iw. .French THE MAN OF THE KERB. 1m. . .French THE OPEN DOOR, p 1m Iw. . . .French MR. STEINMANN'S CORNER. p 2m 2w French THE SALT OF LIFE, p 1m Iw. . .French THE MARRIAGE WILL Nor TAKE PLACE. c 2m Iw SYMONS, Arthur CLEOPATRA IN JUDEA. p 7m 3w Forum, June, 1916 SYNGE, John Millington THE SHADOW OF THE GLEN Luce RIDERS TO THE SEA Luce THE TINKER'S WEDDING Luce DEIRDRE OF THE SORROWS.. ..Luce TARKINGTON, Booth BEAUTY AND THE JACOBIN. c 3m 2w Harper TERRELL, Maverick HONI SOIT. s 1m Iw Smart Set, Jan., 1918 TEMPERAMENT. c 2m 2w Smart Set, Sept., 1916 TERRELL, Maverick, and STECH- HAX, H. O. THE REAL " Q." c 3m Smart Set, Sept., 1911 TCHEKOFF, Anton. PLAYS. First Series THE SWAN SONG, p 2m Scribner PLAYS. Second Series ON THE HIGH ROAD, p 8m 3w THE PROPOSAL, c 2m Iw THE WEDDING, c 7m 3w THE BEAR, c 2m Iw TRAGEDIAN IN SPITE OF HIMSELF, c 2m ANNIVERSARY, c 2m Iw Six plays in one volume. .. .Scribner A BEAR, c 2m Iw French THE MARRIAGE PROPOSAL. c 2m Iw French See BECHHOFER. Five plays ON THE HlGHMAY. d 6m 3w Drama, May, 1916 TENNYSON, Alfred Lord THE FALCON. p 2m 2w Collected Works TERENCE PHORMIO c llm 2w French THEURIET, Jean JEAN MARIE, p 2m Iw French THOMAS, Brandon HIGHLAND LEGACY, c 5m 2w. . French LANCASHIRE SAILOR, p 3m 2w. . French COLOUR SERGEANT, p 4m Iw... French THOMAS, Kate AN EVENING AT HELEN'S. p 7m French A BIT OF NONSENSE, c 8w French THOMPSON, Alice C. PLAYS FOR WOMEN CHARACTERS HER SCARLET SLIPPERS, p 4w....Penn AN IRISH INVASION, c 8w Baker A KNOT OF WHITE RIBBON. p 3w Penn THE LUCKIEST GIRL, p 4w. . .Denison MUCH Too SUDDEN, p 7w Baker OYSTERS, c 6w Baker THE WRONG BABY, c 8w Penn THOMPSON, Harlan ONE BY ONE. 2m 2w Smart Set, May, 1919 THE MAN HUNT. c 2m Iw Smart Set, June, 1919 PANTS AND THE MAN. c 5m 2w Smart Set, Nov., 1917 GEOMETRICALLY SPEAKING. p 3m Iw Smart Set, Nov., 1918 TOM PK INS, Frank G. SHAM, c 3m 1 vv Stewart TORRENCE, Ridgely. THREE PLAYS FOR THE NEGRO THEATRE GRANNY MAUMEE. p 3w THE RIDER OF DREAMS, p 3m Iw SIMON THE CYRENIAN. p 10m 6w Three plays in one vol . . . Macmillan TRADER, G.* H. SHAKERPEARE'S DAUGHTERS. f 1 1 w French TREE, H. B. SlX AND ElGHTPENCE. c 2m Iw French TREVOR, Philip UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE. p 2m 5w French THE LOOKING GLASS, p 7j . . . , French UKRAINKA, L. THE BABYLONIAN CAPTIVITY, d 1m 7i In Bechofer: Five Russian Plays. URCHLICKY, Jaroslav AT THE CHASM, p 2m lw..Poet Lore VIERECK, Geo. S. A GAME OF LOVE, p 1m 2w THE MOOD OF A MOMENT, p 2m Iw FROM DEATH'S OWN EYES, p 1m 2w QUESTION OF FIDELITY, p 1m Iw THE PLAYS OF THE LITTLE THEATRE THE BUTTERFLY, p 2m 3w Five plays in one volume No fat VON VIZEN, D. THE CHOICE OF A TUTOR, c 5m 3w In Bechofer: Five Russian Plays._ VAN ETTEX, G. THE VAMPIRE CAT. p 4m 2w Dramatic WALKER, Stuart. THE PORTMANTEAU PLAYS THE TRIMPI.ET. c 2m 4w NEVERTHELESS, c 2m Iw Six WHO PASS WHILE THE LENTILS Bon,, c 5m 3w THE MEDICINE SHOW, c 3m Four plays in one volume. .Stewart MORE PORTMANTEAU PLAYS THE LADY OF THE WEEPING WILLOW TRKE THE VERY NAKED BOY JONATHAN MAKES A WISH Three in one volume Stewart PORTMANTEAU ADAPTATIONS GAMMER GUHTOX'S NEEDLE WILDE, O. THE BIRTHDAY OF THE INFANTA SIR DAVID WEARS A CROWN. In one volume Stewart WALKER, W. R. A PAIR OF LUNATICS, c 1m Iw. .French GENTLEMAN JIM. 1m Iw French WALLACE, A. C. CHRYSANTHEMUMS, c 2m 2w... French WARE, J. Herbert THE MEASURE OF THE MAN. p 3m Iw Sheffield, June, 1916 WARREN, P., and HUTCHINS, W. THE DAY THAT LINCOLN DIED. p 5m 2w Baker WASHINGTON SQUARE PLAYS, THE BEACH, L. THE CLOD, p 4m Iw GOODMAN, E. EUGENICALLY SPEAKING. c 3m Iw GERSTENBERG, A. OVERTONES, p 4w MOELI.ER, P. HELENE'S HUSBAND, c 3m 2w Four plays in one vol. .Doubleday LANCER, L. ANOTHER WAY OUT. c -2m 3\v Shay GLASPELL, S. TRIFLES, d 3m 2vr..Shay (CROCKER, B. THE LAST STRAW. d x?m Iw 2j Shay ANDREYEV, L. LOVE OF ONE'S NEIGHBOR, s 15m 7w Shay CRONYN, G. THE SANDBAR QUEEN. p 6m Iw Arens MOELLER, P. Two BLIND BEGGARS, etc. p 3m Iw Arens MAETERLINCK, M. INTERIOR MIRACLE OF ST. ANTHONY DEATH OF TINTAGILES. See Author REED, J. MOONDOWN. p 2w. . . .Masses TCHEKOW, A. THE BEAR. c 2m Iw French MACKAYE, P. THE ANTICK. See Au- thor SOIXTTZLER, A. LITERATURE. See Au- thor MOELLER, P. ROADHOUSE IN AflDEN SISTERS OF SUSANNA POKEY. See Author WEDEKIND, F. THE TENOR. p 5m 3w Smart Set, June, 1913 AKINS, Z. THE MAGICAL CITY. p 7m 2w Forum, May, 1914 DE BRVEYS, D. A. PIERRE PATE LIN. c 7m 2w French TCHEKOV, A. THE SEA GULL. See Au- thor EVHEINOV, N. See Bechofer: Five Rus- sian Plays PoRTo-RiciiE. LOVERS' LUCK. See Clark: Plays for the Free Theatre IZUMO, T. THE PINE TREE. Bushido. See Author MASSAY, E. PLOTS AND PLAYWRIGHTS. c llm 6w Little MOLIERE. SGANAREI.LE. DOCTOR IN SPITE OF HIMSELF. See Author STRIXDBERG, A. PARIAH. See Author WATTS, Mary S. THREE SHORT PLAYS AN ANCIENT DANCE. Two acts. p. 6m 3w CIVILIZATION, p 5m 5w WEARIN' o' THE GREEN, c 8m 7w Three plays in one vol. .Macmillan WEDEKIND, Frank THE TENOR. p 5m 3w Smart Set, June, 1913 WEIL, Percival L. THE CULPRIT. p 3m Iw Smart Set, Feb., 1913 WELLMAN, Rita THE LADY WITH THE MIRROR. a 2m 2w .Drama, Aug., 1918 DAWN, p 2m Iw... Drama, Feb., 1919 FUNICULI FUNICULI. In Mayorga's " Representative One-Act Plays " Little THE PLAYS OF THE LITTLE THEATRE WELSH, Robert Gilbert JEZEBEL, p 6m 3w. .Forum, May, 1915 WENDT, Frederick W. DES IHAE. p 1m Iw Smart Set, July, 1911 WHITE, Lucy THE BIRD CHILD. p 2m 2w Ij. . .International, Nov., 1914 WILCOX, Constance TOLD IN A CHINESE GARDEN. p 10 characters. .Drama, May, 1919 WILDE, Oscar SALOME, d llm 2w Several edition* BIRTHDAY OF THE INFANTA WILDE, Percival. DAWN AND OTHER ONE-ACT PLAYS DAWN, d 2m Iw Ij THE NOBLE LORD, c 2m Iw THE TRAITOR, d 7m THE HOUSE OF CARDS, p 1m Iw PLAYING WITH FIRE, c 1m 2w FINGER OF GOD. p 2m Iw Six plays in one volume Holt CONFESSIONAL, p 3m 3w ACCORDING TO DARWIN, p 3m 2w A QUESTION OF MORALITY, c 3m Iw THE BEAUTIFUL STORY, p 1m Iw Ij THE VILLAIN OF THE PIECE, c 2m Iw Five plays in one volume Llolt LINE OF No RESISTANCE. c 1m 2w French SAVED. p 9m Iw Smart Set, July, 1915 W T ILEY, Sara King PATRIOTS, c 3m 2w French WISCONSIN PLAYS FIRST SERIES GALE, Z. THE NEIGHBOR* d 2m 6w DICKINSON, T. H. IN HOSPITAL, c 3m 2w LEONARD, W. E. GLORY OF THE MORN- ING, p 3m 2\v Three plays in one vol. . .Huebsch SECOND SERIES ILLSEY, S. M. FEAST OF THE HOLY IN- NOCENTS, p 5w SHERRY, L. ON THE PIER, p 1m Iw JONES, H. M. THE SHADOW, p 4m 2w OILMAN, T. WE LIVE AGAIN, p 6m Cw Four Plays in one volume. .Huebsch WOLFF, Oscar M. WHERE BUT IN AMERICA. c 1m 2w Swart Set, March. 1918 WORLD'S BEST PLAYS, The. Edited by BARRETT H. CLARK COPPEE, FRANCOIS. PATER NOSTER. p 3m 3w MEILHAC AND HALEVY. INDIAN SUM- MER, c 2m 2w MAUREY, MAX. ROSALIE, c 1m 2w HERVIEU, PAUL. MODESTY, c 2m Iw TCHEKOF, ANTON. A MARRIAGE PRO- POSAL, c 2m Iw DE MUSSET. and AUGIER. THE GREEN COAT, c 3m Iw GIACOSA, GIUSEPPE. THE WAGER, c 4m Iw TERRENCE. PHORMIO. c llm 2w RIVOIRE, ANDRE. THE LITTLE SHEP- ERDESS. c 1m 2w PLAUTUS. THE TWINS, c 7m 2w SARDOU, VICTORIEN. THE BLACK PEARL. c 7m 3w TCIIEKOF, ANTON. THE BOOR, c 2m Iw DE BANVILLE, THEO. CHARMING LEAN- DER. c 2m Iw AUGIER, EMILE. THE POST SCRIPTUM. c 1m 2w MOLIERE. THE DOCTOR IN SPITE OF OF HIMSELF, c 6m 3w DE CAILAVET, G. A. CHOOSING A CAREER, c BERNARD, TRISTAN. FRENCH WITHOUT A MASTER, c 5m 2w MEILHAC and HALEVY. PANURGE'S SHEEP, c 1m 2w BENEDIX, RODERICK. THE LAW SUIT. c 5m BENEDIX, RODERICK. THE THIRD MAN. c 1m 3w MOLIERE. THE SICILIAN. Two scenes. c 4m 3w MOLIERE. THE AFFECTED YOUNG LADIES, s 6m 3w BERNARD, TRISTAN. I'M GOING! c 1m Iw FEUILLET, OCTAVE. THE FAIRY, c 3m Iw FEUILLET, OCTAVE. THE VILLAGE, c 2m 2w LABICHE. GRAMMAR, c 4m Iw LABICHE. THE Two COWARDS, c 3m 2w LESAGE. CRISPIN, His MASTER'S RIVAL. c 4m 3w MARIVAUX. THE LEGACY, c 4m 2w GYALUI, WOLFGANG. AFTER THE HONEYMOON, c 1m Iw BOUCHOR, MAURICE. A CHRISTMAS TALE, p 2m 2w FRANCE, ANATOLE. CRAINQUEBILLE. 3 scenes, p 12m 6w 582 THE PLAYS OF THE LITTLE THEATRE THEURIET, ANDRE. JEAN MABIE. p 2m Iw PICABD, L. B. THE REBOUND, c 5m 2w ABISTOPHANES. LYSIBTRATA. s 4m 5w lj Published by French WYNNE, Anna THE BBOKEX BARS, p 10m lOw. . .French YEATS, William Butler THE COUNTESS CATHLEEN THE LAND OF HEABT'S DESIRE THE SHADOWY WATEBS THE KINO'S THRESHOLD ON BAILE'S STBAND DEIRDBE Macmillan THE GREEN HELMET Macmillan WHERE THERE Is NOTHING. .Macmillan THE HOUR GLASS CATHI.EEN IN HOULIHAN A POT OF BROTH Macmillan IN THE SEVEN WOODS Macmillan YEHOASH THE SHUNAMITE. p 3m Iw Stratford, June, 1919 YIDDISH THEATRE: SIX PLAYS FOR FIRST SERIES PINSKI, D. ABIGAIL. 7m Iw PINSKI, D. FORGOTTEN SOULS. 1m 2w ALEICHEM, S. SHE MUST MARRY A DOCTOB. 3m 4w ASH, S. WINTER. 1m 6w ASH, S. THE SINNER. 9m Iw HIRSCHBEIN, P. IN THE DARK. 3m 2w Six plays in one volume. SECOND SERIES PINSKI, D. LITTLE HEROES, p 6j PINSKI, D. THE STRANGER, p 9m 6w HlBSCHBEIN, P. ON THE THBESHOLD. p 4m 2w LEVIN, Z. POETBY AND PROSE, p 1m Iw KOBBIN, L. BLACK SHEEP, p 3m 2w KOBBIN, L. THE SWEET OF LIFE, p 2m Iw Six plays in one volume Iluebsch YOUNG, Stark. AT THE SHRINE AND OTHER PLAYS ADDIO. p 3m Iw MADBETTA. p 2m Iw AT THE SHRINE, p 1m Iw Three plays in one volume. .Stewart ZANGWILL, Israel Six PERSONS, c 1m Iw French GREAT DEMONSTRATION. c 2m Iw French BIBLIOGRAPHIES ACTABLE ONE-ACT PLAYS Chicago Public Library, 1916 PLAYS AND BOOKS OF THE LITTLE THEATRE. Compiled by Frank Shay. A LIST OF PLAYS AND PAGEANTS. Pre- pared by the Committee on Pagean- try, War Work Council, Young Woman's Christian Associations. 1919. PLAYS FOR AMATEURS. Arranged by John Mantel Clapp. Drama League of America. Chicago. 1915. GUIDE TO SELECTING PLAYS for the use of professionals and amateurs. By Wentworth Hogg. French. 1916. THE DRAMATIC BOOKS AND PLAYS. An annual compilation by Henry East- man Lower and George Heron Milne. Boston Book Co. Stewart Kidd Play Series THE PROVINCETOWN PLAYS Edited by GEORGE CRAM COOK and FRANK SHAY With a foreword by HUTCHIN HAPGOOD Containing the ten best plays produced by the Province- town Players, which are: "SUPPRESSED DESIRES", George Cram Cook and Susan Glaspell. "ARIA DA CAPO", Edna St. Vincent Millay. "COCAINE", Pendleton King. "NIGHT", James Oppenheim. "ENEMIES", Hutchin Hapgood and Neith Boyce. "THE ANGEL INTRUDES", Floyd Dell. "BOUND EAST FOR CARDIFF", Eugene O'Neill. "THE WIDOWS VEIL", Alice Rostetter. "STRING OF THE SAMISEN", Rita Wellman. "NOT SMART", Wilbur D. Steele. Every author, with one exception, has a book or more to his credit. Several are at the top of their profession. Rita Wellman, a Saturday Evening Post star, has had two or three plays on Broadway, and has a new novel, "The Wings of Desire." Cook and Glaspell are well known he for his novels, and Miss Glaswell for novels and plays. Edna Millay is one of America's best poets. Steele, according to O'Brien, is America's best short-story writer. Oppenheim has over a dozen novels, books of poems, and essays to his credit. O'Neill has a play on Broadway now: "The Emperor Jones." Hutch. Hapgood is an author of note. A record of the work of the most serious and important of all the new theatre movements in America. New York Sun: "Tense and vivid little dramas." Dallas News: "Uniform in excellence of workmanship, varied in sub- ject matter the volume is a distinct contribution to American dra- matic art. i2tno. Net, $2.50 Send for Complete Dramatic Catalogue STEWART KIDD COMPANY PUBLISHERS CINCINNATI, U. S. A. Stewart Kidd Modern Plays Edited by FRANK SHAY To meet the immensely increased demands of the play-reading public and those interested in the modern drama, Stewart Kidd are issuing under the general editorship of Frank Shay a series of plays from the pens of the world's best contemporary writers. No effort is being spared to secure the best work available, and the plays are issued in a form that is at once attractive to readers and suited to the needs of the performer and producer. Buffalo Express: "Each play is of merit. Each is unlike the other. The group furnishes a striking example [of the realistic trend of the modern drama." From time to time special announcements will be printed giving com- plete lists of the plays. SHAM, a Social Satire in One Act. By Frank G. Tompkins. Originally produced by Sam Hume, at the Arts and Crafts Theatre, Detroit. San Francisco Bulletin : "The lines are new and many of them are decidedly clever." Providence Journal : "An ingenious and merry little one-act play." THE SHEPHERD IN THE DISTANCE, a Pantomime in One Act. By Holland Hudson. Originally produced by the Washington Square Players. Oakland Tribune: "A pleasing pantomime of the Ancient East." MANSIONS, a Play in One Act. By Hildegarde Planner. Originally produced by the Indiana Little Theatre Society. Three Arts Magazine : "This thoughtful and well-written play of Characters and Ideals has become a favorite with Little Theatres and is now available in print." HEARTS TO MEND, a Fantasy in One Act. By H. A. Overstreet. Originally produced by the Fireside Players, White Plains, N. Y. St. Louis Star : "It is a light whimsy and well carried out." San Francisco Chronicle: "No one is likely to hear or read it without real and legitimate pleasure." SIX WHO PASS WHILE THE LENTILS BOIL. By Stuart Walker. Originally produced by the Portmanteau Players at Christodora House, New York City. Brooklyn Eagle : "Literary without being pedantic, and dramatic without being noisy." OTHERS TO FOLLOW. Bound in Art Paper. Each, net, .50 42327 CENTRAL UNIVERSITY University of Californ UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY A 000 672 906 5