Part 3
When you are considering a play, such questions as these are the first to be dealt with!
[_Each interrupted lady mutters the end of her remark, but not so as to prevent the next one’s being heard. An air of excited confusion prevails, no one listening much to what any one says._]
MRS. FESSENDEN.
[_Rapping._]
Order! We will proceed to the next question. [_Reads._] “Do Latin dramatists give greater importance to—er—what is called—sex problems [_she brings out the awful word with a distinct effort_] than those of Teutonic nations?”
MRS. BENNETT.
[_Hopping up and instantly beginning. One or two others try to speak, but vainly._]
Isn’t it a question of attitude rather than importance? The attitude of the Teutonic dramatists, with the exception of Bernard Shaw and his type, is always one of disapproval, implied or expressed, of all passion, whether licit or illicit. They ignore it, or when they can’t ignore it they despise it, whereas the Latin dramatist treats of passion openly and joyously without self-consciousness, as the most exquisite joy—to be grasped whenever and wherever it can be reached. In this instance the author clearly sympathizes with Anna in her regret for her renunciation. Don’t you see his play is a protest against the situation in which she finds herself which obliges her to renounce? We may not agree with the author [_somebody exclaims devoutly “I should hope not!”_], but we might at least try to understand his point of view?
[_She speaks passionately. As she sits down MISS FESSENDEN, who is on the edge of her chair, all eagerness, claps her hands softly together in scared approbation. There is a general stir of surprise._]
MRS. BROKMORTON.
[_Rising._]
You mean, of course, merely understanding the point of view, not sympathizing with it?
MISS FESSENDEN.
But if you understand it—how can you help sympathizing? If she loved—
MRS. FESSENDEN.
[_Interrupting._]
My child! We are getting far from the question [_consults paper_] which related to Latin and Teutonic dramatists. However, let us drop it and proceed to the next, which is important and timely. [_Rapping._] Here is my next question. [_Reads._] “Is Anna’s attitude towards her husband absolutely right?” “How is it possible that the love of years should have changed to hate in this brief twenty-four hours?”
MISS JENNINGS.
She never loved her husband! She loved Luciano. She not only confessed it, she gloried in it. Don’t you remember she said to Paolo, “Couldn’t you see I was longing to tell you?” There was no love to change to hate.
MRS. FESSENDEN.
No love? Then why, pray, did she write “I love my husband, I LOVE MY HUSBAND!”
MISS JENNINGS.
But when she wrote that she had not broken the fetters, she was struggling. She loved Luciano, she felt herself yielding, she knew danger was near and so she lied to protect herself, can’t you understand?
MRS. BENNETT.
Oh yes, don’t you see? It seems to me so clear—
MISS FESSENDEN.
Oh, mother, I understand her feeling perfectly! She had been repressed so long! She did not dare tell the truth, so she lied hard!
MISS JENNINGS.
But don’t you see—
[_General confusion—everybody talks at once and excitedly—each one true to type—remarks similar to previous ones. MRS. STEDMAN is heard darkly murmuring, “The morals of the youth of Tankaha!”_]
MRS. FESSENDEN.
[_Raps._]
Order! This question does not admit of discussion. She loved her husband. Here is the last question. [_Reads._] “When Anna quits the conjugal home for reasons which move us do these reasons also convince us?” Kindly speak one at a time.
MISS JENNINGS.
They convince me! When love is dead—how could she stay? Don’t you remember those beautiful lines:
“The night has a thousand eyes and the day but one, Yet the light of the whole world dies with the setting sun.
“The mind has a thousand eyes and the heart but one, Yet the light of the whole life dies when love is done.”
MISS FESSENDEN.
Mother, I will speak! I know she never loved her husband—I know she always loved Luciano. I only wish she had gone to him. It would have been a higher standard of morality. There! [_She drops into her chair. MRS. FESSENDEN opens her mouth, but finds no words._]
MISS JENNINGS.
Goodness!
MRS. STEDMAN.
[_To MRS. FESSENDEN._]
That’s—what—comes! Maria Fessenden, didn’t I tell you two years ago not to let her go to Hindle Wakes?
MRS. BROKMORTON.
But what has all this got to do with the discussion of the play as a play? This is a drama class, not a mothers’ meeting.
MRS. BENNETT.
[_A good deal scared, as she knows it is her previous remarks that have inspired MISS FESSENDEN to her outburst._]
To defend and ask comprehension for the attitude of Latin dramatists is a very different thing from—
[_As before each lady continues her views, the separate sentences rising as a bugle-note sounds out above an orchestra._]
MRS. FESSENDEN.
[_Raps._]
Ladies, orderly discussion is impossible unless you speak one at a time. My daughter has uttered an extraordinary statement of her views. I should like to ask each member of the class separately whether she agrees with these views. [_Her expression says “dares to agree.”_]
MRS. BROKMORTON.
Pardon me, Madam Chairman, but it seems to me your daughter’s views as to whether Anna should have gone with Luciano or not are wholly irrelevant. They do not concern us. They are unimportant. Now, Giacosa—
MRS. FESSENDEN.
Pardon me, Mrs. Brokmorton, you may be right technically, but I am a mother first, chairman of this class second. There is a far higher question involved than consideration of a play. I shall put the question to each one! [_She fixes MISS JENNINGS with her eye._] Miss Jennings, do you?
MISS JENNINGS.
[_With a gulp. She has been weeping off and on from the general intensity and the difficulty of keeping her minutes._]
No.
MRS. FESSENDEN.
Mrs. Stedman, do you?
MRS. STEDMAN.
No!!
MRS. FESSENDEN.
Mrs. Brokmorton, do you?
MRS. BROKMORTON.
Of course not; but it doesn’t matter—
MRS. BENNETT.
[_Badly scared, feeling she has precipitated the row. She wants to say “No,” and almost does so, then, recalling she must stand by MISS FESSENDEN, she murmurs_:]
I don’t think so.
MRS. FESSENDEN.
You don’t think so! That means you agree at heart, but don’t dare say so? Am I right?
MRS. BENNETT.
No, no! Oh, dear!
MRS. FESSENDEN.
It would seem the younger generation does not know the meaning of the word S-I-N.
[_Hurly-burly begins again._]
MRS. FESSENDEN.
Order! Order!
CURTAIN.
EXTREME UNCTION
_Played for the first time on October 23 and 24, 1914, by Miss ISABEL MCBIRNEY, Miss VOLNEY FOSTER, Mrs. EDWARD POPE, Mrs. HENRY HUBBARD, and Mr. ROSECRANS BALDWIN._
EXTREME UNCTION.
CHARACTERS:
A DYING PROSTITUTE A SALVATION ARMY LASSIE A SOCIETY LADY A DOCTOR A NURSE
SCENE: _The screened space around a high, narrow bed in a hospital ward. Record-card hanging above. The screens have anti-septic white sheets over them._
_When the curtain rises the nurse is straightening and tucking in with uncomfortable tightness the white counterpane of the bed. On the bed, with eyes closed, lies what is left of a girl of eighteen or twenty. The nurse takes the thermometer from the girl’s mouth, looks at it, shakes her head, and makes a record note on the chart. She gives the girl water to drink and leaves her with a final pull to straighten the bedclothes. The girl tosses restlessly, moans a little and impatiently kicks at and pulls the bedclothes out at the foot, exclaiming, “God, I wish they’d lemme ’lone!”_
[_THE LADY enters._]
THE LADY.
Hattie dear, were you sleeping? No? See, I’ve brought you some roses. Aren’t they fresh and sweet? Shall I put them in water?
THE GIRL.
I don’ want ’em!
THE LADY.
All right, dear. We’ll just put them aside. I know sometimes the perfume is too strong if one isn’t quite oneself. Shall I read to you?
THE GIRL.
If you want to.
THE LADY.
What shall I read?
THE GIRL.
I don’ care.
THE LADY.
A story, perhaps?
THE GIRL.
All right—fire it off.
THE LADY.
And then afterwards, Hattie dear, perhaps if you’d let me, the twenty-third psalm. It’s so gentle and quiet! You might go to sleep—and when you awakened you’d hear those comforting words.
THE GIRL.
Is that the one about the valley? God, but I’m sick of it! Gives me the jimmies. Got a story?
[_THE LADY puts the flowers back in their box—takes off her wrap and settles herself to read aloud from a magazine._]
Marianna Lane swung back and forth, back and forth, in the hammock, tapping her small, brown toe on the porch as she swung. It was a charming porch, framed in clematis and woodbine, but Marianna had no eye for its good points. She was lying with two slim arms clasped behind her head, staring vacantly up at the ceiling and composing a poem. On the wicker table beside her stood a glass of malted milk and a teaspoon. They were not the subject of the poem, but they were nevertheless responsible for it. Her cousin Frank, who lived in the next house, had been inspired to make up an insulting ditty.
“Grocerman, bring a can Baby-food for Mary Ann!”
[_THE GIRL listens for a moment with a faint show of interest, then goes back to her restless tossing._]
THE GIRL.
[_Interrupting._]
Say, d’ye know I’m done for?
THE LADY.
Oh no! You’re getting better every day.
THE GIRL.
Oh, quit it! I’m goin’, I tell ye. I’ve got a head-piece on me, haven’t I? I can tell—they’ve stopped doin’ all them things to me. The doctor just sets down there where you are and looks at me—and, say—he’s got gump, that doctor. He’s the only one knows I know.
THE LADY.
You mustn’t talk like that. I’m sure you’re going to get well. [_Girl makes an angry snort._] Now try and lie quiet. You mustn’t get excited, you know, it isn’t good for sick people. I’ll go on with the story. You’ll see. Now listen, will you, dear? It’s quite interesting. [_Reads._]
“Grocerman, bring a can Baby-food for Mary Ann!”
he sang loudly over the hedge whenever he caught sight of Marianna’s middy blouse and yellow pigtails. That was yesterday. To-day the malted milk was standing untouched upon the wicker table, and Marianna in the hammock was trying to think up an offensive rhyme for Frank. When she found it, she intended to go around on the other side of the house and shout it as loud as ever she could in the direction of her uncle’s garden. This, it is true, was a tame revenge. What Marianna really wanted to do was to go over and pinch her cousin Frank; but that, unhappily, was out of the question, as Frank had a cold, and she was strictly forbidden to go near anybody with a cold.[3]
THE GIRL.
[_Interrupting._]
Lady, where d’ you think you’re goin’ to when you kick it? Tell me!
THE LADY.
Why—I don’t know—To Heaven, I hope—but you mustn’t—
[Illustration: THE GIRL: I’M SO TIRED, I’D LIKE SOMETHING NICER]
THE GIRL.
What makes you think you’re goin’ to Heaven?
THE LADY.
Well—I think so because—well—because I’ve always tried to do right—no, no—I didn’t mean that exactly. Of course I’ve done millions of wrong things—but I mean— Oh, Hattie dear, Heaven is such a vague term! All we know is that it is a beautiful place where we’ll be happy, and that we’re going there.
THE GIRL.
How do you know we’re goin’?
THE LADY.
I don’t know. I believe.
THE GIRL.
But how do you know the wrong things you done won’t keep you out?
THE LADY.
Now I’m afraid you’re exciting yourself—
THE GIRL.
Oh, Lord, cut that out! I’m excited, all right, all right! Guess you’d be if you had the thoughts I got goin’ ’round in your head all the time—but there’s no sense talkin’ them out. Nobody can’t do nothin’ for me now!
THE LADY.
Oh, you mustn’t say that!
THE GIRL.
Well, can ye?
THE LADY.
I’ll try, if you will tell me what is troubling you.
THE GIRL.
Oh, Gawd! She wants to know what’s troublin’ me, she does!
THE LADY.
Can’t you tell me? Perhaps I could help you.
THE GIRL.
You said you done wrong things. What was they?
THE LADY.
I—I don’t know exactly.
THE GIRL.
You don’t know?
THE LADY.
Why, I suppose I could think of lots of things, but—
THE GIRL.
She could “think of lots o’ things”! Has to stop to remember. Oh, gee! Guess she’ll get in.
THE LADY.
Oh, please don’t laugh like that! Listen! Whatever you have done, no matter how dreadful, if you are sorry it will be all right. Don’t be afraid.
THE GIRL.
Is that true?
THE LADY.
Yes.
THE GIRL.
I don’t believe it.
THE LADY.
It is true, nevertheless.
THE GIRL.
Well, if you ain’t sorry?
THE LADY.
But surely you are—you must be!
THE GIRL.
No, I ain’t. It was better dead.
THE LADY.
What do you mean?
THE GIRL.
I tell ye, it was better to be dead. Say, Lady—in them wrong things you done you can’t remember did ye—did ye ever kill a kid that hadn’t hardly breathed? Say, did ye—did ye?
THE LADY.
Oh, oh! What shall I do? Hattie! Hattie! Try and stop crying. I’m so grieved for you. Tell me what you wish—only don’t cry so!
THE GIRL.
I ain’t sorry.
THE LADY.
No, no, never mind that. Tell me if you want to, tell me—about it.
THE GIRL.
An’ I ain’t sorry for what cum first—him—it was all I ever had that time, that little, weeny time!
THE LADY.
Wait a moment—wouldn’t you rather have a clergyman?
THE GIRL.
No! There’s one comes ’round here. I don’ want to tell him nothin’.
THE LADY.
Very well—go on.
THE GIRL.
It was so little, and it squawked! It squawked awful!
THE LADY.
Oh don’t!
THE GIRL.
You don’t want me to tell ye?
THE LADY.
Yes, yes.
THE GIRL.
Oh, what’s the use? What’s the use? You can’t do nothin’. Nobody kin. I ain’t sorry! The kid’s better dead, lots better. It’s what cum after. I’m so dirty! I’m so dirty! I’ll never get clean! Oh, what’s gona happen when I die? What’s gona happen? An’ I gotta die soon!
THE LADY.
You mustn’t feel so; you mustn’t! God is kind and good and merciful. He will forgive you. Ask Him to!
THE GIRL.
I did ask Him to—lots o’ times. It don’ do no good. I ain’t sorry! Everybody says you gotta feel sorry, an’ I ain’t. A girl kid’s better dead, I tell ye! That’s why I done it. I loved it, ’fore it came, ’cause it was his’n. After I done it nothin’ mattered—nothin’! So I— And I gotta die soon. What’s gona happen?
[_During the preceding the sound of a tambourine and singing has been heard outside. As THE GIRL cries out the last words THE LADY, finding no answer, goes to the window. She has a sudden thought._]
THE LADY.
I’ll be back in a moment! [_She goes out._]
[_Nothing is heard but THE GIRL’S sobs for a moment. Then THE LADY ushers in a SALVATION ARMY LASSIE, her tambourine held tightly, but jingling a little. She stands embarrassed by the foot of the bed. THE GIRL stares at her._]
THE GIRL.
I know them kind, too.
THE LASSIE.
Can’t I do something for you?
THE GIRL.
No—not now. You’re a good sort enough—but—I ain’t sorry— I tell ye—I ain’t, I ain’t!
THE LASSIE.
[_To LADY._]
What d’ye want me for? What’ll I do?
THE LADY.
Couldn’t you sing something brave and cheerful? You were singing so nicely out there.
THE LASSIE.
[_To GIRL._]
Shall I?
THE GIRL.
No, they won’t let ye. It ’u’d make a noise.
THE LADY.
Sing it low.
THE LASSIE.
[_In a sing-song voice, swaying, half chanting, half speaking._]
Shall we gather at the river—the beautiful, the beautiful river, etc.
THE GIRL.
[_After trying to listen for a stanza or two._]
Oh, cut it out! I don’t want ye to sing to me. I want ye to tell me what’s gona happen. Oh, don’ nobody know? I’m so ’fraid—so ’fraid!
[_As her voice rises the nurse, who has, unobserved, looked in during the singing, enters with THE DOCTOR. He bows slightly to THE LADY and THE LASSIE, then goes quickly to THE GIRL, putting his hand on her forehead._]
THE DOCTOR.
Why, child, what troubles you?
THE GIRL.
[_Clinging to his hand._]
Doctor! Everybody says I got to be sorry to get in. I ain’t sorry, an’ I’m ’fraid, I’m ’fraid.
THE DOCTOR.
To get in where?
THE GIRL.
Heaven, where you’ll be happy.
THE DOCTOR.
That is very interesting. How do you suppose they found that out? How do they know, I mean?
THE LADY.
Doctor, I didn’t tell her that.
THE DOCTOR.
Didn’t you? She seems strangely excited. [_He seats himself by the bed._] Come, child, let’s talk about it.
[_He motions to the nurse that she is not needed. She goes out. THE SALVATION ARMY LASSIE makes an awkward little bow and gets herself out. THE LADY stands at the foot of the bed listening for a few moments, then slips quietly out._]
THE DOCTOR.
Now, tell me what is on your mind. But try and stop crying and speak plainly, for I want to understand what you say.
THE GIRL.
I’m gona die, ain’t I?
THE DOCTOR.
Yes.
THE GIRL.
When?
THE DOCTOR.
I don’t know.
THE GIRL.
Soon?
THE DOCTOR.
Yes.
THE GIRL.
How soon? Tomorrow?
THE DOCTOR.
No, not tomorrow. Perhaps in a month, perhaps longer.
THE GIRL.
Will I get sorry ’fore I go?
THE DOCTOR.
How can I tell? But what does it matter? Why do you want to be sorry especially? What good would it do? It is all passed, isn’t it? Nothing can change that.
THE GIRL.
But I gotta be—to get in.
THE DOCTOR.
You seem very sure on that point.
THE GIRL.
But everybody says I gotta be.
THE DOCTOR.
What is the use saying it or thinking it when nobody knows?
THE GIRL.
What you sayin’?
THE DOCTOR.
You and I can believe differently if we want to. But why in the world should you be asking me all these hard questions? I’ve never been to heaven, have I? I don’t know whether you have to be sorry to get in or not. How do you suppose they found all that out?
THE GIRL.
But ain’t I gotta be punished somewhere till I git sorry?
THE DOCTOR.
Do you remember the other night when the pain was so bad?
THE GIRL.
Yep.
THE DOCTOR.
And I told you you would have to bear it, that I could do nothing for you, and that you must be quiet, not to disturb the others?
THE GIRL.
Oh, don’t I remember!
THE DOCTOR.
I guess that’s about enough punishment for one little girl. You’ve been pretty unhappy lately, haven’t you, with the pain and the terrible thoughts? I think it’s about time something else turned up for you that would be nicer, don’t you?
THE GIRL.
Turned up?
THE DOCTOR.
Yes, something that would make up for all this. Do you know, child, as I’ve gone through these wards day after day ’tending to all you sick folks I’ve about come to the conclusion that there must be—something nicer—
THE GIRL.
Tell me more about it.
THE DOCTOR.
Well, now—there’s another queer question. Didn’t I tell you I don’t know anything to tell? I’ve never been there. I should think you would have found out a little something, since you’re planning to go so soon. But no, I don’t suppose you know much more than the rest of us. And when you get there you will probably forget all about me and how much I’d like to know what’s happening to my little patient. No use, I suppose, asking you to tie a red string on your finger and say, “That’s to send Dr. Carroll a little message.” Is there any way, do you think you could remember?
THE GIRL.
You’re kiddin’ me!
THE DOCTOR.
Indeed I am not. I long to know with all my heart, and I suppose it will be years and years before I do. Why, just think, you—you, are going to have a great adventure. You are going on a journey to a far country where you’ll find out lots of things, and here am I, jogging along up and down, to and fro, between my office and this hospital, and wondering and wondering and wondering! What a lucky little girl you are!
THE GIRL.
And I don’t have to be sorry—to git in?
THE DOCTOR.
Didn’t I tell you you were going soon, anyway? You can be sorry if you want to—but I think it is more interesting to dream about the strange things there will be to discover at the end of the journey.
THE GIRL.
Will there be gates of gold that open wide, and angels standin’ by with shinin’ wings?
THE DOCTOR.
Wouldn’t you like to know? And so would I. You mustn’t forget to send that message. Will you? Do be careful to be accurate and try to speak distinctly. You know that a great many wise men have promised to send messages back, yet all that seems to come are foolish words. If you will look at everything carefully and find a way of telling me, I’ll write it down for all the world to ponder. Oh—then we should really know something—not just be groping—groping—groping in the dark. If you only could, if you only could! I wonder—[_In his turn he gazes at her intently, then rises abruptly._] Well, child, I must go on. Shall I teach you a few questions before you go, so you’ll be sure and find out for me the most important things?
THE GIRL.
Oh, Doctor!
THE DOCTOR.
You’d like to do something for me, wouldn’t you, child?
[_THE GIRL reaches out for his hand and kisses it humbly, then gazes at him._]
THE DOCTOR.
Well, that would be the most wonderful thing in the world, only you must be very, very careful, and you must do a lot of thinking before you go, about what I’ve said. It is important to understand. Don’t waste any time thinking about what is passed, will you?
THE GIRL.
No, Doctor.
THE DOCTOR.
We must talk it all over. There aren’t many people I could trust to remember exactly all the things I want to know. But you can if you try hard. [_He touches the bell; the nurse appears._] Now, Miss Bryant, Miss Hattie and I have several important things to discuss and there isn’t much time left, so if she wants me at any time call me and I’ll come. And I think while she has so much thinking on hand about what I’m asking her to do for me, she had better not see other visitors. You don’t mind, do you?
THE GIRL.
No, no! I don’ want ’em! Doctor, when will it come? Doctor, will I know soon?
THE DOCTOR.
Soon, I think; very soon. [_He takes her hand a second, then goes out, motioning the nurse to precede him._]
THE GIRL.
Soon! He said it would be very soon—and I’m so tired! I’d like something nicer. [_She settles herself with a little sigh, and falls asleep._]
CURTAIN.
THE LETTER
_Played for the first time on August 18 and 19, 1915, by Mr. CHAS. ATKINSON, Mr. ERNST VON AMMON, and Mr. JOHN ROOT._
THE LETTER.
CHARACTERS:
HORACE TANNER. JOHN ROBERTS. BELL-BOY.
TIME: _Midnight of a summer night. Present day._
SCENE: _Writing-room of a club. Entrances at back and right._