book I

never heard tell of.

MRS. LEZINSKY. The law and the prophets--my Solly was meant to be a rabbi once.

MRS. ROONEY. A rabbi?

MRS. LEZINSKY. You know what a rabbi is by us, Mrs. Rooney?

MRS. ROONEY. Indeed, I know what a rabbi is, Mrs. Lezinsky--a rabbi is a Jewish priest.

MRS. LEZINSKY. You don't hate the Jewish religion, Mrs. Rooney?

MRS. ROONEY. 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. LEZINSKY. Catholics like you are fine, Mrs. Rooney. Such a good neighbor! A good customer, too! Why should you move away now, Mrs. Rooney?

MRS. ROONEY. 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. LEZINSKY. Thank God, that don't happen for a little while yet. But in the hottest weather--maybe--some Septembers--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 pressing! See? They send us this already. [_Shows a paper._] A notice to pay right away or they shut it off. Only ten days overdue. Would you believe it, Mrs. Rooney? Maybe we catch up a little next month. It don't pay no longer, this business. And soon now another mouth to feed, and still my Solly sticks by his learning.

MRS. ROONEY. But he can't be a rabbi now, can he?

MRS. LEZINSKY. 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. LEZINSKY. 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 something, I tell you, Mrs. Rooney. The doctors get rich from that. It costs something, that operation. And then, sometimes, 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 belongs 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 buying me a go-cart for her now we're moving. '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 behind.

MRS. LEZINSKY [_her face aglow_]. What happens to that carriage, Mrs. Rooney?

MRS. ROONEY. I'll be selling it.

MRS. LEZINSKY. Who buys that carriage, 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.

MRS. LEZINSKY [_her face falls_]. Maybe you get that $5 ... Mrs. Rooney. Those Cohens make money by that stationery business.

MRS. ROONEY. And sure, the secondhand 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 believe it. My Benny was the smartest of the lot. When 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!

MRS. 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. LEZINSKY [_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 gorgeous name. I name her Eileen, I do assure 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 compliment, 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--if you wouldn't insult me--please--when you bring all these lovely things.... [_Mrs. Rooney 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'll be leaving 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 turning 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 customer_]. 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. ROSENBLOOM. 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. See?

MRS. LEZINSKY. He should take it in a little on the shoulders, Mr. Rosenbloom?

MR. ROSENBLOOM [_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?

MR. ROSENBLOOM. An inch or an inch and a half--maybe.

MRS. LEZINSKY [_measures again_]. 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. ROSENBLOOM. All right.

MRS. LEZINSKY. I send my David or Julius with them, Mr. Rosenbloom?

MR. ROSENBLOOM. I'll stop in the evening 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. LEZINSKY. 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. Rosenbloom--

MR. ROSENBLOOM. Yes, yes. [_Impatiently edges toward the door._]

MRS. LEZINSKY. This evening you come for them?

[_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, anyhow--[_Points to the lady's coat on which she has been sewing buttons._] A dollar--maybe--[_Hears some one coming, 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 pictures! 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 much better now when our little Eileen comes.

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-carriage?

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 sister. 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--just 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 bargain 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-carriage--

LEZINSKY. Baby-carriage! Baby-carriage! If I had so much money for baby-carriages I hire me a cutter here. This way I go blind.

MRS. 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--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. Oi! 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 better 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. Rosenbloom 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 dollars swindles him.

MRS. LEZINSKY. All right--then two dollars. Fifty cents is fifty cents anyhow. [_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 trousers_]. How much for these, Solly?

LEZINSKY. One dollar.

MRS. LEZINSKY [_derisively_]. One dollar you say! And for the lady's coat?

LEZINSKY. A couple of dollars, anyway.

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 children 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 begging yet.

LEZINSKY. To-morrow is _Rosch Hoschana_, 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-carriage! You have no pious thoughts.... Go away.... My head swims.

MRS. LEZINSKY. That comes by fasting. Don't you fast enough every day?

LEZINSKY. She comes now to roast goose again.

MRS. LEZINSKY. What should I care for roast goose? _Rosch Hoschana_ comes next year again. But the baby-carriage--it never comes again.

LEZINSKY. Baby-carriage! Baby-carriage! 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 ain't 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. LEZINSKY. 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-carriage.

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 carriage, 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! Operation! 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 morning 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_]. Operations 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.

LEZINSKY. 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--anything you like, Solly, for that baby-carriage.... 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 another such carriage.

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. Rosenbloom'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?

MR. 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 missing here.

MRS. LEZINSKY [_pretending great astonishment_]. 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 moment when Mr. Rosenbloom is recounting his money, she thrusts it quickly into her husband's hand._]

LEZINSKY [_he crosses to Mr. Rosenbloom 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. Rosenbloom._]

MR. ROSENBLOOM [_hesitates_]. You shouldn't be out that $5, Mr. Lezinsky. Anyhow--pay me the difference when you charge for the suit.

LEZINSKY. No, Mr. Rosenbloom--if you take the money now, please.... I couldn't rest--otherwise. In all my life--this--never--happened--before.

MR. ROSENBLOOM [_takes the money_]. Well, if you want it that way, Mr. Lezinsky.... You have the suit ready this evening anyhow?

LEZINSKY. You get the suit this evening, Mr. Rosenbloom. I stop everything else.... And I don't charge you anything for this work, Mr. Rosenbloom.

MR. ROSENBLOOM. Of course, you charge. "Don't charge"! What kind of business is that?

LEZINSKY. I make you a present, Mr. Rosenbloom--for your trouble.

MR. ROSENBLOOM. I pay you for these alterations, all right. [_He goes out._]

LEZINSKY [_searches his wife's face, with ominous calm_]. Gietel! Gietel!

MRS. LEZINSKY. You make presents, eh, Solly? Are you a rabbi or a poor blind tailor--yes?

LEZINSKY [_bursts out_]. She makes a mock at me--this shameless one!

MRS. LEZINSKY. No, no, Solly--

LEZINSKY [_scathingly_]. Gietel!... [_His eyes never leave her face._]

MRS. LEZINSKY [_in a hushed voice_]. Why do you look at me like that, Solly?

LEZINSKY. Blind as I am, I see too much, Gietel.

MRS. LEZINSKY. Listen, Solly--I tell you now--

LEZINSKY [_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. LEZINSKY. No, no, Solly, you shouldn't say such things before you know--

LEZINSKY. Silence, woman! How should I not know? It is here in my hand--the five-dollar bill--here in 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. LEZINSKY. Solly--Solly--I tell you--the baby-carriage--

LEZINSKY. Out of my sight, woman; I forbid you to come into this shop again.

MRS. LEZINSKY. O, Solly _leben_, that couldn't be--

LEZINSKY. The mother of my children--she sins--for a baby-carriage.

MRS. LEZINSKY. 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 afternoon--to buy the baby-carriage--and when the customers pay us--put the money back before he misses it.

LEZINSKY. 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. LEZINSKY. 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 sobbing._] and so--I thought I lose the baby-carriage.

LEZINSKY. Gietel--Gietel--you are a----. I can't speak the word, Gietel--It sticks in my throat.

MRS. LEZINSKY. 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.... [_Pleadingly._] 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 comes back in. I change my mind, but the door opens and it is too late already. Solly leben, did I keep it back--the five dollars? I ask you, Solly? Didn't I give it all into your hand? I ask you that, Solly?

LEZINSKY. Woe is me!--The mother of my children--and she takes what is not her own!

MRS. LEZINSKY. So much money and 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 dollars 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 children to be pious.

[_There is the sound of trundling wheels. Mrs. Lezinsky looks out. The carriage is gone from the window._]

MRS. LEZINSKY [_as the door opens and Mrs. Rooney appears wheeling the carriage 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-carriage, 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 husband's face in mute appeal_]. O, Mrs. Rooney--so little business and so much expense--and my Solly has an operation 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-carriage," says I, "it clean slipped me mind that I promised the same to Mrs. Lezinsky. 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 pleading undertone to her husband._] Only five dollars, Solly!... [_Sinking her voice still lower._] Anyhow--I don't deserve no baby-carriage--maybe--[_Lezinsky makes no sign._]

MRS. LEZINSKY. If we could possibly pay for that baby-carriage we keep it, Mrs. Rooney--[_Turns back to her husband, 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 it couldn't be done, Mrs. Rooney--[_Bravely._] Solly should have every dollar 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 wonderful? 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.

MRS. 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 up 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-carriage.

MRS. 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 softens; he lays his hand on her shoulder as the three little boys, David, Julius and Benny pass by the window. As they come into the shop_

_the Curtain Falls._]

THE PIERROT OF THE MINUTE

A DRAMATIC FANTASY

BY ERNEST DOWSON

CHARACTERS

A MOON MAIDEN. PIERROT.

THE PIERROT OF THE MINUTE

A DRAMATIC FANTASY BY ERNEST DOWSON

[SCENE: _A glade in the Parc 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'erhead, And moss and violet make the softest bed; Where the path ends, and leagues behind 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 lays 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 surprise; then he returns to the foreground, and crouches down in rapt attention until the music ceases. His face grows puzzled and petulant._]

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 repeats._]

Why came I here, and why am I Pierrot? That music and this silence both affright; 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. 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 together 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 I 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 unlooked for weal. Tired am I, tired, and far from this lone glade Seems mine old joy in rout and masquerade. 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 descends 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 verdant glade; Seek his companions in the blither way, Which, else, must be as lost as yesterday. So might he still pass some unheeding hours In the sweet company of birds and flowers. 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-- What 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 down 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. Goddess or Naiad! lady of this 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 train, 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 Eglantine! 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 delight: Love is his lady for a summer's night.

[_Pierrot reclines, and gazes at her while she dances. The dance finished, she beckons to him: he rises dreamily, and stands at her side._]

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, That 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 awakening.

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 homeless star-- Such must attend thy journeys through the skies,-- Drawn by a team of milk-white butterflies, Whom, with soft voice and music of thy maids, Thou urgest gently through the heavenly 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 running fire; 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 alphabet.

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 upon his elbow at her feet, regarding her._]

Sweet contemplation! how my senses yearn to be thy scholar always, always 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!

PIERROT [_with passion_].

I am but studious, so do not stir; Thou art my 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 submit 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 attitude 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 valleys 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, 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 holiday, 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 employ?

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 escapes; 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?

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 With 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 precious 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 clustered stars To gaze on mortals through their lattice 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.

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 helps 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 armament!

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 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 LADY.

Hush! I beseech thee, even now night dies.

PIERROT.

Night, day, are one to me for thy soft sake.

[_He entreats her with imploring gestures, 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 daylight: and the music imitates the twitter of the birds. They stand gazing at the morning: then Pierrot 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 delight, 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 compassionate, 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 MOON MAIDEN'S SONG

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 curtain falls upon Pierrot sleeping._]

_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!"_

_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_ Pierrot _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, because 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 BY MRS. HAVELOCK ELLIS

[SCENE: _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 burning. At back R. is a door opening into an inner room. At back L. small cupboards. At side L. is a large kitchen-table laid for tea under a window facing sea. The floor is red brick. On mantelpiece, white china dogs, clock, copper candlesticks, tea-caddy, stirrups, and bits. On walls, family framed photographs, religious framed pictures. Below 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 settle with good upright sides. Joe Pengilly is wiping his face and hands, having 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 laborer--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._]

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 fingers._]

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 tablecloth 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 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 because you are the only woman I've ever met in my life I could never weary of, not even if you tormented me 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._]

KEZIA. 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 slowly 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 towards 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' questions 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 suddenly 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 another 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 contemplates 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 advantage of honeymoon ways, and stamps on we if we don't take 'em in hand at once.

[_Joe sighs, crosses his legs 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 female, 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.

MATTHEW. 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 thoughtful. 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 tantrums. 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 understandin' women; and then, when you think you've learnt 'em off by heart, any man 'ud fail under a first standard examination 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 waistcoat 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 worritin' 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 trouser 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 winks at Joe and lights his pipe again._]

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 mischief. 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 tongueing, too, from she, but it had a sort of nestle sound in it as if she were a-cuddlin' 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 thoughtfully; 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.

[_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 marriage 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 before 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 inspiration._]

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 nothin'.

[_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 meditates with a grave face. He suddenly snaps the fingers of his right hand as he says quickly._]

JOE. I'll do it. It'll nearly be the finish 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. [_Solemnly._] 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 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 wearily 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 'll stop all gossip. I shan't be far off till I reckon it's all over.

[_Joe's teeth are set 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 audience; shakes it about her shoulders, 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. She sits down by him. Kezia's face is very sweet and smiling as she tosses the plait over her shoulder._]

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.

[_She 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 gently on the eyes, brow, and then month, 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 furtive attempts to hide the cane behind the settle, and moves a little as he continues to smile at Kezia._]

KEZIA. 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 long 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 somethin' 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 throws 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 tremenjous 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 tablecloth 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. Vedrenne and Eadie, with the following cast:

EVELYN 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 BY ST. JOHN HANKIN

[_Before the curtain rises the orchestra will play the Woodland Music (cuckoo) from "Hansel and Gretel" and possibly some of the Grieg Pastoral Music from "Peer Gynt," or some Gabriel Faure._

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 Harburton 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 flannel suits. The chattering of innumerable small birds is heard while the curtain 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! [_Listens for a moment, then returns to his book._]

[_Suddenly a cuckoo begins to call insistently. After a moment or two he looks up again._]

Cuckoo too! Bravo! [_Again he returns to his book._]

[_A moment later enter Evelyn Rivers. She also wears the lightest 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._]

[_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 expected 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 consider 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 I who ought to have thought of the roses! I always do them. But this morning I forgot.

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 standing, is there? I hate standing. So let's sit down and be comfortable.

[_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 been 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 people 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 unpleasant?

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 afterwards.

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 hadn't spoken to you a week ago here in the wood I should have regretted it all my life.

EVELYN. Would you?

[_He nods._]

Really and truly?

CECIL [_nods_]. Really and truly.

[_He lays his hand on hers for a moment, 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 purpose. 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 anything 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.

EVELYN. Well, I think ducks are horrid, 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 extraordinary 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 abominably over-crowded and the babies are perpetually squalling, and that drives the husband to the public house, and it's all as uncomfortable as the Devil--

EVELYN. Mr. Harburton!

CECIL. Well, _I_ 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.

EVELYN [_tries and fails_]. I can't. My hat gets in the way.

CECIL. Take it off then.

EVELYN. I think I will. [_Does so._] That's better. [_Leans back 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!

EVELYN. 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--

EVELYN [_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.

EVELYN. 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!

EVELYN [_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 effort_]. 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 quarreled. Shall I dry them for you? [_Takes her handkerchief and does so tenderly._]

EVELYN [_with a gulp_]. Thank you. [_Takes away handkerchief._] How absurd you are! [_Puts it away._]

CECIL. Thank _you_!

[_Evelyn moves down, sitting at bottom of bank, a little below him._]

EVELYN. Did you often quarrel with your sister?

CECIL. Perpetually. _And_ my brothers. 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 Townsend. 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.

EVELYN [_shocked_]. Oh no! We _never_ quarreled. At least, Reggie never did. _I_ did sometimes.

CECIL. How dull! There's no good in quarreling if people won't quarrel back.

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 likely, 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 [_genuinely 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. No! 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 distance._]

EVELYN. Really? [_Cecil nods. Evelyn 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?

EVELYN [_shyly_]. If you like.

CECIL. You darling! [_Takes her in his arms and kisses her long and tenderly._] Lean your head on my shoulder, you'll find it awfully comfortable. [_He leans back against the tree._] [_She does so._] There! Is that all right?

EVELYN. Quite. [_Sigh of contentment._]

CECIL. How pretty your hair is! I always 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 Evelyn. 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 utter happiness, during which he settles 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 always has been in love with me, for years and years. [_Sighs._] Poor Reggie!

CECIL. On the contrary. Happy Reggie!

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 noticed them the moment we met here in the wood. That was why I spoke to you.

EVELYN [_demurely_]. I 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 just 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