Chapter 2 of 3 · 60971 words · ~305 min read

part I

always hate.

EVELYN. _Always?_ [_Starts forward and looks at him, puzzled._]

CECIL [_quite unconscious_]. Yes. The going to the parents and all that. Parents really are the most preposterous people. They've no feeling for _romance_ whatever. You meet a girl in a wood. It's May. The sun's shining. There's not a cloud in the sky. She's adorably pretty. You fall in love. Everything heavenly! Then--why, I can't imagine--she wants you to tell her mother. Well, you do tell her mother. And her mother at once begins to ask you what your profession is, and how much money you earn, and how much money you have that you don't earn--and that spoils it all.

EVELYN [_bewildered_]. But I don't understand. You talk as if you had actually done all this before.

CECIL. So I have. Lots of times.

EVELYN. Oh! [_Jumps up from the ground and faces him, her eyes flashing with rage._]

CECIL. I say, don't get up. It's not time to go yet. It's only four. Sit down again.

EVELYN [_struggling for words_]. Do you mean to say you've been in love with girls before? _Other_ girls?

CECIL [_apparently genuinely astonished at the question_]. Of course I have.

EVELYN. And been engaged to them?

CECIL. Not engaged. I've never been engaged so far. But I've been in love over and over again.

[_Evelyn stamps her foot with rage--turning away from him._]

My dear girl, what _is_ the matter? You look quite cross. [_Rises._]

EVELYN [_furious_]. And you're not even _ashamed_ of it?

CECIL [_roused to sit up by this question_]. Ashamed of it? Ashamed of being in love? How can you say such a thing! Of course I'm not ashamed. What's the good of being alive at all if one isn't to be in love? I'm perpetually in love. In fact, I'm hardly ever out of love--with somebody.

EVELYN [_still furious_]. Then if you're in love, why don't you get engaged? A man has no business to make love to a girl and not be engaged to her. It's not right.

CECIL [_reasoning with her_]. That's the parents' fault. I told you parents were preposterous people. They won't allow me to get engaged.

EVELYN. Why not?

CECIL. Oh, for different reasons. They say I'm not _serious_ enough. Or that I don't work enough. Or that I haven't got enough money. Or else they simply say they "don't think I'm fitted to make their daughter happy." Anyhow, they won't sanction an engagement. They all agree about _that_. Your mother would be just the same.

[_Impatient exclamation from Evelyn._]

I don't blame her. I don't say she's not right. I don't say they haven't all been right. In fact, I believe they _have_ been right. I'm only explaining how it is.

EVELYN [_savagely_]. I see how it is. You don't really want to be married.

CECIL. Of course I don't _want_ to be married. Nobody does unless he's perfectly idiotic. One wants to be in love. Being in love's splendid. And I dare say being engaged isn't bad--though I've had no experience of that so far. But being married must be simply hateful.

EVELYN [_boiling with rage_]. Nonsense! How can it be hateful to be married if it's splendid to be in love?

[_The cuckoo is heard._]

CECIL. Have you forgotten the cuckoo?

EVELYN. Oh!!!

CECIL. No ties, no responsibilities, no ghastly little villa with children bellowing in the nursery. Just life in the open hedgerow. Life and love. Happy cuckoo!

EVELYN [_furious_]. I think cuckoos detestable. They're mean, horrid, _disgusting_ birds.

CECIL. No. No. I can't have you abusing cuckoos. They're particular friends of mine. In fact, I'm a sort of cuckoo myself.

EVELYN [_turning on him_]. Oh, I hate you! I hate you! [_Stamps her foot._]

CECIL [_with quiet conviction_]. You don't.

EVELYN. I do!

CECIL [_shaking his head_]. You don't. [_Quite gravely._] One never really hates the people one has once loved.

[_He looks into her eyes. For a moment or two she returns his gaze fiercely. Then her eyes fall and they fill with tears._]

EVELYN [_half crying_]. How horrid you are to say that!

CECIL. Why?

EVELYN. Because it's true, I suppose. Ah, I'm so unhappy! [_Begins to cry._]

CECIL [_genuinely distressed_]. Eve! You're crying. You mustn't do that. I can't bear seeing people cry. [_Lays hand on her shoulder._]

EVELYN [_shaking it off_]. Don't. I can't bear you to touch me. After falling in love with one girl after another like that. When I thought you were only in love with me.

CECIL. So I am only in love with you--now.

EVELYN [_tearfully_]. But I thought you'd never been in love with any one else. And I let you call me Eve because you said she was the first woman man ever loved.

CECIL. But I never said she was the only one, did I? [_Argumentatively._] And one can't help being in love with people when one _is_ in love, can one? I couldn't _help_ falling in love with you, for instance, the moment I saw you. You looked simply splendid. It was such a splendid day too. _Of course_ I fell in love with you.

EVELYN [_slightly appeased by his compliment, drying her eyes_]. But you seem to fall in love with such a lot of people.

CECIL. I do. [_Mischievously._] But ought _you_ to throw stones at me? After all, being in love with more than one person is no worse than having more than one person in love with you. How about Reggie?

EVELYN. Reggie? [_The sparrows' chatter starts again._]

CECIL [_nods_]. Reggie's in love with you, isn't he? So am I. And both at once too! I'm only in love with one person at a time.

EVELYN [_rebelliously_]. I can't help Reggie being in love with me.

CECIL. And I can't help _my_ being in love with you. That's just my point. I knew you'd see it.

EVELYN. I don't see it at all. Reggie is quite different from you. Reggie's love is true and constant....

CECIL. Well, I'm a _constant_ lover if you come to that.

EVELYN. You aren't. You know you aren't.

CECIL. Yes, I am. A constant lover is a lover who is constantly in love.

EVELYN. Only with the same person.

CECIL. It doesn't say so. It only says constant.

EVELYN [_half-laughing_]. How ridiculous you are! [_Turns away._]

CECIL [_sigh of relief_]. That's right. Now you're good-tempered again.

EVELYN. I'm not.

CECIL. What a story!

EVELYN. I'm not. I'm very, _very_ angry.

CECIL. That's impossible. You can't possibly be angry and laugh at the same time, can you? No one can. And you _did_ laugh. You're doing it now.

[_She does so unwillingly._]

So don't let's quarrel any more. It's absurd to quarrel on such a fine day, isn't it? Let's make it up, and be lovers again.

[_The sparrows die away._]

EVELYN [_shaking her head_]. No.

CECIL. Please!

EVELYN [_shaking her head_]. No.

CECIL. Well, you're very foolish. Love isn't a thing to throw away. It's too precious for that. Love is the most beautiful thing in the whole world. You said so yourself not ten minutes ago.

EVELYN. I didn't. You said it. [_Looking down._]

CECIL. But you said it after me. [_Gently and gravely._] Eve, dear, don't be silly. Let's be in love while we can. Youth is the time to be in love, isn't it? Soon you and I will be dull and stupid and middle-aged like all the other tedious people. And then it will be too late. Youth passes so quickly. Don't let's waste a second of it. They say the May-fly only lives for one day. He is born in the morning. All the afternoon he flutters over the river in the sunshine, dodging the trout and flirting with other May-flies. And at evening he dies. Think of the poor May-fly who happens to be born on a wet day! The tragedy of it!

EVELYN [_softly_]. Poor May-fly.

CECIL. There! You're sorry for the May-fly, you see. You're only angry with me.

EVELYN. Because you're not a May-fly.

CECIL. Yes, I am. A sort of May-fly.

EVELYN [_with suspicion of tears in her voice_]. You aren't. How can you be? Besides, you said you were a cuckoo just now.

CECIL. I suppose I'm a cuckoo-May-fly. For I _hate_ wet days. And if you're going to cry again, it might just as well be wet, mightn't it? So do dry your eyes like a good girl. Let me do it for you. [_Does it with her handkerchief._]

[_She laughs ruefully._]

There, that's better. And now we're going to be good children again, aren't we?

CECIL [_holding out hand_]. And you'll kiss and be friends?

EVELYN. I'll be friends, of course. [_Sadly._] But you must never kiss me again.

CECIL. What a shame! Why not?

EVELYN. Because you mustn't.

CECIL [_cheerfully_]. Well, you'll sit down again anyhow, won't you? just to show we've made it up. [_Moves towards tree._]

EVELYN [_shakes head_]. No.

CECIL [_disappointed; turns_]. A.... Then you haven't really made it up.

EVELYN. Yes, I have. [_Picks up her hat._] But I must go now. Reggie's coming down by the five o'clock train, and I want to be at the station to meet him. [_Holds out hand._] Good-by, Mr. Harburton.

CECIL [_taking hand_]. Eve! You're going to accept Reggie! [_Pause._]

EVELYN [_half to herself_]. I wonder.

CECIL. And he'll have to tell your mother?

EVELYN. Of course.

CECIL [_drops her hand_]. Poor Reggie! So _his_ romance ends too!

EVELYN. It won't! If I marry Reggie I shall make him very happy.

CECIL. Very likely. Marriage may be happiness, but I'm hanged if it's romance!

EVELYN. Oh! [_Exclamation of impatience._]

[_She turns away and exits R._]

[_Cecil watches her departure with a smile half-amused, half-pained, till she is long out of sight. Then with half a sigh turns back to his tree._]

CECIL [_re-seating himself_]. Poor Reggie! [_Re-opens his book and settles himself to read again._]

[_A cuckoo hoots loudly from a distant thicket and is answered by another. Cecil looks up from his book to listen as the curtain falls._]

[_Curtain._]

THE JUDGMENT OF INDRA

A PLAY BY DHAN GOPAL MUKERJI

The professional and amateur stage rights of this play are strictly reserved by the author, to whose dramatic representative, Frank Shay, in care Stewart & Kidd Co., Cincinnati, Ohio, applications for permission to produce it should be made.

THE JUDGMENT OF INDRA

A PLAY BY DHAN GOPAL MUKERJI

[TIME: _The Fifteenth Century._]

[PLACE: _A Monastery on one of the foothills of Himalaya._]

[SCENE: _In the foreground is the outer court of a Monastery. In the center of the court is a sacred plant, growing out of a small altar of earth about two feet square. On the left of the court is a sheer precipice, adown which a flight of stone steps--only a few of which are visible--connects the Monastery with the village in the valley below._

_To the right are the temple and the adobe walls and the roof of the monastery cells. There is a little space between the temple and the adobe walls, which is the passage leading to the inner recesses of the monastery. Several steps lead to the doors of the temple, which give on the court. In the distance, rear, are the snowy peaks of the Himalayas, glowing under the emerald sky of an Indian afternoon. To the left, the distances stretch into vast spaces of wooded hills. Long bars of light glimmer and die as the vast clouds, with edges of crimson, golden and silver, spread portentously over the hills and forest._

_A roll of thunder in the distance, accompanies the rise of the curtain._]

SHANTA. [_He is reading a palm-leaf manuscript near the Sacred Plant. He looks up at the sky._] It forbodes a calamity.

[_Suddenly the Temple doors open. Shukra stands framed in the doorway. Seeing that Shanta is alone, Shukra walks down the steps toward him._]

SHUKRA. Are you able to make out the words?

SHANTA. Aye, Master.

SHUKRA. Where is Kanada?

SHANTA. He will be here presently. Listen, master: it sayeth: "Only a hair's breadth divides the true from the false. Upon him who by thought, word or deed confuses the two, will descend the Judgment of Indra."

SHUKRA. The thunder of Indra is just. It will strike the erring and the unrighteous no matter where they hide themselves; in the heart of the forest or in the silence of the cloisters, Indra's Judgment will descend on them. Even the erring heart that knows not that it is erring will be smitten and chastised by Indra. [_Thunder rumbles in the distance._]

SHANTA. Master, when you speak, you not only fill the heart with ecstasy, but also the soul with the beauty of truth.

SHUKRA. To praise is good. But why praise me, who have yet to find God and,--[_Shakes his head sadly._]

SHANTA. You will find Him soon; your time is nigh.

SHUKRA. I wish it were true.

SHANTA. Master, if there be anything that I can do for you. If I could only lighten your burden a little,--

SHUKRA. Thou hast done that already. All the cares of the monastery thou hast taken from me. Thou hast bound me to thee by bonds of gratitude that can never break. [_Enter Kanada._] Ah, Kanada, how be it with you to-day? [_Coming to him._]

KANADA. [_He is a lad of twenty and two._] By your blessing I am well and at peace. Have you finished your meditation?

SHUKRA. [_Sadly._] Nine hours have I meditated, but--I shall say the prayers now. [_Enters the temple and shuts the door._]

KANADA. He seems not to be himself.

SHANTA. When he is in meditation for a long time, he becomes another being.

KANADA. There is sadness in his eyes.

SHANTA. How can he be sad,--he who has risen above joy and sorrow, pleasure and pain, hate and love?

KANADA. Above love, too?

SHANTA. Yea, hate and love being opposite, are Maya, illusion!

KANADA. Yet we must love the world.

SHANTA. Yea, that we do to help the world.

KANADA. The Master is tender to the villagers even if they lead the worldly life.

SHANTA. We be monks. We have broken all the ties of the world, even those of family, so that we can bestow our thoughts, care and love upon all the children of God. Our love is impartial. [_The thunder growls in the distance._]

KANADA. Yea, that is the truth. Yet I think the Master loves thee more than any other.

SHANTA. Nay, brother. He loves no one more than another. I have been with him ten years; that makes him depend on me. But if the truth were known,--he loves none. For he loves all. Indra, be my witness: the Master loveth no one more than another.

KANADA. Ah, noble-souled Master! Yet I feel happy to think that he loveth thee more than any.

SHANTA. He loves each living creature. He is not as the worldly ones who love by comparison--this one more, the other less. Last night, as the rain wailed without like a heart-broken woman, how his voice rose in song of light and love! He is one of God's prophets, and a true singer of His praise.

KANADA. I can hear him yet.

SHANTA. I will never forget the ineffable joy that glowed in his words. Only he who has renounced all ties, can speak with such deep and undying love. No anxiety--

KANADA. It was that of which I would speak to thee. Dost thou not see sadness and anxiety in the Master's face?

SHANTA. He is deep in thought--naught else.

KANADA. Ever since that message was brought him the other day, he has seemed heavy hearted. It was melancholy tidings.

SHANTA. Nay, that message had naught to do with him. [_Thunder growls. The Temple doors open. Shukra comes out of the Temple and shuts the doors behind him. Then he stands still in front of the Temple._]

SHUKRA. [_Calling._] Kanada.

KANADA. Yea, Master. [_He goes up to Shukra, who gives him some directions. Kanada exits; Shukra stands looking at the sky._]

SHANTA. How wonderful a vision he is! As he stands at the threshold of the temple he seems like a new God, another divinity come down to earth to lead the righteous on to the realms celestial. Ah, Master, how grateful am I to have thee as my teacher! I thank Brahma for giving thee to me.

[_Enter Kanada. Shukra then walks to Shanta, with Kanada following him._]

KANADA. Master, all is ready.

SHUKRA. Go ye to the village; ask them if all be well with them. When the heavens are unkind--ah, if it rains another day all the crops will be destroyed. What will they live on? No, no, it cannot be. Go ye both down to them and take them my blessings: Tell them we will make another offering to Indra to-night. It must not rain any more.

SHANTA. Bring out begging bowls, Kanada.

KANADA. Shall I bring the torches, too? [_Crossing._]

SHUKRA. The clouds may hide the moon; yea, the torches, too. [_Kanada exits R._]

SHUKRA. Yea. [_Thunder growls above head._] The storm grows apace. I hope thou wilt find shelter ere it breaks. [_A short silence._] The world is growing darker and darker each day. Sin and Vice are gathering around it like a vast coiling Serpent. We monks be the only ones that can save it and set it free. Shanta, be steadfast; strengthen me. Help me to bring the light to the world. Thou art not only my disciple, but my friend and brother. [_He embraces Shanta._] Save me from the world.

KANADA. [_Entering._] Here be--[_Stops in surprise._]

SHUKRA. [_Releasing Shanta._] Come to me, Kanada. [_The latter does so, Shukra putting an arm around Kanada's neck._] Little Brother--

KANADA. [_Radiantly._] Master--

SHUKRA. Be brave and free--free from the delusions of this world, Sansara. Go yet to the village; take them our blessings! Hari be with them all! May ye return hither safely. [_Thunder and lightning._] Ah, Lord Indra!--Look, it is raining yonder. Go, hasten--

SHANTA. [_Taking a begging bowl and torch from Kanada._] Come!

SHUKRA. [_Putting his hands on their heads._] I bless ye both. May Indra protect ye--[_the rest of his words are drowned by the lightning flash and peal of thunder_].

[_The two disciples intone_: "OM Shanti OM." _They go down the steps._]

SHUKRA. May this storm pass. OM Shiva. Shiva love you, my Shanta. For ten long years he has been with me; he has greatly helped me in my search after Him who is the only living Reality. To-day I am nearer God--I stand at the threshold of realization. I seem to feel that it will not be long before the Veil will be lifted and I shall press my heart against the heart of the ultimate mystery--Who comes there? [_Listens attentively_]. They cannot have gone and come back so soon. Ha! another illusion! These days I am beset by endless illusions. Perhaps that betokens the end of my search, as the gloom is always thickest ere the dawn. Yea, after this will come the Light; I will see God! [_Hears a noise; listens attentively._] Are they already returning? [_Calling._] Shanta! [_He crosses and looks down. Thunder rolls very loudly now. He does not heed that. Suddenly he recoils in agitation. Footsteps are heard from below, rising higher and higher. Shukra rubs his eyes to make sure that he has really seen something that is not an illusion. He goes forward a few steps. The head of an old man rises into view, Shukra is stupefied; walks backwards until his back touches the Sacred plant. He stands still. The old man at last climbs the last step. He has not noticed Shukra. He looks at the Himalayas in the rear. Then his eyes travel over the monastery walls--Now suddenly they catch sight of Shukra._]

SHUKRA. What seek ye here?

OLD MAN [_eyeing him carefully_]. Ah, Shukra! dost thou not recognize thine aged father? [_He goes to Shukra with outstretched arms._]

SHUKRA. I have no father.

OLD MAN. But I am thy father. Did not my messenger come the other day? [_Silence._] Did he lie to me? Dost thou not know thy mother is--

SHUKRA. Thy messenger came.

OLD MAN. Then come thou home at once. There is not time to be lost. Come, my son, ere thy mother leaves this earth.

SHUKRA. I cannot go.

OLD MAN. Thou canst not go? Dost thou not know that thy mother is on her death-bed?

SHUKRA. I have renounced the world. For twelve years I have had no father, nor mother.

OLD MAN. Thou didst leave us, but we did not renounce thee. And now thou shouldst come.

SHUKRA. I told thy messenger that I have no father nor mother,--I cannot come.

OLD MAN. I heard it all. If you art born of us, thou canst not have a heart of stone? Come, my son: I, thy father, implore thee.

SHUKRA. Nay, nay; God alone is my father.

OLD MAN. Hath it not been said in the scriptures that thy parents are thy God? Thy father should be obeyed.

SHUKRA. That was said by one who had not seen the Truth, the Light.

OLD MAN. I command thee in the name of the Scriptures.

SHUKRA. God alone can command me.

OLD MAN. Vishnu protect me! Art thou dreaming, my child? Yonder lies thy mother, fighting death,--

SHUKRA. I have heard it all.

OLD MAN. And yet thou wilt not go?

SHUKRA. Nay, father, I cannot go. The day I took the vow of a monk, that day I cut the bond that binds me to you all. I must be free of all ties. I must love none for myself that I may love all for God. Here I must remain where God has placed me, until He calls me elsewhere.

OLD MAN. But thy mother lies, fighting with each breath. She wishes to see thee.

SHUKRA. I cannot come.

OLD MAN. But thou must.

SHUKRA. I would if I could; but my life is in the hands of God.

OLD MAN [_mocking_]. God! Thy life belongs to God? Who gave thee life? Not God, but she who lies there dying; what ingratitude! This, indeed, is the age of darkness; sons are turning against their fathers,--and killing their own mother.

SHUKRA [_quietly_]. I may not love one more than another; my steps, as my heart, go whither God guides them.

OLD MAN [_mocking_]. Truth is thy witness?

SHUKRA. May Indra himself punish me if I love one more than another. Hear me, Indra. [_The roll of thunder above._]

OLD MAN [_in desperation_]. Come, my son, in the name of thine own God I pray to thee, come to thy mother. I kneel at thy feet and beg for this boon. [_He does so._]

SHUKRA [_raising him to his feet. He puts his own head down on the old man's feet._]

OLD MAN. Then thou comest? [_Shukra rises to his feet._]

SHUKRA [_hesitating_]. There is a law in the Sacred books that says an ascetic should see the place of his birth every twelfth year.

OLD MAN. And it is twelve years now since thou didst renounce us! Ah! blessed be the law.

SHUKRA. Yet, father, if I go, I go not in obedience to the law, but since the desire to see my mother is uppermost in me, I who dreamt not of the law hitherto--yea, now I hasten to abide by the law. Ah, what mockery! It is not the letter of the law, but the spirit in us that judges us sinners or saints. Now if I go with thee to obey the law, that would be betraying the law.

OLD MAN. Betraying the law!

SHUKRA. Thought alone is the measure of our innocence. He who thinks evil is a doer of evil indeed. Nay, nay, tempt me not with the law. I must remain here. I must keep my vow. [_He looks up to heaven; it is covered with enormous black clouds._]

OLD MAN. The law is not written in the heavens. It is inscribed in the heart of man. Obey the dictates of thy heart.

SHUKRA. God alone shall be obeyed. I cannot betray His command. I, who am an ascetic, must not yield to the desire to see my mother--Nay! God--

OLD MAN. What manner of God is He that deprives a dying mother of her son? Such a God never was known in Hindu life. No such God lives, nor breathes. [_Thunder and lightning._]

SHUKRA. Erring Soul, do not blaspheme your creator. He is the God of Truth--God of Love.

OLD MAN [_disdainfully_]. God of Love,-- How can He be God of Love if He dries up the stream of thy heart and blinds thy reason as the clouds blind the eyes of the Sun? Nay, thou liest. It is not the God of Love, but the God of thine insane self--self-love that makes thee rob thy mother of her only joy in life. I--yea, I will answer to God for thee. If, by coming to see thy mother, thou sinnest, I ask God to make me pay for thy sin. Come, obey thy father,--I will take the burden of thy sin, if sin it be.

SHUKRA. Nay, each man pays for his sins as each man reaps the harvest of his own good deeds. None can atone for another. Ah, God! cursed be the hour when I was born. Cursed,--

OLD MAN [_angrily_]. Thou cursest thy birth?

SHUKRA. Yea, to be born in this world of woe is a curse indeed.

OLD MAN. Then curse thy tormented mind and thy desolate heart; curse not,--

SHUKRA. Nay, I curse the hour that saw me come to this earth of delusion and Maya. I do curse,--

OLD MAN. Thou dost dare curse the hour when thou wert born! Ah, vile sinner! To curse the hour of thy birth when thy mother is dying! God be my witness, he has incurred his father's wrath. Now,--no God can save thee.

SHUKRA. Nay, nay,--

OLD MAN. Shukra. I, thy father, thy God in life, curse thee. Thou hast deprived thy mother of her child, and her death of its solace. Thou hast incurred the wrath of the Spirits of all thy departed ancestors.

SHUKRA [_cries out_]. Not thus; not thus. [_Thunder and lightning, the whole sky is swept by the clouds._]

OLD MAN. Not thus? Thus alone shall it be. Cursed be thou at night; cursed be thou by day; cursed be thou going; cursed be thou coming. Thou art cursed by the spirit of the race, by the spirit of God. [_Continued thunder and lightning._]

SHUKRA [_falling at his father's feet_]. I beseech thee, my father,--

OLD MAN [_shrinking away_]. Touch me not. [_Going left._] Cursed art thou in Life and Death forever.

SHUKRA. God!--Father, go not thus.

OLD MAN. I am not thy father. [_Deafening and blinding thunder and lightning._]

SHUKRA. Father--

OLD MAN [_going down the steps_]. Pollute not my hearing by calling me thy father. May the judgment of Indra be upon thee! [_He totters down out of sight, left, in anger and horror._]

SHUKRA. Father, hear, oh hear! [_The rain comes down in a deluge; thunder and lightning. The rain blots everything out of sight. It pours in deep, dark sheets, through which the chains and sheets of lightning burn and run. After raining awhile, the sky clears. In the pale moonlight, Shukra is seen crouching near the Sacred plant. He is wet and disheveled. He slowly rises, swaying in exhaustion. Voices are heard below._]

SHUKRA. Can it be that it is over? Has Indra judged me and found me free of error? Yea, were I in error, the lightning would have struck me. I lay there blinded by rain awaiting my death. It did not come. Yea, Indra has judged! [_Noises below; he does not hear._] O, thou shadowy world, I am free of thee at last. Free of love and loving, free of all bondage. I have no earthly ties,--I lean on God alone. At last, I am bound to no earthly being, not even--[_strange pause_]--not even,--Shanta. [_He becomes conscious of the noise of approaching footsteps and the light of the torches from below._] Who is that? [_He goes forward a few steps. Enter Kanada, torch in hand._]

KANADA. Master, Master.

SHUKRA. Kanada, thou,--[_a pause, very brief but poignant_]. Why this agitation? Shanta, where is Shanta?

KANADA. Shanta is--

SHUKRA [_seeing the other torches rising suddenly_]. Speak! Who comes hither?

KANADA. They bring a dead man.

SHUKRA. Who is he? [_As a premonition of the truth comes over him._] Where is Shanta?

KANADA [_blurts out_]. At the foot of the hill the lightning struck him.

SHUKRA [_with a terrible cry_]. Shanta,--my Shanta! [_Two men carrying torches with one hand, and dragging something white with the other, come up the steps. This vision silences Shukra. A pause follows. Another torch is seen rising behind them._]

SHUKRA [_slowly_], Shanta,--gone. [_Pause again, looking into the starry heavens._] This is the Judgment of Indra!

[_Curtain._]

THE WORKHOUSE WARD

A PLAY

BY LADY GREGORY

PERSONS

MICHAEL MISKELL } [_Paupers_]. MIKE MCINERNEY } MRS. DONOHOE [_a Countrywoman_].

Reprinted from "Seven Short Plays," by Lady Gregory, published by G. P. Putnam's Sons, by permission of Lady Gregory and Messrs. G. P. Putnam's Sons.

All acting rights, both professional and amateur, are reserved in the United States, Great Britain, and all countries of the Copyright Union, by the author. Performances forbidden and right of presentation reserved.

Application for the right of performing this play or reading it in public should be made to Samuel French, 28 West 38th Street, New York City, or 26 South Hampton Street, Strand, London.

THE WORKHOUSE WARD

A PLAY BY LADY GREGORY

[SCENE: _A ward in Cloon Workhouse. The two old men in their beds_.]

MICHAEL MISKELL. Isn't it a hard case, Mike McInerney, myself and yourself to be left here in the bed, and it the feast day of Saint Colman, and the rest of the ward attending on the Mass.

MIKE MCINERNEY. Is it sitting up by the hearth you are wishful to be, Michael Miskell, with cold in the shoulders and with speckled shins? Let you rise up so, and you well able to do it, not like myself that has pains the same as tin-tacks within in my inside.

MICHAEL MISKELL. If you have pains within in your inside there is no one can see it or know of it the way they can see my own knees that are swelled up with the rheumatism, and my hands that are twisted in ridges the same as an old cabbage stalk. It is easy to be talking about soreness and about pains, and they maybe not to be in it at all.

MIKE MCINERNEY. To open me and to analyze me you would know what sort of a pain and a soreness I have in my heart and in my chest. But I'm not one like yourself to be cursing and praying and tormenting the time the nuns are at hand, thinking to get a bigger share than myself of the nourishment and of the milk.

MICHAEL MISKELL. That's the way you do be picking at me and faulting me. I had a share and a good share in my early time, and it's well you know that, and the both of us reared in Skehanagh.

MIKE MCINERNEY. You may say that, indeed, we are both of us reared in Skehanagh. Little wonder you to have good nourishment the time we were both rising, and you bringing away my rabbits out of the snare.

MICHAEL MISKELL. And you didn't bring away my own eels, I suppose, I was after spearing in the Turlough? Selling them to the nuns in the convent you did, and letting on they to be your own. For you were always a cheater and a schemer, grabbing every earthly thing for your own profit.

MIKE MCINERNEY. And you were no grabber yourself, I suppose, till your land and all you had grabbed wore away from you!

MICHAEL MISKELL. If I lost it itself, it was through the crosses I met with and I going through the world. I never was a rambler and a card-player like yourself, Mike McInerney, that ran through all and lavished it unknown to your mother!

MIKE MCINERNEY. Lavished it, is it? And if I did was it you yourself led me to lavish it or some other one? It is on my own floor I would be to-day and in the face of my family, but for the misfortune I had to be put with a bad next door neighbor that was yourself. What way did my means go from me is it? Spending on fencing, spending on walls, making up gates, putting up doors, that would keep your hens and your ducks from coming in through starvation on my floor, and every four footed beast you had from preying and trespassing on my oats and my mangolds and my little lock of hay!

MICHAEL MISKELL. O to listen to you! And I striving to please you and to be kind to you and to close my ears to the abuse you would be calling and letting out of your mouth. To trespass on your crops is it? It's little temptation there was for my poor beasts to ask to cross the mering. My God Almighty! What had you but a little corner of a field!

MIKE MCINERNEY. And what do you say to my garden that your two pigs had destroyed on me the year of the big tree being knocked, and they making gaps in the wall.

MICHAEL MISKELL. Ah, there does be a great deal of gaps knocked in a twelve-month. Why wouldn't they be knocked by the thunder, the same as the tree, or some storm that came up from the west?

MIKE MCINERNEY. It was the west wind, I suppose, that devoured my green cabbage? And that rooted up my Champion potatoes? And that ate the gooseberries themselves from off the bush?

MICHAEL MISKELL. What are you saying? The two quietest pigs ever I had, no way wicked and well ringed. They were not ten minutes in it. It would be hard for them to eat strawberries in that time, let alone gooseberries that's full of thorns.

MIKE MCINERNEY. They were not quiet, but very ravenous pigs you had that time, as active as a fox they were, killing my young ducks. Once they had blood tasted you couldn't stop them.

MICHAEL MISKELL. And what happened myself the fair day of Esserkelly, the time I was passing your door? Two brazened dogs that rushed out and took a piece of me. I never was the better of it or of the start I got, but wasting from then till now!

MIKE MCINERNEY. Thinking you were a wild beast they did, that had made his escape out of the traveling show, with the red eyes of you and the ugly face of you, and the two crooked legs of you that wouldn't hardly stop a pig in a gap. Sure any dog that had any life in it at all would be roused and stirred seeing the like of you going the road!

MICHAEL MISKELL. I did well taking out a summons against you that time. It is a great wonder you not to have been bound over through your lifetime, but the laws of England is queer.

MIKE MCINERNEY. What ailed me that I did not summons yourself after you stealing away the clutch of eggs I had in the barrel, and I away in Ardrahan searching out a clocking hen.

MICHAEL MISKELL. To steal your eggs is it? Is that what you are saying now? [_Holds up his hands._] The Lord is in heaven, and Peter and the saints, and yourself that was in Ardrahan that day put a hand on them as soon as myself! Isn't it a bad story for me to be wearing out my days beside you the same as a spancelled goat. Chained I am and tethered I am to a man that is ram-shacking his mind for lies!

MIKE MCINERNEY. If it is a bad story for you, Michael Miskell, it is a worse story again for myself. A Miskell to be next and near me through the whole of the four quarters of the year. I never heard there to be any great name on the Miskells as there was on my own race and name.

MICHAEL MISKELL. You didn't, is it? Well, you could hear it if you had but ears to hear it. Go across to Lisheen Crannagh and down to the sea and to Newtown Lynch and the mills of Duras and you'll find a Miskell, and as far as Dublin!

MIKE MCINERNEY. What signifies Crannagh and the mills of Duras? Look at all my own generations that are buried at the Seven Churches. And how many generations of the Miskells are buried in it? Answer me that!

MICHAEL MISKELL. I tell you but for the wheat that was to be sowed there would be more side cars and more common cars at my father's funeral (God rest his soul!) than at any funeral ever left your own door. And as to my mother, she was a Cuffe from Claregalway, and it's she had the purer blood!

MIKE MCINERNEY. And what do you say to the banshee? Isn't she apt to have knowledge of the ancient race? Was ever she heard to screech or to cry for the Miskells? Or for the Cuffes from Claregalway? She was not, but for the six families, the Hyneses, the Foxes, the Faheys, the Dooleys, the McInerneys. It is of the nature of the McInerneys she is I am thinking, crying them the same as a king's children.

MICHAEL MISKELL. It is a pity the banshee not to be crying for yourself at this minute, and giving you a warning to quit your lies and your chat and your arguing and your contrary ways; for there is no one under the rising sun could stand you. I tell you you are not behaving as in the presence of the Lord.

MIKE MCINERNEY. Is it wishful for my death you are? Let it come and meet me now and welcome so long as it will part me from yourself! And I say, and I would kiss the book on it, I to have one request only to be granted, and I leaving it in my will, it is what I would request, nine furrows of the field, nine ridges of the hills, nine waves of the ocean to be put between your grave and my own grave the time we will be laid in the ground!

MICHAEL MISKELL. Amen to that! Nine ridges, is it? No, but let the whole ridge of the world separate us till the Day of Judgment! I would not be laid anear you at the Seven Churches, I to get Ireland without a divide!

MIKE MCINERNEY. And after that again! I'd sooner than ten pound in my hand, I to know that my shadow and my ghost will not be knocking about with your shadow and your ghost, and the both of us waiting our time. I'd sooner be delayed in Purgatory! Now, have you anything to say?

MICHAEL MISKELL. I have everything to say, if I had but the time to say it!

MIKE MCINERNEY. [_Sitting up._] Let me up out of this till I'll choke you!

MICHAEL MISKELL. You scolding pauper you!

MIKE MCINERNEY. [_Shaking his fist at him._] Wait a while!

MICHAEL MISKELL. [_Shaking his fist._] Wait a while yourself!

[_Mrs. Donohoe comes in with a parcel. She is a countrywoman with a frilled cap and a shawl. She stands still a minute. The two old men lie down and compose themselves._]

MRS. DONOHOE. They bade me come up here by the stair. I never was in this place at all. I don't know am I right. Which now of the two of ye is Mike McInerney?

MIKE MCINERNEY. Who is it is calling me by my name?

MRS. DONOHOE. Sure amn't I your sister, Honor McInerney that was, that is now Honor Donohoe.

MIKE MCINERNEY. So you are, I believe. I didn't know you till you pushed anear me. It is time indeed for you to come see me, and I in this place five year or more. Thinking me to be no credit to you, I suppose, among that tribe of the Donohoes. I wonder they to give you leave to come ask am I living yet or dead?

MRS. DONOHOE. Ah, sure, I buried the whole string of them. Himself was the last to go. [_Wipes her eyes._] The Lord be praised he got a fine natural death. Sure we must go through our crosses. And he got a lovely funeral; it would delight you to hear the priest reading the Mass. My poor John Donohoe! A nice clean man, you couldn't but be fond of him. Very severe on the tobacco he was, but he wouldn't touch the drink.

MIKE MCINERNEY. And is it in Curranroe you are living yet?

MRS. DONOHOE. It is so. He left all to myself. But it is a lonesome thing the head of a house to have died!

MIKE MCINERNEY. I hope that he has left you a nice way of living?

MRS. DONOHOE. Fair enough, fair enough. A wide lovely house I have; a few acres of grass land ... the grass does be very sweet that grows among the stones. And as to the sea, there is something from it every day of the year, a handful of periwinkles to make kitchen, or cockles maybe. There is many a thing in the sea is not decent, but cockles is fit to put before the Lord!

MIKE MCINERNEY. You have all that! And you without e'er a man in the house?

MRS. DONOHOE. It is what I am thinking, yourself might come and keep me company. It is no credit to me a brother of my own to be in this place at all.

MIKE MCINERNEY. I'll go with you! Let me out of this! It is the name of the McInerneys will be rising on every side!

MRS. DONOHOE. I don't know. I was ignorant of you being kept to the bed.

MIKE MCINERNEY. I am not kept to it, but maybe an odd time when there is a colic rises up within me. My stomach always gets better the time there is a change in the moon. I'd like well to draw anear you. My heavy blessing on you, Honor Donohoe, for the hand you have held out to me this day.

MRS. DONOHOE. Sure you could be keeping the fire in, and stirring the pot with the bit of Indian meal for the hens, and milking the goat and taking the tacklings off the donkey at the door; and maybe putting out the cabbage plants in their time. For when the old man died the garden died.

MIKE MCINERNEY. I could to be sure, and be cutting the potatoes for seed. What luck could there be in a place and a man not to be in it? Is that now a suit of clothes you have brought with you?

MRS. DONOHOE. It is so, the way you will be tasty coming in among the neighbors at Curranroe.

MIKE MCINERNEY. My joy you are! It is well you earned me! Let me up out of this! [_He sits up and spreads out the clothes and tries on coat._] That now is a good frieze coat ... and a hat in the fashion.... [_He puts on hat._]

MICHAEL MISKELL [_alarmed_]. And is it going out of this you are, Mike McInerney?

MIKE MCINERNEY. Don't you hear I am going? To Curranroe I am going. Going I am to a place where I will get every good thing!

MICHAEL MISKELL. And is it to leave me here after you you will?

MIKE MCINERNEY [_in a rising chant_]. Every good thing! The goat and the kid are there, the sheep and the lamb are there, the cow does be running and she coming to be milked! Plowing and seed sowing, blossom at Christmas time, the cuckoo speaking through the dark days of the year! Ah, what are you talking about? Wheat high in hedges, no talk about the rent! Salmon in the rivers as plenty as hurf! Spending and getting and nothing scarce! Sport and pleasure, and music on the strings! Age will go from me and I will be young again. Geese and turkeys for the hundreds and drink for the whole world!

MICHAEL MISKELL. Ah, Mike, is it truth you are saying, you to go from me and to leave me with rude people and with townspeople, and with people of every parish in the union, and they having no respect for me or no wish for me at all!

MIKE MCINERNEY. Whist now and I'll leave you ... my pipe [_hands it over_]; and I'll engage it is Honor Donohoe won't refuse to be sending you a few ounces of tobacco an odd time, and neighbors coming to the fair in November or in the month of May.

MICHAEL MISKELL. Ah, what signifies tobacco? All that I am craving is the talk. There to be no one at all to say out to whatever thought might be rising in my innate mind! To be lying here and no conversible person in it would be the abomination of misery!

MIKE MCINERNEY. Look now, Honor.... It is what I often heard said, two to be better than one.... Sure if you had an old trouser was full of holes ... or a skirt ... wouldn't you put another in under it that might be as tattered as itself, and the two of them together would make some sort of a decent show?

MRS. DONOHOE. Ah, what are you saying? There is no holes in that suit I brought you now, but as sound it is as the day I spun it for himself.

MIKE MCINERNEY. It is what I am thinking, Honor.... I do be weak an odd time.... Any load I would carry, it preys upon my side ... and this man does be weak an odd time with the swelling in his knees ... but the two of us together it's not likely it is at the one time we would fail. Bring the both of us with you, Honor, and the height of the castle of luck on you, and the both of us together will make one good hardy man!

MRS. DONOHOE. I'd like my job! Is it queer in the head you are grown asking me to bring in a stranger off the road?

MICHAEL MISKELL. I am not, ma'am, but an old neighbor I am. If I had forecasted this asking I would have asked it myself. Michael Miskell I am, that was in the next house to you in Skehanagh!

MRS. DONOHOE. For pity's sake! Michael Miskell is it? That's worse again. Yourself and Mike that never left fighting and scolding and attacking one another! Sparring at one another like two young pups you were, and threatening one another after like two grown dogs!

MIKE MCINERNEY. All the quarreling was ever in the place it was myself did it. Sure his anger rises fast and goes away like the wind. Bring him out with myself now, Honor Donohoe, and God bless you.

MRS. DONOHOE. Well, then, I will not bring him out, and I will not bring yourself out, and you not to learn better sense. Are you making yourself ready to come?

MIKE MCINERNEY. I am thinking, maybe ... it is a mean thing for a man that is shivering into seventy years to go changing from place to place.

MRS. DONOHOE. Well, take your luck or leave it. All I asked was to save you from the hurt and the harm of the year.

MIKE MCINERNEY. Bring the both of us with you or I will not stir out of this.

MRS. DONOHOE. Give me back my fine suit so [_begins gathering up the clothes_], till I go look for a man of my own!

MIKE MCINERNEY. Let you go so, as you are so unnatural and so disobliging, and look for some man of your own, God help him! For I will not go with you at all!

MRS. DONOHOE. It is too much time I lost with you, and dark night waiting to overtake me on the road. Let the two of you stop together, and the back of my hand to you. It is I will leave you there the same as God left the Jews!

[_She goes out. The old men lie down and are silent for a moment._]

MICHAEL MISKELL. Maybe the house is not so wide as what she says.

MIKE MCINERNEY. Why wouldn't it be wide?

MICHAEL MISKELL. Ah, there does be a good deal of middling poor houses down by the sea.

MIKE MCINERNEY. What would you know about wide houses? Whatever sort of a house you had yourself it was too wide for the provision you had into it.

MICHAEL MISKELL. Whatever provision I had in my house it was wholesome provision and natural provision. Herself and her periwinkles! Periwinkles is a hungry sort of food.

MIKE MCINERNEY. Stop your impudence and your chat or it will be the worse for you. I'd bear with my own father and mother as long as any man would, but if they'd vex me I would give them the length of a rope as soon as another!

MICHAEL MISKELL. I would never ask at all to go eating periwinkles.

MIKE MCINERNEY [_sitting up_]. Have you any one to fight me?

MICHAEL MISKELL [_whimpering_]. I have not, only the Lord!

MIKE MCINERNEY. Let you leave putting insults on me so, and death picking at you!

MICHAEL MISKELL. Sure I am saying nothing at all to displease you. It is why I wouldn't go eating periwinkles, I'm in dread I might swallow the pin.

MIKE MCINERNEY. Who in the world wide is asking you to eat them? You're as tricky as a fish in the full tide!

MICHAEL MISKELL. Tricky is it! Oh, my curse and the curse of the four and twenty men upon you!

MIKE MCINERNEY. That the worm may chew you from skin to marrow bone! [_Seizes his pillow._]

MICHAEL MISKELL [_seizing his own pillow_]. I'll leave my death on you, you scheming vagabone!

MIKE MCINERNEY. By cripes! I'll pull out your pin feathers! [_throwing pillow_].

MICHAEL MISKELL [_throwing pillow_]. You tyrant! You big bully you!

MIKE MCINERNEY [_throwing pillow and seizing mug_]. Take this so, you stabbing ruffian you!

[_They throw all within their reach at one another, mugs, prayer books, pipes, etc._]

[_Curtain._]

LOUISE

A PLAY

BY J. H. SPEENHOFF TRANSLATED FROM THE DUTCH BY A. V. C. P. HUIZINGA AND PIERRE LOVING.

## Acting rights reserved by Pierre Loving.

PERSONS

LOUISE. VAN DER ELST [_Notary_]. VENNEMA [_Louise's Father_]. SOPHIE [_Serving Maid_].

Applications for permissions to produce LOUISE must be addressed to Pierre Loving, 240 W. 4.

LOUISE

A PLAY BY J. H. SPEENHOFF

[SCENE: _A large fashionably appointed room with few decorations on the walls. The latter are papered in yellow with large black lilies. To the right, a tall broad window with heavy brown curtains. To the left, an old gold harp with a little footstool. Behind, to the right, a door with brown portieres, affording a view of a vestibule and banister. To the left, down front, a broad couch with black head cushions. Next to it the end of a heavy broad oaken table, with the side turned toward the couch. Behind, the back wall has an open chimney with carved wood and ornaments on it. Beside the chimney, on both sides, are two large comfortable chairs and two others by the table and window respectively. On the table are the remains of breakfast: fruit glasses and two empty champagne bottles_.

_As the curtain rises Louise is discovered lying on the couch with her feet extended toward the audience. She lies quietly and gazes blankly in the distance. Closer scrutiny reveals that she is in the last stage of intoxication. On the whole, it is rather a lady-like inebriety and expresses itself now and again by way of a heavy sigh, looseness of limb, a languid flutter of the eyelids and a disposition to be humorous. It is about three in the afternoon. As for the tone of the room, there are a lot of yellows, blacks and browns; the light is quite subdued. Soon after the rise of the curtain, Louise begins slowly and dreamily to hum a melody. She stops for a while, gazes blankly around and starts humming again. Then she raises herself, crosses her arms on the tables and rests her head on them. Her hair is loosely arranged--or disarranged. Her dressing gown is black and white._

_A bell is rung downstairs. Louise does not seem to hear it. Another ting-a-ling. You can hear the maid going downstairs. The door opens and shuts. Two pairs of feet are heard climbing the stairs. The maid parts the portieres, shows Van der Elst in and points Louise out to him, meanwhile remaining discreetly behind the portieres._

_The truth is that Sophie is very much embarrassed. She looks as if she has been called away from her proper duties. She is a healthy maid, with tousled blond hair, cotton dress, blue apron, maid's cap and is in her stocking feet. She goes toward Louise, then stops confusedly at a little distance from her. She moves a chair needlessly, in timid embarrassment, and wipes her lips with her apron._]

SOPHIE. Here's a gentleman to see you--to see--you, madam.

[_Louise doesn't hear._]

SOPHIE [_approaches the end of table_]. A gentleman has come--come to see--you.

LOUISE [_raising herself on her elbows; with her head on her hands_]. What are you doing?

SOPHIE [_confusedly_]. I--madam? Why, nothing. But there's a gentleman ... you see....

LOUISE. A gentleman? Very well, you may go. [_She closes her eyes._]

SOPHIE. But ... but ... he wishes to speak to you. A gray-haired gentleman. He is standing by the portieres ... over there. [_Indicates Van Elst._]

[_Louise does not pay any attention to Sophie or Van Elst, but composes herself for another nap on the couch._]

SOPHIE. May he come in? [_A long pause._] May he...? [_Louise does not answer. Sophie waits a bit, then she beckons Van Elst into the room._] She won't answer, sir. Maybe you'd better come back in an hour or so....

VAN ELST. Hm! No. That's impossible. [_Looks at Louise._] What's the matter with madam? Is she asleep?

SOPHIE. No ... you see ... she is, you know....

VAN ELST [_approaching_]. What?

SOPHIE. She isn't well....

VAN ELST. Ah, not well?

SOPHIE. Yes, from.... [_Hesitates._]

VAN ELST [_spying the bottles on the table_]. Has madam consumed those?

SOPHIE. Yes, yes. It's awful. [_Pause._]

VAN ELST. Does this happen very often?

SOPHIE. Yes. Oh, yes, quite often.

VAN ELST. Indeed!

SOPHIE. Hadn't you better go until ... for a while?

VAN ELST. No, no. I shall....

SOPHIE. Very well, sir, you know best. [_Sophie goes out of the room on tiptoe._]

[_Now that Sophie is out of the room, one has an opportunity to scrutinize Van Elst more closely. He is a prosperous-looking country gentleman about fifty years old. He wears a shining tophat, white vest with a gold chain across his stomach, tight-fitting blue trousers, low shoes, white socks and a short blue coat. He is clean-shaven and when he removes his hat, one observes that his hair is close-cropped. His walking-stick, contrary to expectations, is light and slim. He takes a chair near the window, directly behind the harp, puts his hat, cane and gloves beside him on the floor and looks around. He glances at Louise, shakes his head solemnly, coughs, wipes his forehead, puts his handkerchief carefully away, coughs again, moves his chair and after some signs of nervousness, says_]:

VAN ELST. Miss ... may I have a word with you? [_Louise doesn't hear._]

VAN ELST [_with growing embarrassment_]. I ... I should like to speak to you.

LOUISE [_a little wildly_]. Are you there?

VAN ELST [_taken aback_]. Yes ... no ... yes.... I.... Whom do you mean?

LOUISE. Come here beside me.

VAN ELST [_astonished_]. Certainly, but....

LOUISE [_sighing_]. Come ... come.

VAN ELST. Aren't you making a mistake? I'm not....

LOUISE [_raising herself halfway, left elbow on table, head on hand, the other arm outstretched on the table. She looks unseeingly at him_]. Don't you want to?

VAN ELST. But I'm not ... how shall I put it? I've come to speak with you very seriously.

LOUISE [_has seated herself in the middle of the couch. She extends her arms with a smiling invitation_]. Don't you dare?

VAN ELST [_very considerably embarrassed by this time. He coughs and mops his face_]. It isn't quite necessary. We can talk this way.

LOUISE [_smiling_]. I will come to you, you know. Ah, you don't realize....

VAN ELST [_rising, disturbed_]. No. Please stay where you are. Don't trouble yourself. I can hear you from where you are, and you can hear me.

LOUISE [_ignores his words completely, gets up dizzily and gropes with the aid of the table toward the chair. She leans on the arm of the chair and looks at Van Elst. She points out the small chair_]. Come here.

VAN ELST [_after some deliberation, sits at her side_]. We had better.... [_His voice dies in a mutter._]

LOUISE [_insistent_]. No. Here at my side. Sit close to me, then I'll be able to hear you better.

VAN ELST [_pulling his chair closer_]. I don't see why....

LOUISE. Don't you think I'm very beautiful and wise?

VAN ELST. I have very serious things to discuss with you. Will you listen to me? [_He assumes an important pose._]

LOUISE. Why do you take on such a severe tone? You must be more gentle--very gentle.

VAN ELST. Hm! Very well. First let me tell you who I am. My name is Van der Elst. I'm the new attorney back home, and I am a friend of your father's.

LOUISE. Well?

VAN ELST. I think a lot of your father. As you know, Mr. Degudo was your father's lawyer; but he's gone away and I've taken his place.

LOUISE. Why am I honored with these confidences?

VAN ELST. You ought to know who I am.

LOUISE. Well, what's your name?

VAN ELST [_angrily_]. I told you that my name is Van der Elst, attorney-at-law.

LOUISE [_smiling vapidly_]. Have you any bonbons with you?

VAN ELST. What sort of a question is that, madam? You're not listening to me. [_He gets up angrily, about to collect his effects prior to leaving._]

LOUISE. Are you leaving me so soon? If I were you, I wouldn't leave.

[_Van Elst walks back and forth in annoyance, muttering all the while._]

LOUISE. What are you muttering about? Come here and sit by my side. Last week I received flowers from an old gentleman, an old gentleman. At least that is what the girl said. He sent them for my shoulders, mind you. You see, he had seen my shoulders. Please sit down. That's why he sent me flowers--[_extending her hand_] and this ring came with them. Look! [_Van der Elst has taken a seat. She thrusts her hand before his face._] It's the thin one.

VAN ELST. Madam, I didn't come for this frivolity.

LOUISE. What would you give if you could kiss me?

[_Van Elst coughs and fumbles with his handkerchief._]

LOUISE. Do you know what I suspect? I suspect that you are the old gentleman in question.

VAN ELST [_getting up in high dudgeon_]. Madam, I consider that accusation entirely improper, in view of the fact that I am a respectable married man. I want you to know that I keep out of these things. My reputation is above reproach. Do you intend to listen to me or not?

LOUISE. Don't shout so.

VAN ELST. Do you talk this way always? You amaze me.

LOUISE [_smiling_]. I suspect you are the gentleman with the pretty touch about my shoulders. Well, sit down. Is he gone? Are you gone?

VAN ELST [_stepping forwardly boldly_]. I am still here. This is positively the last time I'll ask you to listen to me. I assure you, my patience is nearly exhausted. Your father and mother, your family have asked me to bring the following to your notice. Your present conduct has caused a great scandal. You've left your family for a man who is too far above you socially ever to make you his wife. Consequently, you have become his mistress.

LOUISE. Eh?

VAN ELST. I'm not through yet. Your father and mother have requested me to ask you to come back home. They await you with open arms.

LOUISE. Don't be silly. Sit down.

VAN ELST. Oh, it's useless.

LOUISE [_incoherently_]. Will you promise to tell me?

VAN ELST. I suppose I'll have to wait. [_He sits down in utter despair._]

LOUISE [_goes up to him unsteadily, groping for the arm of the chair. With a laugh_]. Tell me, which one was it. This shoulder or this one? Ah, aren't you clever! You're the old gentleman, aren't you, you old duck?

VAN ELST. A useless commission. Poor parents!

LOUISE. What's that? The joke's on me.

VAN ELST. Next she'll ask me to dance with her, I suppose.

LOUISE. Dance? No dancing. Don't get up. You needn't get up. I don't mean it ... really, I don't.

[_Louise sits in front of the harp and runs her fingers idly over the strings. Then slowly, she plays the same melody she hummed previously. She hums it again dreamily. The music grows softer and softer. She sighs, stops playing, her head drops to her hands and she falls limply to the floor._]

VAN ELST. Good God, what's this? It wasn't my fault. I suppose I was cruel to her. [_Walks excitedly back and forth. Sophie enters._]

SOPHIE. What's the matter?

VAN ELST. Look at your mistress. I can't make out what's wrong with her.

SOPHIE. Oh, that's nothing. It happens every day. Just a fainting fit.

VAN ELST. What a life! What a life! Why don't you do something? She can't be allowed to lie there that way.

SOPHIE. Just a minute. [_She seizes Louise by the waist and lifts her from the floor. Van Elst assists her._]

SOPHIE. Nothing to worry about [_arranging Louise's clothes_]. Now you lie here and you'll be quite all right in a very short while. She gets that way quite frequently.

VAN ELST [_sinks into a chair_]. This is frightful.

SOPHIE [_confidentially_]. Madam drinks heavily in the afternoons and in the evening, too, when the master is here. Yes, and then they sing together and madam plays on that thing there. [_Points to the harp._] It's very nice sometimes.

VAN ELST. Who is the master?

SOPHIE. I don't know, sir. But that's what I've been told to call him.

VAN ELST. Are they happy together? Or do they sometimes quarrel?

SOPHIE. I don't know. I don't think so, for he's very good and likes her very much.

VAN ELST. Madam never weeps or is sad? I ask these questions for madam's sake.

SOPHIE. Oh, yes, she weeps sometimes. But it's mostly when she hasn't had a drink and feels out of sorts. But it's soon cured when I fetch the wine.

VAN ELST. Then she occasionally thinks of her home. That may help us.

SOPHIE. May I suggest something, sir? [_She busies herself clearing off the table._] If I were you, I should go away quietly.

VAN ELST. Go away?

SOPHIE. For madam can't bear men folks around her when she sobers up. If I were you, I'd go away.

VAN ELST. No, I'll stay. If she's sober after a while, perhaps she'll be able to talk to me coherently.

SOPHIE. You must know best. But I warn you, madam can't bear to have anybody else with her.

VAN ELST. What! Do you think I came for that purpose?

SOPHIE. Of course. You're not trying to tell me that you came to read the newspaper with her.

VAN ELST. You keep your mouth shut. I've come to ask madam to return to her parents.

SOPHIE. Oh, that's it, is it? You're from the family. I see. Of course ... but she won't go with you.

LOUISE [_dreaming aloud_]. William, William! He's bolting. Help! Help! Oh, the brown mare! Look! [_Sighs._]

SOPHIE. She's delirious again. She goes on like that a lot. She was in a carriage with the master the other day, when the horse bolted. That's what she always dreams about these days.

LOUISE. Ah, wait. I left my earrings at the doctor's. Mother, mother, I love you so. [_She sighs heavily. A ring is heard below._]

VAN ELST. Ah, that's Mr. Vennema. Open the door for him. It's her father.

SOPHIE. Ought I let him in? He mustn't see her in that condition.

VAN ELST. Please open the door.

SOPHIE. Oh, all right. [_She goes out._]

[_Van der Elst listens._]

LOUISE. Hopla, hopla, hopla....

[_Vennema and Sophie mount the stairs._]

SOPHIE [_to Vennema behind the portieres_]. Come this way, sir. You may come in.

[_Vennema comes in hesitating and stops at the door. He is a kindly country parson type, wholly gray, with a gray beard and mustache. He is wearing an ecclesiastical hat, a black coat and black trousers. He gazes about anxiously and finally his eyes light on Van der Elst. Van der Elst beckons to Vennema and indicates Louise on the couch. Sophie goes out._]

VAN ELST. There she is.

VENNEMA. Is she ill?

VAN ELST. No, that isn't it. She's dreaming. She's very nervous. She was quite agitated a moment ago.

VENNEMA. What did she say?

VAN ELST. She wouldn't listen to me. She insisted on speaking of other things. As a matter of fact; she acted very queerly.

LOUISE. First prize ... splendid.

VENNEMA. What's the matter with her?

VAN ELST. I don't know. Nerves perhaps.

VENNEMA. Has she had a fainting spell?

VAN ELST. Don't worry about it. She'll be better in a little while.

VENNEMA [_noticing the bottles_]. Is she...?

VAN ELST. I don't know.

VENNEMA. Couldn't you tell? You may tell me.

VAN ELST. Yes; I think a little.

VENNEMA. That hurts. I never thought she would allow herself to get into such a state. Has she been this way for a long time?

VAN ELST. About ten minutes, I should say. But she'll be quite all right in a little while.

VENNEMA. I can't help being distressed over it. That she should have descended to this!

VAN ELST. Do you know what the maid told me? She said that they are happy together, and that he is truly in love with her.

VENNEMA. Yes. But why did he allow her to go this far?

VAN ELST. She won't see anybody.

VENNEMA. Not even me? Her father?

VAN ELST. Perhaps you.

VENNEMA. What do you think? Will she come home with us? Have you found out?

VAN ELST. She didn't pay any attention to me. She didn't quite understand my mission. I don't know. Perhaps you had better speak to her.

LOUISE [_calling_]. I.... Oh.... Help! [_She sits up in the middle of the couch, with her hands to her face. She droops and seems to fall asleep in a sitting posture._]

VENNEMA. Is she...?

VAN ELST. Yes, she's coming to.

LOUISE [_wakes with a start_]. Bah! [_She looks around, does not recognize Van der Elst and Vennema. Then, peering closer, she registers surprise, sudden fright and finally anger. Van der Elst is about to speak, but she interrupts him._]

LOUISE. Who are you? [_Coughs._] Who are you and what is your business here? Go away.... Go away.

VAN ELST. Madam.... I....

VENNEMA. Let me speak. [_He goes toward Louise._] Louise ... it is I. Don't you recognize me? [_After a pause._] Louise!

LOUISE [_after a pause_]. Father!

VENNEMA. Aren't you glad to see your father?

LOUISE [_in a low tone of voice_]. Oh, father.

VENNEMA. You are not ill, my child?

LOUISE. No. Why have you come?

VENNEMA. I wanted to speak to you.

LOUISE. Why did you come? Why?

VENNEMA [_seating himself beside Louise on the couch_]. Listen to me, my dear.

LOUISE. Yes.

VENNEMA. I came to find out whether you are happy or not.

LOUISE. I don't know. Happy ... that's a strange word.

VENNEMA. Why strange? Are you happier here than--with us.

LOUISE [_leaning forward on her hands_]. Than with you? [_Looking up._] I prefer to be here.

VENNEMA. Don't you miss us all, just the least little bit?

LOUISE. Sometimes, when I'm alone. All the same, I'd rather be here.

VENNEMA. Aren't you deluding yourself? Wasn't your life with us at home better?

LOUISE. Better? What do you mean, better?

VENNEMA. You know what I mean. Don't you regret running off with ... him ... and spreading sorrow in our hearts?

LOUISE. I loved him. And then I yearned for freedom, for the pleasures of life and travel. At home everything was so dull and monotonous. I couldn't stand the smug people at home. Their life is one round of lying and gossiping, of scolding and backbiting.

VENNEMA. But what of this sort of existence? You don't quite appreciate the damage you have done. How you have stained the fair reputation of your parents. I wonder whether that has ever occurred to you? You say that you do not like the people who are our neighbors back home, but it is these very people who make and unmake reputations. We must live with them. Can't you realize that?

LOUISE. Father, I'm sorry, but I couldn't go back to them. The commonplace tattlers with their humdrum, uneventful lives scarcely exist for me.

VENNEMA. They don't exist for you, you say. But, remember, that they despise you. They and their contempt do not reach you, but they reach us.

LOUISE [_almost inaudibly_]. Yes.

VENNEMA. But your future? Have you thought of that? What will it be? Wretchedness and contempt. When I came in and saw you stretched out in that condition, I....

LOUISE. Father, I want to forget. I don't want to think of the past.

VENNEMA. In order not to think of the past, you resort to drink?

LOUISE. Sometimes it is hard to forget.

VENNEMA. Tell me, Louise: does he love you, and do you love him? And even if this be true, will he continue to love you always? Won't the time come when he will grow indifferent to you?

LOUISE [_getting up_]. Never ... never. Not he. You don't believe that such a thing is impossible? He cannot forget me. I have given him everything ... my love, myself ... all that is truly myself.

VENNEMA. Aren't you a little too optimistic?

LOUISE. Not when it concerns him. He knows what I have sacrificed. He knows what I have given him. There is no room for doubt, father.

VENNEMA. Very well, we will not speak of it again. But how about us, Louise? Don't you ever think of us? Don't you ever long to come back to us, to the old home where you were born? Wouldn't you like to see it again?

LOUISE [_sadly_]. Yes.

VENNEMA [_anxious and excited_]. Then come back with me. Come back to us. You know my motive for coming. Won't you come back home with me? Everything is in perfect readiness for you: your little room, the flowers, the trees ... everything. Louise....

LOUISE. Father, that can never be. Never.

VENNEMA. Why not? We have arranged everything. Nothing will be lacking for your welcome, your comfort.

LOUISE. Why should I bring misfortune to you? It would simply add to your unhappiness. Isn't it better now that I am away from home? Later on, perhaps.

VENNEMA. Later on? Did it ever occur to you that there may be no later on? You may not find us then. We are getting old, your mother and I.

LOUISE. Don't, please!

VENNEMA. Come, Louise. Come. Think of the happiness.

LOUISE. How about the townfolks? Would they accept me again, do you think?

VENNEMA. Don't think of them. Those who are sincerely friendly to us, will continue to be so. The rest don't count. Ah, if we only could have you back, my child!

LOUISE [_after a pause_]. Father, I cannot go back. Don't you see that it is utterly impossible? I am changed now. And then I am not strong enough. Life is so long and I cannot bear to face it alone.

VENNEMA. But you will have us. You belong to us, and your place, if you have a place in the world, is with your mother and father. Your old home is waiting for you with welcoming arms. Summer is coming and you know how splendid the garden and the orchard are when the lilac trees are in bloom. Do you remember the little tree you planted once? Doesn't your heart yearn to see the little flowers that have sprouted on its branches? Everything is just waiting for you to come home.

LOUISE [_dreamily_]. Everything....

VENNEMA. You will come, won't you?

LOUISE. I cannot. I simply cannot. It is your happiness that I am thinking of. The intrusion of my life would spoil everything. Everybody will blame you.

VENNEMA. My child, I have long ago put behind me what the world says.

LOUISE [_suddenly_]. And William? What about William? What about him when I go back? No, I can't do it. I cannot leave him.

VENNEMA. What about your mother, Louise? She is waiting for you. She will be at the window to-night, waiting and peering out. Your chair is ready for you and she herself will open the door to greet you, to take you to her heart again. Do you know, Louise, she has been getting very gray of late. Come.

LOUISE. Mother isn't ill?

VENNEMA. Your mother wants to see you before she....

LOUISE [_rising to her feet_]. I ... I will do it.

VENNEMA. Thank you, my child. [_He embraces her_]. We shall go at once.

LOUISE. Ring for Sophie, please. Yes, we will go at once. [_Close to him._] Mother is not seriously ill?

VENNEMA. I am sure, your return will be her cure.

VAN ELST [_who has listened attentively throughout the whole conversation_]. Madam, permit me also to thank you for this resolve to return home. You are going to make many hearts joyful because of your decision.

LOUISE. I hope so.

SOPHIE [_enters_]. Is there anything you wish, madam?

LOUISE. Pack my traveling bag. Get my black hat and gray coat. I am leaving at once.

SOPHIE. Very well, madam, but....

LOUISE. Lose no time about it. I'm in a hurry.

SOPHIE. A lady called to see, madam, and I told her you were engaged.

LOUISE. What did she want? Did she say?

SOPHIE. She said she would come back. She insisted on speaking with you.

LOUISE. Do you know the lady?

SOPHIE. Yes ... no. That is, I don't know. I believe I've seen her before.

LOUISE. Didn't she say what her errand was?

SOPHIE. No, madam, but she said she would come back soon.

LOUISE. When she comes, show her into the drawing room.

SOPHIE. Yes, madam.

LOUISE. Have everything ready at once.

SOPHIE. Yes, madam. [_She goes out._]

LOUISE. You will excuse me. I must change my clothes. I shall put my old ones on. You see, I kept them. Then I must write to him. I must tell him why I am going away. [_She goes out by the side door._]

VENNEMA. I feel as if I have never been as happy as this before.

VAN ELST. It will help your wife to get well. She hasn't been very well these last few weeks.

VENNEMA. Yes, I know it will do her heaps of good. I am quite happy.

VAN ELST. Don't excite your wife unnecessarily to-night. Any shock may be too much for her.

VENNEMA. Yes, we will postpone our rejoicing until to-morrow. You must come to-morrow, but alone. Bring your wife Sunday evening. The process of acclamation will be slow, of course. There is a train about six, I believe.

VAN ELST. Yes, at five forty-five. We have an hour yet.

VENNEMA. The sooner the better. She must have a change at first. I thought it mightn't be a bad idea if we paid my brother a visit at Frezier. It might do her a lot of good. Yes, I think what she needs is a change of scene.

VAN ELST. If I were you I would stay home the first week.

VENNEMA. We'll attend to that later. It is terrible when you think of the condition she was in when we arrived.

VAN ELST. The maid said that it happened quite often, too.

VENNEMA. What do you think he will do when he learns that she is gone?

VAN ELST. If he is anything of a man, if he is a man of honor, then he will stay away. If not, there is the law. But I believe it can be arranged although she loves him very much.

VENNEMA. Let's not speak of it any more. She will change slowly, and so the past will be forgotten.

SOPHIE [_enters with a traveling bag_]. Oh, isn't Madam here?

VENNEMA. She will be back very shortly.

SOPHIE. Here's the bag. Everything is ready. [_Puts Louise's things on the table._]

LOUISE [_enters very simply dressed with a letter in her hand_]. Here I am. [_To Sophie._] Have you packed everything?

SOPHIE. Yes, everything is ready.

LOUISE. Help me then.

[_Sophie helps Louise with her coat._]

LOUISE. Mail this letter for me. [_The bell rings downstairs._] Go and see who it is. I am not at home to anybody now.

SOPHIE. It may be the lady who was here before.

LOUISE. Heavens, I had almost forgotten her. If it's the lady--

SOPHIE. Yes?

LOUISE. See who it is.

SOPHIE [_going_]. Yes, madam.

VENNEMA. What is it, Louise? What does the lady wish?

LOUISE. Nothing, father [_with a forced laugh_]. Nothing at all.

VENNEMA. Must you see her? Can't you say that you are about to go away on a trip and that you cannot see her? Say that, and let us go.

LOUISE. Oh, it's nothing. I will just speak to her, and then we will go at once. [_She laughs again in a forced manner._]

VENNEMA. But why are you so excited?

SOPHIE [_entering_]. Madam, the lady has gone away. She left this. [_She extends a visiting card._] But--

LOUISE. What is it, Sophie?

SOPHIE. She told me to tell you that you must think of the bay mare. Here is her card.

LOUISE [_excitedly_]. Oh, a card [_tries to restrain herself_]. Give it to me.

SOPHIE. Then she said nothing about Elsa and the race.

[_Louise takes the card and goes a little to the side._]

VENNEMA. What's the matter, Louise? What ails you?

LOUISE [_deeply affected_]. Father, father! [_She looks from the card to her father with tears in her eyes; then she goes mutely toward the couch, sits down, and stares blankly in front of her._]

LOUISE [_sobbing_]. I can't do it!

VENNEMA [_takes the visiting card from her hands_]. Must you pay all that? Have you lost all that money?

LOUISE. Yes.

VENNEMA. Through gambling?

LOUISE. Yes.

VENNEMA. Good God! Gambling, too? And to-night you must pay all that money.

SOPHIE [_entering excitedly with a small bunch of flowers_]. Madam, Madam.

LOUISE [_looks up slowly and sees the flowers_]. What is it?

SOPHIE. These are the compliments of Mr. De Brandeis.

LOUISE. Mr. De Brandeis?

SOPHIE. The gentleman is waiting below in a carriage.

VENNEMA. Tell that gentleman to go away.

LOUISE. It was too beautiful, too good to be true. Now it will never be.

VENNEMA. Why not? I shall give you the money.

LOUISE. Father, I tell you it can never be.

VENNEMA. What do you mean? What are you going to do, Louise?

LOUISE. Father, I can't go back home with you. [_To Sophie._] Take the flowers and tell Mr. De Brandeis that--that--

[_Vennema sinks into a chair. Sophie stands at the door with the flowers. Van der Elst stands listening anxiously._]

LOUISE [_with a sob in her throat_]. Tell him, that I am going to stand by him.

[_She stands looking at the door, twitching her handkerchief nervously._]

[_Curtain._]

THE GRANDMOTHER

A PLAY BY LAJOS BIRO

CHARACTERS

THE GRANDMOTHER. HER GRANDCHILDREN: THE BLOND YOUNG LADY. THE BRUNETTE YOUNG LADY. THE BRIDE. THE VIVACIOUS GIRL. THE MELANCHOLY GIRL. THE SENTIMENTAL HIGH SCHOOL GIRL. THE JOVIAL YOUNG MAN. THE POLITE YOUNG MAN. THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN.

THE GRANDMOTHER

A PLAY BY LAJOS BIRO

[_There is only this notable thing to be said about Grandmother--her hair is snow white, her cheeks rosy and her eyes violet blue. She is the most youthful and enthusiastic, best and most cordial grandmother ever beloved by her grandchildren._

_The scene opens on a broad, sunny terrace furnished with garden furniture, chairs, small tables and chaises longues. Back of the terrace is the beautiful summer residence of Grandpa. Behind it is a large English garden in its lenten blossoms. The Disagreeable Young Man enters; yawns; stretches discontentedly; slouches here and there; picks up a volume from the table, then falls into a couch at right and, lighting a cigarette, begins to read. The other grandchildren enter in groups of two and three and seat themselves._]

THE JOVIAL YOUNG MAN. My word, children, I am too full for utterance. What a spread! Now for a good cigar and a soft chair and I am as rich as a king.

THE BLOND YOUNG LADY. We are having such charming weather. Is not this park like a paradise?

THE BRUNETTE YOUNG LADY. How did you like the after-dinner speeches?

THE VIVACIOUS GIRL. Uncle Heinrich was splendid. [_There is great laughter._]

THE POLITE YOUNG MAN. Uncle Heinrich was never strong in speechmaking, but in the beginning even Demosthenes stuttered.

THE JOVIAL YOUNG MAN. The trouble is that Uncle Heinrich stopped where Demosthenes began. Besides a manufacturer has no time to parade on the sea shore with pebbles under his tongue.

[_There is more laughter._]

THE POLITE YOUNG MAN. Children, who wants a cigarette?

THE BLOND AND BRUNETTE YOUNG LADIES. I!

THE POLITE YOUNG MAN [_handing them cigarettes and lighting a match for them. He speaks to the Bride_]. Aren't you going to smoke?

BRIDE. No, I thank you.

THE JOVIAL YOUNG MAN. Lord, no! She must not! The noble bride must not permit tobacco smoke to contaminate her rosy lips. [_They all laugh._]

THE VIVACIOUS GIRL. May I have a cigarette, too?

THE JOVIAL YOUNG MAN. You be careful or the same misfortune may happen to you at any minute that happened to Lucy [_pointing to the Bride, he hands the Vivacious Girl a cigarette._]

THE VIVACIOUS GIRL. If my bridegroom shall object to tobacco smoke, he can pack his things and--off.

THE BRUNETTE YOUNG LADY. Well, young people, what are we going to do next?

THE MELANCHOLY YOUNG LADY. Let's remain here. The park looks so beautiful.

THE BLOND YOUNG LADY. Oh, I object. We'll remain here until the sun goes down a little and then we'll play tennis. [_They agree._]

THE MELANCHOLY YOUNG LADY. Can't we remain here? Let us enjoy the spring in the garden.

THE JOVIAL YOUNG MAN. Let's play tennis. A little exercise is the best cure for romance. And you can enjoy your spring out there as well--you dreamer. [_They laugh._]

THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. You are as loud as the besiegers of Jericho in your planning.

THE JOVIAL YOUNG MAN. Behold! He speaketh. [_They laugh._]

THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. You are so overbearing in your jollifications that it is positively disgusting. For the past hour you have been giggling away without the slightest reason. You have so much leisure you do not know what to do with yourselves.

THE BRUNETTE YOUNG LADY. Curt, must you always be the killjoy in a party!

THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. If you would at least take yourselves off from here.

THE BRUNETTE YOUNG LADY. But admit that to-day there is reason enough for every kind of jollity.

THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. Is there, indeed? You have finished a costly banquet and now are enjoying a good digestion. You are young and have a healthy animal appetite; but why deck sentimentalism on your horns?

THE POLITE YOUNG MAN. Your pardon! Do you suppose that all a person gets out of this remarkable occasion is a good dinner? Have you no appreciation? Do you realize what this day means to all of us?

THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. Very well, my boy. Now tell me why you are so over-filled with joy?

THE POLITE YOUNG MAN. Yes, I will. I am glad that I can celebrate the golden wedding of my grandfather. I am glad that just thirty years ago to-day grandfather founded his factory. I am glad because of our large and happy family and that so many lovely and good and happy people have come here to celebrate this remarkable event; all of them good and prosperous.

THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. Prosperous!

THE POLITE YOUNG MAN. Yes, I rejoice at their prosperity.

THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. The laborers down there in the foundry, however, are not as over-joyed at this prosperity as you are. For this prosperity of yours they have been starving these past thirty years.

THE POLITE YOUNG MAN. Grandfather was always good to his employees.

THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. Indeed! Our grandfather has managed by hook or by crook to amass an enormous fortune and you are glad that his fortune is now made and you do not have to resort to questionable means.

THE POLITE YOUNG MAN [_hurt_]. Questionable means? You do not intend to assert that our grandpapa....

THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. I assert nothing. But mark you this. There is only one honest way to gain a large fortune: inheriting it. You cannot earn it without resorting to questionable means.

THE POLITE YOUNG MAN. Shame! to say a thing like that!

THE BRUNETTE YOUNG LADY. Shame to say that of grandfather.

[_All of them are upset and disturbed. Grandmother appears on the balcony._]

GRANDMOTHER. Why, children, what is it? What's wrong?

THE SENTIMENTAL HIGH SCHOOL GIRL. Why, grandma, just think of it! Curt said that grandpa made his fortune by questionable means.

THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. I did not say exactly that--

THE POLITE YOUNG MAN. Yes, you did.

THE OTHERS [_chiming in_]. You said that. Yes, you said that.

GRANDMOTHER [_as energetically as possible for her_]. I think you are in error, Curt. In the entire fortune of your grandpa there is not a single copper that was not earned by him in the most honest way.

THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. But look, grandma,--what I said was--generally in those cases no one--

GRANDMOTHER [_hurt_]. When I tell you this, boy, it _is so_. When I tell you anything, my child, you should never doubt it.

THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. Yes, grandma, you are quite right. But I maintain that human learning and experience have proved--

THE POLITE YOUNG MAN. Why don't you stop? Do you perhaps want to insult grandma? You are taking too great an advantage of our good nature--I'll tell you that!

THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. If you folks had any sense--

THE POLITE YOUNG MAN. Don't you know enough....

THE OTHER GRANDCHILDREN. ... to shut up. [_Attacks him._] Indeed. He's right. Stop--shut up!

[_The Disagreeable Young Man, in spite of this scene, wants to continue, but the protests of the others drown his voice. He casts a contemptuous look at them, shrugs his shoulders, throws himself on the sofa and begins to read._]

THE POLITE YOUNG MAN. Now don't trouble yourself about him any longer, grandma dear. Here, rest yourself nicely in this chair among us.

THE JOVIAL YOUNG MAN. There, grandma! The old folks are there at table. We young people are here in the fresh air. We lacked only the youngest one of us all. And here you are.

[_There is a glad assent as the Grandmother sits down._]

THE VIVACIOUS GIRL. Are you quite comfortable, grandma dear? Would you like something to rest your feet on?

GRANDMOTHER. Thanks, my child, I am quite all right, and I am very happy.

THE BLOND YOUNG LADY. Yes, grandma, you ought to feel happy.

THE BRUNETTE YOUNG LADY. How young you look, and how lovely and rosy!

THE BRIDE. Grandma?

GRANDMOTHER. What is it, my angel?

THE BRIDE. Tell me, how does a woman manage so that she is admired by her husband for full fifty years, as you are by grandfather?

THE BRUNETTE YOUNG LADY. Yes, how did you manage that?

GRANDMOTHER. You will all be loved and admired after fifty years as I have been. A person must be good. We must love each other.

THE POLITE YOUNG MAN. But, grandmother, is it not wonderful at seventy and seventy-five to love so beautifully and purely as you and grandfather have loved?

GRANDMOTHER. You must always be good and patient with each other, and brave. Never lose courage.

THE VIVACIOUS GIRL. But look, grandma, not even I could be as brave as you have been. And no one can ever say that I lose courage. [_They all laugh._] I still shudder when I think how in those days in March of Forty-eight you had to run away! Or in the Sixties when the city was bombarded, you with my mamma and Aunt Olga escaped from the burning house....

THE SENTIMENTAL HIGH SCHOOL GIRL. How interesting that was! Tell us another story, grandma. [_There is loud assent._] Yes, yes, grandma shall tell us another story!

GRANDMOTHER. But I have already told you so much. You heard all our history.

THE SENTIMENTAL HIGH SCHOOL GIRL. Not I, grandma; I have not heard the story of when you got lost in the _Friedrichsrode_ forest.

GRANDMOTHER. That story I have told you so often, children. Ask your mother about it; she'll tell you.

THE POLITE YOUNG MAN. But, grandma, I haven't heard it, either. Just tell us that one and we'll go to play tennis.

THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. If you'll pardon me, grandma, I believe you ought to tell us a different incident to-day. I've heard that history so often. Tell us something contemporaneous. Tell us about the first sewing machine, or the first railroad, or about crinolines or contemporary theater or art.

THE BLOND YOUNG LADY. No. Tell us about the woods.

THE OTHERS. Yes, yes, that's right,--the story of how you got lost.

[_The Disagreeable Young Man shrugs his shoulder and buries his head in his book. Grandmother begins to narrate, and the circle of her admiring and attentive audience grows narrower._]

GRANDMOTHER. Well, my children, it happened in the year eighteen hundred and forty, a year after grandfather was almost shot by error. In those days the happenings took us quite far away from here to _Friedrichsrode_, my dears, where you have never been. Your grandfather had a small estate there, and that's how we made our livelihood. We always wished and prayed to get the management of the large estate of the Count of Schwanhausen. But we lived there humbly in the little house.

THE BLOND YOUNG LADY. Was my mamma home then?

GRANDMOTHER. No, she was not in this world yet. But a year later she was born. So your grandfather and I lived then in this little red-roofed house. Your grandfather used to be busy with the land the entire day. Those days I was taking on weight, and to reduce I would take long walks through the country. One day in October--in the afternoon--it was beautiful sunny autumn weather--as usual I went again on my long walk. The country there is very beautiful--all hills--covered with dense forests. This afternoon my way led into the famous forest of _Friedrichsrode_. When there I kept on walking--here and there I would stop to pick a flower.

THE BLOND YOUNG LADY. Don't forget, grandma, that it was quite late when you left your house.

GRANDMOTHER. You are correct, my dear. After our dinner I had some things to attend to in the house and that is why I started that day later than usual. I was walking through the forest, going in deeper and deeper and suddenly I began to realize that it was getting dark. It was in the autumn and the days were getting short. When I saw how dark it was I turned homeward. But in the meanwhile evening came sooner than I counted, and suddenly it got dark altogether. Now, thought I, I must hustle. I hurried, as well as I could, but as much as I hurried I did not get home. Had I gone home the right way I would have reached it then, and so it dawned on me that I had lost my way.

THE SENTIMENTAL HIGH SCHOOL GIRL. Great Heavens....

GRANDMOTHER. Indeed, my child, I was really lost in the woods and in the _Friedrichsrode_ forest, besides. What that meant you cannot now realize. Since that time these woods have been considerably cleared. Then also we live in a different world to-day. But in those days _Friedrichsrode_ forest was a very, very dismal place. It spread away into the outskirts of the Harz Mountains and was a wild, primaeval, godforsaken forest where highway robbers were hiding. And in the winter it was full of the wolves from the mountains.

[_There is a short pause._]

THE VIVACIOUS GIRL. And what did you do, grandmother?

GRANDMOTHER. Really, my child, a great anxiety came upon me. I stood still and tried to fix my direction. Then I turned to a path which I figured ought to lead me home. After I walked a half hour, however, I found that the forest instead of getting lighter was getting thicker and thicker. Three or four times I changed the direction, but no matter what I did I was walking deeper and deeper into the dark woods. Although the moon was shining then, the branches of the trees were so thick that I could see but little. And that which I saw only frightened me all the more. Every tree stump, every overhanging bough excited my fear. My feet were continuously caught in the roots of big trees and the undergrowth tore my bleeding face and feet; and it was getting cold. I felt frozen. And dismally quiet, terribly dark was the night in the forest.

[_There is a pause and suspense._]

THE SENTIMENTAL HIGH SCHOOL GIRL. Good heavens, how perfectly terrible!

GRANDMOTHER. Then I collected all my wits. I said to myself, if I keep on walking I will lose my way all the more. I ought to remain where I am and wait. When grandfather arrives at home and misses me he will start a search with all the help and people. They will go into the woods with torchlights--and then I will see the lights from the distance and hear them call--and in that way I can get home.

THE MELANCHOLY GIRL. How clever of our grandma!

THE VIVACIOUS GIRL. And how brave!

GRANDMOTHER. After I figured it out that way I looked about for a sheltered nook. In between two great big tree trunks there was a cave, like a little house, a place all filled with soft moss. A pleasant camping place. I fell into this and prepared myself for a long wait. I waited and waited. The night peopled the woods with every kind of sound. There was whistling, whispering, humming, blowing, screeching and once from a distance a long-drawn deep howling. This, undoubtedly, was the wolves.

THE SENTIMENTAL HIGH SCHOOL GIRL [_frightened_]. Merciful God!

GRANDMOTHER. Then even I lost my courage. I wanted to run, run as long as my legs would carry me. But I realized that the wiser thing was to be brave and to remain. So I set my teeth and kept on waiting. And then gradually the howling ceased. So, I sat there on this moss bank gazing before me and thought of many things. Suddenly I heard a noise. I straightened up and listened. It was a breaking sound and a rustle as though some one were brushing aside the underbrush.... The noise was getting nearer and nearer.

THE SENTIMENTAL HIGH SCHOOL GIRL. Oh!

GRANDMOTHER. I was all ears. I could clearly distinguish now that the sound was the footstep of a human being. Frightened, I started through the darkness and in the dull moonlight I saw that actually a man was wading through the thick underbrush. What was I to do? I pressed against the tree trunk and my fast and loud-beating heart seemed to be in my throat. The man was coming directly toward me. When he was about three paces away from me and I could distinguish his features, I felt like fainting. It was "Red Mike," a very dangerous fellow from our neighborhood; every one knew that he was a robber. Later on he was imprisoned for murder, but he escaped from the prison. Now he was there.... What should I do?

THE VIVACIOUS GIRL [_breathlessly_]. What did you do, grandma?

THE SENTIMENTAL HIGH SCHOOL GIRL. Great heavens!

GRANDMOTHER. Frenzied, I pressed against the tree trunk. I wanted to hide, but the robber came directly toward me. It was as though he could see me even in this darkness and behind the tree trunk. Later on when he was caught, I found out, that he had prepared this very place for his night's resting place. He had brought all this soft moss there. Of course, I did not know that he just came there to rest himself. All I saw was that he was making directly for me. Then such a great fear seized me that instead of pressing against the tree and letting him go past me I shrieked just as he came within reaching distance and began to run away.

[_There is a pause and feverish suspense._]

THE MELANCHOLY YOUNG LADY. And what did the robber do?

GRANDMOTHER. My sudden outcry and quick dash and flight scared him for the moment, but as soon as I appeared in the moonlight, he saw that it was only a woman who had frightened him. He hesitated about a half a minute and then started to pursue me. I flew. I was young then and I could run fast. But it was dark and I did not know my way. As I pressed forward I ran into a low branch and tore my cheek so that it bled. My skirt was torn into shreds. Suddenly I stumbled and fell to the ground. I hurt myself quite painfully, but in spite of that I rose quickly again and commenced to run. And the robber after me all the time. I could always hear his footsteps in my wake. My legs were about to give up under me when I got an idea to hide behind a stout tree trunk. But the robber began to look through the underbrush in the spot where he last saw me and he finally found me. He came near me.

THE VIVACIOUS GIRL. How terrible!

GRANDMOTHER. With one single leap I jumped aside and started to run again. Once more I fell down and again I rose. Aimlessly I ran wildly over roots and stones and the robber kept right on after me.... And the distance between me and my pursuer was getting smaller and smaller. Then all of a sudden I heard the sound of his footsteps close to me--to escape him I tried to dash away to the side of him but with a sudden leap he was by my side. Grabbing me by my shoulder he threw me on the ground and I fell upon my back. He had run so fast that he dashed a couple of paces past me. He turned about.... And then I saw that he had a long knife in his hand.

THE SENTIMENTAL HIGH SCHOOL GIRL [_horrified_]. Merciful heaven!

GRANDMOTHER. I could not budge.... And unspeakable fear seized me.... Then I uttered a piercing shriek.... The robber approached me.... I cried out....

[_There is a pause._]

THE MELANCHOLY GIRL. Then, then--

THE VIVACIOUS GIRL. Well, what then? What?

GRANDMOTHER. I cried out like an insane person.... Now the robber was near me.... He bent over me.... Suddenly a voice sounded,--"_who is crying here?_" the voice seemed to be near--the footsteps were audible--"who's crying here?" it asked the second time.... The branches parted and a man in a hunting habit with a gun in his hand appeared. The robber took to his heels and flew into the woods. The hunter now came near me and called to a second man who followed. They helped me to rise and they carried me over to a small clearing. There I saw a light buggy into which they lifted me. Soon they fetched the horses and in a half hour I was in the Schwanhausen castle sipping hot brandy which they had prepared for me. The man in the hunting habit was the Count of Schwanhausen, who had been hunting in the woods.

THE SENTIMENTAL HIGH SCHOOL GIRL. How interesting!

GRANDMOTHER. In the castle I quite recovered. Then the Count ordered another carriage to drive me home and at six in the morning I landed safely in our house. Your grandpa was sick with worry.... He and his people had searched for me in the woods for hours. And that's how I was almost lost. A few days later grandpa went to thank the Count for my rescue. The Count took a liking to him.

THE BLOND YOUNG LADY. That was the old Count?

GRANDMOTHER. Yes, it was the old Count. The benefactor of all of us. Grandfather thanked him courteously for my rescue. The Count took a liking to him and soon after that grandfather got the management of the entire Schwanhausen estate, which proved the cornerstone of his good fortune. And that, my dears, is the story of my night wander in the forest of _Friedrichsrode_.

[_Amid general approval, Grandma is surrounded. Everybody is indebted to her. They all speak at once, except the The Disagreeable Young Man._]

"We thank you cordially."

"It was wonderful, grandma, dear."

"Interesting."

"Beautiful."

THE VIVACIOUS GIRL. Grandma is a story-telling genius!

THE POLITE YOUNG MAN. A most wonderful one!

GRANDMOTHER. Very well, my dears, but now run along to your tennis game. I'll come over later to watch on. [_They all agree._]

THE POLITE YOUNG MAN. Three cheers for our very dear beloved charming grandma.

[_They all cheer three times, then they surround her, kiss her cheeks and head and stroke her hair._]

THE BLOND YOUNG LADY. _Adieu_--old sweetheart.

THE BRUNETTE YOUNG LADY. _Auf wiedersehen_--precious grandma!

THE SENTIMENTAL HIGH SCHOOL GIRL [_inspired_]. Grandma...! [_She rushes over to her and covers her with kisses._]

[_Grandma bears all these amiabilities with pleasurable tolerance. She strokes and pats the grandchildren and as they retire, she fondly gazes after them, nodding to them with laughter._]

GRANDMOTHER. Curt--are not you going with the others?

THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. No.

GRANDMOTHER. Why not, Curt? Why don't you follow the others?

THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. They think that I am bad, and I know that they are stupid.

[_Grandmother seats herself in silence. The Disagreeable Young Man continues to read. He lights a new cigarette. While lighting the cigarette--_]

THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. Grandma!

GRANDMOTHER. What is it, my child?

THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. Whatever you say might, of course, never be questioned....

GRANDMOTHER. No, my child.

THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. But do tell me, grandma, did that story really happen in that way?

GRANDMOTHER. What story?

THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. The night wander through the _Friedrichsrode_ forest.

GRANDMOTHER. Certainly it happened.

THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. Exactly as you told it? Are you quite sure that you remember all those details.

GRANDMOTHER. Yes. Why?

THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. Oh, just so. I merely wanted to inquire, grandma.

GRANDMOTHER. But why did you want to?

THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. I was just interested. Thank you very much. Do not let me disturb you further, grandma.

[_He takes up his book and continues to read. The Grandmother remains seated, but is greatly embarrassed. She would like to keep on gazing into the park and enjoying her quiet, but she is unable to concentrate her thoughts. She is getting more and more disturbed. There is a pause._]

GRANDMOTHER. Curt!

THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. Yes--grandma, dear.

GRANDMOTHER. Curt, why have you asked me if the forest incident happened that way?

THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. I merely wanted to find out, grandma.

GRANDMOTHER. You just wanted to find out. But one does not ask such things without some good reason.

THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. I was interested.

GRANDMOTHER. Interested, but why are you interested?

THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. Just in general. But do not get disturbed on account of that, grandma.

[_The Grandmother is silent._]

[_The Disagreeable Young Man picks up his book. The Grandmother wants to drop the subject at this point. She does not succeed, but continues to look over toward the young man. He reads on._]

GRANDMOTHER. Curt!

THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. Yes, grandma, dear.

GRANDMOTHER. Curt, you shall tell me this instant the reason you asked if the incident really happened that way!

THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. But, grandma ... I have already told you that....

GRANDMOTHER. Don't you tell me again that you asked because the matter interested you. You would have never asked such a question if you did not have some special reason for it.

THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. But, grandma--

GRANDMOTHER. Curt, if you do not this moment tell me why you said that, then I will never--[_her voice becomes unusually strong and shakes_] I never in my life will speak to you again.

THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. But, grandma, I do not want to insult you.

GRANDMOTHER. You will not insult me if you will be sincere and open. Be sincere always.... And you will not insult me. But when your trying to hide something from me, that's when you insult me. This _cannot_ remain in this way. I must know what you are thinking of. I must know that.

THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. Grandma, I was afraid you would be angry with me.

GRANDMOTHER. If you keep on concealing things I shall be angry. No matter what you have to say I will not hold it against you.

THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. Are you not angry now?

GRANDMOTHER. No. I promise you I will not be angry. Say whatever you please.

[_The Disagreeable Young Man hesitates._]

GRANDMOTHER. Well, then--out with it--speak up, my child--be it what it may as long as it is frank and sincere. Speak up, now. Come!

THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. Very well then, grandma. It is impossible that the story could happen in that manner.

GRANDMOTHER [_offended_]. You mean that I told an untruth?

THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. Oh, no. I did not say that the incident did not happen. I just maintain that it could not have happened in that fashion.

GRANDMOTHER. But why not?

THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. On account of the details. Let us take it for granted, grandma, that as you state you commenced your exercise walk in the afternoon....

GRANDMOTHER. Yes.

THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. Let's say that you had household duties and started out quite late--about four o'clock.

GRANDMOTHER [_disturbed, but following the cross-examination intently_]. Yes.

THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. Very well, you started at four o'clock. The walk was a good one and consumed--let us say one hour and a half.

GRANDMOTHER. Yes.

THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. Yes? This brings us to half-past five o'clock. In October and in a dense forest besides at half-past five it gets fairly dark at that hour. It was then that you lost your way?

THE GRANDMOTHER [_nods her head in assent_].

THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. Another hour and a half spent in wandering--that brings us to seven o'clock. You now reached the night lodging of the robber--here you were resting?

GRANDMOTHER. Exactly.

THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. Quite right. Here you were waiting and resting--now we want to allow a long time for it--three--let us say--three and a half hours.

GRANDMOTHER [_involuntarily_]. Not that long....

THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. Oh, yes ... let us ... we'll then have reached half-past ten o'clock. It could not have been later when this forest bandit came. These pirates never go to their bed earlier. They shun light and must get their sleep while the world is the darkest. He could not sleep during the day even in the darkest forests. In short, then, it was half-past ten?

GRANDMOTHER. Half-past ten.

THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. Now began the flight and the pursuit. You ran--let us say--full twenty minutes. That is a great deal. I was a track runner in college and I know what a twenty-minute stretch means. Shall we say twenty minutes?

GRANDMOTHER. Twenty minutes....

THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. In any circumstances it was not even eleven when you were safely out of danger?

GRANDMOTHER. Yes.

THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. And--and a half hour later you were sipping hot brandy in the Schwanhausen castle?

GRANDMOTHER. Yes.

[_The Disagreeable Young Man is silent._]

GRANDMOTHER [_shaking with excitement_]. And--what else?

[_The Disagreeable Young Man is silent._]

GRANDMOTHER [_she shakes with fear as to what will follow, but forces herself to face it_]. Well, say on ... what else?...

THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. At six on the following morning you reached your home and.... [_He pauses._]

GRANDMOTHER [_if her loud-speaking could be called an outcry, then she cries out_]. Yes ... what else?... What happened then?... Go on ... say it ... what else?

THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. [_He makes a new attempt to tell everything bravely at once, but hesitates._] In the morning at six you arrived at home. The others had no idea as to the distance between _Schwanhausen_ and _Friederichsrode_. But I wanted to see it myself, so last year with a friend I made a walking trip through that country. I tried this distance. In a half hour of slow walking I reached from one place to the other, and the horses in the Count's stables and the state roads were then in as good condition as to-day. Well, then you started from the castle at half-past five in the morning; but you reached there at half-past eleven the preceding night.... You spent six entire hours in the castle.... Then, another point--they all speak of the count, the "benefactor of us all," as the "old count."... When he died five years ago he was, of course, an old count--an old man of seventy.... But thirty-five years ago he was a young count of thirty years of age.

[_The Grandmother stares blindly at The Disagreeable Young Man. Alarmed over Grandma's fright, he rises. He would very much like to make up to her, but he lacks words. The Grandmother rises. She is trembling. With a shaking hand she is nervously setting her dress to rights. Twice she turns to the young man to speak to him, but is unable to utter a word. Then she turns; she is about to return into the house, but remains near the doorstep. Again she turns; then she is about to go in, but turns again and remains standing._]

THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN [_frightened_]. Grandma, you gave me your word that you would not be angry.

GRANDMOTHER [_she stumbles forward a few steps. She is disturbed, shivering, beside herself, complaining, almost sobbing_]. You are an evil child! You are a bad, bad and evil child! For fifty years I have told the same story ... always the same, same way ... and that it happened differently never, never even came into my mind.

[_Curtain._]

THE RIGHTS OF THE SOUL

A PLAY

BY GIUSEPPE GIACOSA TRANSLATED BY THEODORA MARCONE.

CHARACTERS

PAOLO. MARIO. ANNA. MADDALENA.

PLACE: _A villa at Brianza_. TIME: _The Present_.

Applications for the right of performing THE RIGHTS OF THE SOUL must be made to Frank Shay, who may be addressed in care of Stewart & Kidd Company.

THE RIGHTS OF THE SOUL

ONE ACT BY GIUSEPPE GIACOSA

[SCENE: _A living-room well furnished in an old fashioned style but not shabbily. An open fire-place which is practical. A sofa. A writing desk. A closet at the back. Door leading into Anna's room at the left. Window at the right._

_Paolo discovered seated at the writing desk upon which there is a confusion of papers._]

[_Servant--Maddalena enters._]

PAOLO. Well, has he returned yet?

MADDALENA. Not yet.

PAOLO. He has taken a lot of time!

MADDALENA. I have been to look for him at the post-office cafe.

PAOLO. I told you to look in his room or in the garden. Was it necessary to run all over the country?

MADDALENA. Well, he wasn't there. I thought--he wasn't at the cafe either, but they told me where he was. He'll be back shortly. He went to the station at Poggio to meet the engineer of the water-works. The tax collector saw him walking in that direction. He always walks. But he will return by the stage for the engineer's sake. The stage should be here at any moment. It is sure though--but are you listening?

PAOLO. No, you may go.

MADDALENA. Yes, sir. But it is sure that if the engineer of the water-works really has arrived, your brother will not go away to-morrow. You and the Madame intend leaving to-morrow, don't you?

PAOLO. Yes, no. I don't know--yes, we will go to-morrow. Leave me alone.

MADDALENA. All right, but see if I'm wrong; I say that your brother will not go to-morrow, nor the day after to-morrow. Here he is.

MARIO. Were you looking for me?

PAOLO. Yes, for the last hour.

MADDALENA. Mr. Paolo--here asked me--

PAOLO. I did not ask you anything. Go away. [_He takes her by the arm and pushes her out._]

MARIO. What has happened?

PAOLO. She is insufferable. She isn't listening at the door, is she?

MARIO. No, be calm. I hear her in the garden. What has happened. You look worried.

PAOLO. [_After a pause._] Do you know why Luciano killed himself?

MARIO. No.

PAOLO. He killed himself for love. For the love of Anna. I have the proofs--they are there. I just found it out to-day, a moment ago. He has killed himself for the love of my wife. You and I were his relatives; he was a companion of my youth, my dearest friend. He tried to force her to love him. Anna repulsed him. He insisted; Anna responded firmly. Highly strung as he was, he killed himself.

MARIO. How did you find out?

PAOLO. I have the proofs, I tell you. I have been reading them for an hour. I am still stunned! They have been there for a month. You know that as soon as I received the telegram in Milan which announced his suicide in London, I ran to Luciano's room and gathered all his papers, made a packet of them, sealed it and brought them here.

MARIO. I told you to burn them.

PAOLO. I wanted to in fact, but afterward I thought it better to await until the authorities of the hospital, to whom he left the estate, had verified the accounts. The Syndic came here an hour ago, at the order of the sub-Prefect, to give me the wallet which was found on the body and which our Consul at London had sent to the Minister of Foreign Affairs. I was just putting them away into the desk, when I felt the desire, I don't know why, to look for the reason of his suicide which no one seemed able to explain. [_Mario starts._] You know? You suspect the reason?

MARIO. I suspected--

PAOLO. Suspected! You knew of this love?

MARIO. There, there--I will tell you, don't excite yourself!

PAOLO. No--answer me! You knew?

MARIO. I felt it--yes, that Luciano had lost his head.

PAOLO. And you never told me anything?

MARIO. What had I to tell you? Seen by others these things appear greater and more offensive than they are. And then I might have been wrong; I only see you and Anna during your short visits to the country. If you, who are with her all the year, did not see anything--On the other hand, Anna was always on her guard, she knew perfectly how to defend herself.

PAOLO. Oh, Anna! Anna is a saint! I have always thought of her as one. But now--

MARIO. GO on--tell me.

PAOLO. In the wallet I found a letter and noticed it was in Anna's handwriting.

MARIO. It was perfectly natural that your wife should write to our cousin.

PAOLO. Naturally. In fact I have read it. Here it is. [_Mario starts to take the letter._] No, listen. [_Paolo reads._] "You write me--" [_Speaking._] There is no heading. [_Reads._] "You write me that if I do not respond you will return immediately. I love my husband, that is my reply. This and only this forever. I beg you not to torment me. Anna."

MARIO. Of course.

PAOLO. The scoundrel.

MARIO. What date is that letter?

PAOLO. Luciano himself has noted the hour and date when he received it. He has written here in pencil: "Received to-day, June 26th, 11 A.M." He killed himself before noon.

MARIO. Poor devil! One can see it was a stroke of insanity; the writing demonstrates that.

PAOLO. You understand of course, that I did not stop there. I opened the wallet. I found four other letters from Anna all on the same subject and in the same tone. The first is of three years ago. There are few words; returning a letter Luciano had written. I looked for this letter of Luciano--it is not here. He must have destroyed it. He kept only hers. Then there is a little note from Rome; you know Anna visited her mother in Rome for a month last winter. It is evident that our friend followed her. Anna would not see him. Then there is a long one which must have been written when he was recovering from that fall he had from his horse. It is the only long one among the five--written in affectionate terms, reasoning and begging; a wonderful letter, good, noble; read--read.

MARIO [_turning away_]. No, no, no.

PAOLO. Listen, just a moment.

MARIO. I don't like to.

PAOLO. She does nothing but speak of me, of our brotherly youth. She also speaks of you. She says--

MARIO. No, I beg of you. It is useless. I know what kind of a woman my sister-in-law is and I do not need proofs of her virtue. Why do you bother with those poor letters? Is it so painful that you have found them?

PAOLO. Painful? It is painful that I am not able to weep for a false relative who wished to rob--

MARIO. Let him alone. He is dead and he has not robbed you of anything. If he had lived he would not have robbed you of anything, the same. Anna knew how--

PAOLO. And this? And this? You count as little? Is this painful? I never had the shadow of a doubt about Anna, but--nor has the thought even passed through my mind--but it is different not to have doubted and not to have thought, than to possess the palpable proof of her faith and love. "I love my husband." It is the refrain of all her letters.

MARIO. Was it necessary that she tell you this?

PAOLO. She did not tell it to me, she told it to him. She told it to him--do you understand? Luciano had all the qualities which attract a woman. He was younger, better looking than I, well spoken, full of fire and courage.

MARIO. How it pleases you, eh? To praise him now!

PAOLO. Painful? If I had burned, as you wished, those papers and then one day I should have discovered this love, who could then have lifted this suspicion from my mind?

MARIO. The certainty makes you suspicious!

PAOLO. What do you mean?

MARIO. If you had feared this a year ago, that which has happened would not have occurred. I was wrong not to have opened your eyes. A long way off, perhaps Luciano would not have killed himself.

PAOLO. But I would have lacked the proof.

MARIO. Your tranquility costs much--to the others.

PAOLO. You can't pretend that I should feel badly about the fate of Luciano?

MARIO. I am not speaking of him.

PAOLO. Of whom?

MARIO. Of your wife. Think what she must be suffering!

PAOLO. Do you think she blames herself?

MARIO. Of course.

PAOLO. I have noticed that she was distressed but not agitated.

MARIO. You do not see the continuous things, you only see the unexpected. Besides, Anna is mistress of herself.

PAOLO. And she has done her duty.

MARIO. It is a long time that she has done her duty.

PAOLO. I shall know how to comfort her, there, I shall know how to cheer her. You shall see, Mario. I feel that we have returned to the first days of our marriage, that I possess her only from to-day.

MARIO. Leave it to time. You have read--you have known. It is enough. It is useless that Anna knows you know.

PAOLO. She was here when the Syndic gave me the wallet. But she went out immediately.

MARIO. She does not know, then, that you have read?

PAOLO. She will have imagined it.

MARIO. No. And in any case she would be grateful if you pretended to ignore....

PAOLO. Let us be frank. Don't let's argue. Nothing is more dreadful than to plan out a line of conduct in these matters. What she has done, Anna has done for me. I must think how to repay her. She has done this for me, for me, do you understand?

MARIO. And who says the contrary? See how you excite yourself.

PAOLO. Excite myself! Certainly, I will not go and say: "I have read your letters and I thank you very much!" One understands that when I speak of comforting her and of cheering her I intend to do it with the utmost tenderness, with the utmost confidence. I have always been like that. That was why she loved me. There is no need to change even to please you.

MARIO. How you take it!

PAOLO. It is you who take it badly. You have not said a just word to me. I thought better of you. One would say, to hear you, that this discovery was a disgrace. What has happened new from this discovery? Luciano is dead a month ago, the first grief is passed. If I did continue to ignore everything he would not return to life! He did not arrive to do me the harm he wanted to; so peace be to his soul. There remains the certainty of my wife's love and for this, think as you wish, I rejoice for the best fortune which could befall me.

MARIO. Come here. [_He places an arm around Paolo's shoulders._] Are you persuaded that I love you?

PAOLO. Yes.

MARIO. Well then, if you are content, so am I. Is it all right?

PAOLO. Yes. Now go and pack your bag.

MARIO. Ah, that reminds me, I cannot go to-morrow.

PAOLO. No!

MARIO. The engineer Falchi has arrived. The day after to-morrow there is the meeting of the water-company.

PAOLO. Send it to the devil.

MARIO. I cannot, I am the president.

PAOLO. It was arranged that we were to leave to-day. We put it off on your account.

MARIO. How could it be helped? I had to sell the hay. It is now a question of three days, four at the most.

PAOLO. Suppose Anna and I go meanwhile? The rent of the chalet started fifteen days ago. You can join us as soon as you are free.

MARIO. If you think so--

PAOLO. I'll tell you. The day after to-morrow is Anna's birthday. Until the business kept me in Milan all of July, we always passed that day together--just Anna and I. We did not do this on purpose, but things turned out so. Last year I was able to be free early in July and we came here to stay until September. Well, three days before her birthday, Anna begged me to take her for a trip to Switzerland. She did not tell me, you understand, the reason for her desire, but insisted upon leaving immediately. We went to Interlaken and from there we went up to Murren. The day of Saint Anna we were at Murren. The place was so lovely, Anna liked it so much, that then and there I arranged for a chalet for this year. Fifteen days ago you--who never go anywhere, proposed to accompany us--

MARIO. Did you find it indiscreet of me?

PAOLO. No. You saw that Anna was pleased. She is very fond of you.

MARIO. I know.

PAOLO. When you had to postpone your leaving it was the same as to propose that we wait for you. But the first delay would still have allowed us to arrive in time; this second one will not and I, for my part, now especially desire to be there at the date arranged. It is childish if you wish--

MARIO. No. All right. I will join you there.

PAOLO. We postponed leaving until to-morrow to await you; but now that you cannot come immediately we could leave this evening. [_Jumping up._] I must go--to get out of here. Those letters--

MARIO. Burn them. Give them to me.

PAOLO. Ah, no. Not yet.

MARIO. Go. Go to-night; it is better. But will Anna be ready?

ANNA. [_Who has entered._] To do what?

MARIO. I was telling Paolo that I could not leave to-morrow; nor for three or four days. It is useless that you two remain here in the heat to wait for me. Paolo must be back in Milan at the beginning of September; every day shortens his vacation. I am old enough to travel alone; as soon as I am free I will join you. What do you say?

ANNA. As you wish.

MARIO. I also desire to thoroughly clean the house and garden. Your presence would disturb me, and mine is necessary.

PAOLO. And as Mario cannot accompany us, we may as well leave this evening.

ANNA. So soon?

PAOLO. Your luggage is almost finished.

MARIO. You will gain a day. At this season of the year it is better to travel by night than by day. It is full moon now and the Gottard road is charming.

ANNA [_distractedly_]. Yes. Yes.

MARIO [_to Paolo_]. Then you had better go immediately to the stable in the piazza and tell them to hold a carriage in readiness. At what time does the train leave from Poggio?

PAOLO. At seven-thirty.

MARIO. Tell him to be here at six. I would send Battista to order it, but the engineer has taken him with him. On the other hand, it is better that you see the carriage, they have some antediluvian arks!

PAOLO. And why don't you go? He knows you and you know his arsenal--you could choose better.

MARIO. You are right. Anna, I will send Maddalena to help you with your luggage?

ANNA. Yes, thank you, Mario. Send Maddalena to help me.

MARIO [_going off_]. And dinner is at five.

PAOLO. Yes.

[_Mario exits. Silence. Anna takes a few steps toward the desk. Paolo goes impetuously to Anna and takes her in his arms and kisses her. She breaks away violently._]

ANNA. Oh--horrors! [_The words escape from her lips involuntarily._]

PAOLO [_drawing back_]. Anna!

ANNA. There was one of my letters in that wallet, wasn't there?

PAOLO. Yes, there was.

ANNA. You have read it?

PAOLO. Yes.

ANNA. I have killed a man and you embrace me for that?

PAOLO. I did not want to. I was tempted not to tell you. Mario advised me not to. Then when I saw you--you filled me with tenderness! But what did you say, Anna?

ANNA. Pardon me. And promise me that you will never speak of all this again, either here or hereafter, directly or indirectly--never.

PAOLO. I promise.

ANNA. You will not keep your promise.

PAOLO. Oh!

ANNA. You will not keep it. I know you. What a misfortune that you should have known it! I saw it in your eyes when I came in, that you knew. I had hoped that you would always have ignored it. I prayed so. But as soon as I entered I saw immediately. [_With imperceptible accent of mocking pity._] You had a modest and embarrassed air. I know you so well. Do you want to hear how well? When Mario proposed you go for the carriage, I thought--he will not go. When you sent him instead, I smiled.

PAOLO. I noticed it, but I did not understand.

PAOLO. That's nothing. That you should read me is natural.

ANNA. In exchange, eh? And listen--when Mario was leaving, I also thought--now the minute we are alone--he will come to me and embrace me.

PAOLO. You imagine very well....

ANNA. This was also natural, wasn't it?

PAOLO. I love you so much, Anna. [_A long pause._] It is strange that in your presence I have a sense of restraint. I tell you something and immediately I think should I tell her? Was it better I kept silent? It is the first time I have had this feeling toward you. We both need distraction.

ANNA. Yes, but to-day I do not leave.

PAOLO. No? But you said--

ANNA. I have thought better. There is not the time to get ready.

PAOLO. Your luggage is ready.

ANNA. Oh, there is a lot to do.

PAOLO. We have eight hours yet.

ANNA. I am tired.

PAOLO. Mario has just gone to order the carriage.

ANNA. It can be for another day.

PAOLO. Perhaps to-morrow--

ANNA. Not to-day, certainly.

PAOLO. I do not know how to tell Mario. It looks like a whim.

ANNA. Oh, Mario will understand.

PAOLO. More than I do.

ANNA. I did not wish to say--

PAOLO. Anna, you do not pardon me for having read those letters.

ANNA. You see, you have already begun to speak of them again! Well, no, no, no, poor Paolo, it is not that. I have nothing to pardon. Believe me. I feel no wrath or bitterness. I would have given, I don't know what, if you had ignored them; for you, for your own good, for your peace, not for me. But I felt that some time or other--[_Pause._] It has been a useless tragedy--you will see.

PAOLO. What do you mean?

ANNA. I don't know, don't mind me--excuse me--[_Moves up._]

PAOLO. Are you going?

ANNA. Yes.

PAOLO. So you won't tell me if we go to-morrow?

ANNA. We have time to decide.

PAOLO. Oh, rather. [_Anna exits. Silence._] A useless tragedy! [_Sits with his elbows upon his knees and his head in his hands._]

MARIO [_coming in_]. There, that is done. And Anna?

PAOLO. She's there. [_Points off._]

MARIO. Maddalena will be here immediately, she was still at the wash-house. Well? Come, come, shake yourself, throw off that fixed idea. One knows that at the first opportunity--You do well to leave immediately, the trip will distract you.

PAOLO. We do not go.

MARIO. What?

PAOLO. Anna does not want to.

MARIO. Why?

PAOLO [_shrugs his shoulders_].

MARIO. She said so?

PAOLO. She understood, she asked me.... I could not deny it.

MARIO. She asked of her own accord, without you saying anything?

PAOLO. Do me the favor of not judging me now. If you knew what I am thinking!

MARIO. Do you wish that I speak to her? I am convinced that to remain here is the worse thing to do.

PAOLO. Try it. Who knows? You understand her so well! She said so herself.

MARIO. And you promise me not to worry meanwhile?

PAOLO. What is the use of promising? I wouldn't keep it. She said that also. She knows me. Don't you know me?

MARIO. Is she in her room?

PAOLO. I think so.

MARIO. Leave it to me.

PAOLO. Look out. If--no, no, go--go--we shall see afterwards. [_Mario exits. Paolo takes a letter from the wallet, reads it attentively, accentuating the words._] "You write me that if I do not respond you will return immediately." [_Speaks._] You write me! Where is that letter? [_Reads._] "I love my husband, that is my response. This and only this forever. I beg you not to torment me." [_Speaks._] I beg you not to torment me. Ummm!

MADDALENA. Here I am.

PAOLO. I do not want you. It is not necessary now. If I need you I will call you.

MADDALENA. Excuse me, Mr. Paolo, is it true what they say in the village?

PAOLO. What?

MADDALENA. That the Syndic brought the wallet of Mr. Luciano this morning with a lot of money in it for the poor!

PAOLO. Why--no.

MADDALENA. The servant of the Syndic said so just now at the wash-house.

PAOLO. There was nothing in it, the Syndic also knows that.

MADDALENA. Oh, it would not have been a surprise. Mr. Luciano came here rarely, but when he did he spent.

PAOLO. I am glad to hear it.

MADDALENA. Last year, to Liberata, the widow of the miner who went to America to join his son and to whom you gave fifty lire, well, Mr. Luciano gave her a hundred.

PAOLO. What a story! He wasn't even here at that time.

MADDALENA. Wasn't even here? I saw him--

PAOLO. Nonsense. That woman received word that her husband was killed in the mine and that the son wanted her to come to America, the day I left for Switzerland, a year ago yesterday or to-day; I remember it because I gave her a little money in gold which I had been able to procure. She was to leave two days later....

MADDALENA. There you are.

PAOLO. There you are nothing. Luciano was not there. I know.

MADDALENA. He arrived the day Liberata started on the trip.

PAOLO. Oh, two days after we left.

MADDALENA. Yes it was. He arrived in the morning.

PAOLO. At his villa.

MADDALENA. No, no, here; but he found only Mr. Mario; he was annoyed, poor man, and left immediately.

PAOLO. Ah, I did not know that.... Then you are right. Ah, so he came? You are right. Oh, he was generous! He left all to the hospital.

MADDALENA. Yes, yes. But what hospital?

MARIO [_off stage calls_]. Maddalena!

MADDALENA. Here I am.

MARIO [_entering_]. Go to Madame, she needs you. [_Maddalena exits._] [_To Paolo._] I have persuaded her.

PAOLO. How fortunate to have a good lawyer.

MARIO. And as you see, it did not take long.

PAOLO. Want to bet I know how you convinced her?

MARIO. Oh, it was very easy--I said....

PAOLO. No, let me tell you. I want my little triumph. You gave up the business which held you here and decided to leave with us.

MARIO. Even that.

PAOLO. Eh? Didn't I know it? When you went away I was just about to tell you and then I wanted to wait and see. So now Anna is disposed to go?

MARIO. Are you sorry?

PAOLO. I should say not! All the more as we are--are we not going to amuse ourselves? The place, the trip, the hotels,--yes, it is better. But the company! To run away there should be few of us.

MARIO. What are you saying?

PAOLO [_putting his two hands on Mario's shoulders and facing him._] To run away--do you understand? We must be a few. To run away as Anna and I did last year.

MARIO. I do not understand.

PAOLO. You did not tell me that Luciano had been here last year, nor the day that he was here.

MARIO. I don't know. I do not remember....

PAOLO. There you are--there--there--I knew it! And you knew that Anna went away from here to avoid him. And I went with her all unconscious. You saw the husband take a train and run away before the other could arrive!

MARIO. And if it is true. It does not tell you more or less than the letters did.

PAOLO. No, a little more. Everything tells a little more. One grain of sand piles up upon another, then another until it makes the mill-stone which crushes you. It tells a little more. It is one thing to keep away and another to run away. One can keep away a trouble without begging it to keep its distance. But one runs away for fear.

MARIO. Uh-h!

PAOLO. And look here--look--look, let us examine the case. Let us see. It is improbable that he wrote her he was coming. It is sure he did not or she would have responded: "You write me that you are coming.... I love my husband--I beg you to remain away."

MARIO. Oh!

PAOLO. So she, foreseeing his intentions, felt that he would come ... by that divination....

MARIO. You are the first husband to get angry because a wife did her duty.

PAOLO. Uhm! Duty--the ugly word!

MARIO. If there ever was a virtuous woman!

PAOLO. Woman or wife?

MARIO. It is the same.

PAOLO. No, no. A woman is for all; a wife for myself alone. Do you believe one marries a woman because she is virtuous? Never! I marry her because I love her and because I believe she loves me. There are a thousand virtuous women, there is one that I love, one alone who loves me ... if there is one....

MARIO. Paolo!

PAOLO. And if she loved him? Tell me--and if she loved him? And if she repulsed him for virtue's sake, for duty's sake? Tell me. What remains for me? If he was alive I could fight, I might win out. But he is dead--and has killed himself for love of her. If she loved him no force can tear him from her heart.

MARIO. You think--?

PAOLO. I do not know. It is that--I do not know. And I want to--I want to hear her shout it to my face. And she shall tell me.... Oh, I had the feeling the minute I had read the first letter. I did not then understand anything, indeed, I believed; "I love my husband." But I immediately felt a blow here--and it hurt me so! And I did not know what it was. Oh, before some fears assume shape, it takes time. First they gnaw, they gnaw and one does not know what they are. I was content.... I told you I was content, I wanted to persuade myself, but you have seen that fear gnaws at my heart. And if she loved him? Oh, surely! The more admirable eh? All the world would admire her. I, myself, would admire her upon my knees if she were the wife of another. But she is mine. I am not the judge of my wife. I am too intimately concerned, I cannot judge, I am the owner--she is mine--a thing of mine own. I must admire her because, while she could have cheated me altogether, she has only cheated me a little. I see that which she has robbed me of, not that which remains.

MARIO. You are crazy!

PAOLO. Do you not see that I am odious to her?

MARIO. Oh, God!

PAOLO. Odious! You were not here a moment ago. Don't you see that it is necessary that she have your help in order to support my presence?

MARIO. To-day. Because she knows that you have read--did I not tell you? Because it is embarrassing.

PAOLO. Not only to-day. You never move from this place. For fifteen years that you have played at being a farmer, you have not been away for a week. And fifteen days ago you suddenly decided to make a tour of the world. She begged you to.

MARIO. I swear--

PAOLO. I do not believe you. Anna shall have to tell me. [_Paolo starts to exit._]

MARIO. What are you doing?

PAOLO. I am going to ask her.

MARIO. No, Paolo.

PAOLO. Let me go.

MARIO. No. Maddalena is also there.

PAOLO. Oh, as far as that's concerned--[_Calls._] Anna--Anna!

MARIO. You are very ungrateful.

PAOLO. If she loved me it did not come hard for her to repulse him. If she loved him, I owe her no gratitude.

ANNA [_entering_]. Did you call me?

[_Mario starts to exit._]

PAOLO. No, no. Remain. Yes, Anna. I wanted to ask you something. Whatever you say, I shall believe you.

ANNA. Of that I am certain.

PAOLO. Was it you who begged Mario to come with us? Not to-day I don't mean.

ANNA. Neither to-day nor before.

MARIO. You see!

ANNA. I did not beg him nor did I propose it to him. But I must say that if Mario had not come I would not have gone either.

PAOLO. To-day. But fifteen days ago?

MARIO. Listen, this is ridiculous.

ANNA. It is natural that Paolo desires to know and he has the right to question me.

PAOLO. I do not wish to impose my rights.

ANNA. There you are wrong. We must value our own and respect those of the others. Fifteen days ago I would have gone with you alone.

MARIO. Oh, blessed God!

PAOLO. You were afraid that she would say no?

ANNA. But his consent to accompany us greatly relieved me.

PAOLO. Which is to say that my company would have weighed upon you.

ANNA. Not weighed. It would have annoyed me.

PAOLO. May one ask why?

ANNA. You may as well. Because I was shadowed by an unhappiness which you ignored at the time, whereas now you know the reasons. Knowing them, you will understand that I must be very worried, but for the sake of your peace I must hide my unhappiness, seeing that I had nothing to reproach myself with in relation to you. You understand that for two to be together, always together, it would be more difficult to pretend all the time--all the time! While the presence of a third person--

MARIO. But listen--listen--

ANNA. Mario had the good idea to accompany us.

PAOLO. Mario, who knew him!

ANNA. I ignore that.

PAOLO. Did he ever speak of it?

MARIO. Do not reply, Anna, do not answer, come away--he is ill, he does not reason--poor devil--it will pass and he will understand then--

ANNA. No, it is useless.

PAOLO. A useless tragedy, isn't it, Anna?

ANNA. Do you require anything more of me?

PAOLO [_imperiously_]. Yes. I want the letters which you wrote to Luciano.

ANNA. That is just. I will go and get them. [_Exits._]

PAOLO. All!

[_Anna returns and hands Paolo a key._]

ANNA. They're in my desk, in the first drawer at the right. They are tied with a black ribbon.

PAOLO. Very well. [_Exits._]

MARIO. Pardon him, Anna, he does not know what he is doing. He loves you so much? He is rather weak.

ANNA. Oh, without pity!

MARIO. As are the weak. He loves you--he loves you.

ANNA. Worse for him that he loves me. He will lose.

MARIO. No, it is for you to help him.

ANNA. As long as I can.

[_Paolo returns with the letters in his hand, goes to the desk and takes out the others, throws them all into the fire-place and lights them._]

MARIO. What are you doing? Look, Anna!

[_Anna stands rigid, erect and watches the letters burn, and murmurs as though to herself._]

ANNA. Gone! Gone! Gone!

[_Paolo comes to Anna with hands clinched as though in prayer, bursts into tears and kneels before her. Mario goes off half in contempt and half in despair._]

PAOLO [_on his knees_]. And now--can you pardon me?

[_Anna reluctantly rests a hand upon his head, then indulgently and discouragingly._]

ANNA. Rise--rise.

PAOLO. Tell me that you pardon me. I swear that I want to die here and now.

ANNA. Yes, yes. Arise; do not remain so. It hurts me.

PAOLO [_getting up_]. I do not know what got into my head--but I have suffered a great deal.

ANNA. Yes, I see. Yes ... calm yourself.

PAOLO. Mario has no tact ... it was he who irritated me from the first. [_Anna starts to go._] Do not go. Stay here a moment. [_Anna sits upon the sofa._] You see the stroke of madness has passed. It was only because Mario was here. Mario is good, judicious, but his presence irritated me. Yes, yes, you were right. But you should also understand the state of my mind. [_He walks up and down._] After all, what does all this disturbance mean? It means that I love you--and it seems to me that is the essential thing! One must consider the source of things. It is five years that we are husband and wife and you cannot say I have ever given you the slightest reason for regret. I do not believe so. Five years are five years. I have worked up to a good position, you have always figured in society; a pastime which I would never have enjoyed alone. I had friends, the club, the other husbands after the first year of marriage, in the evenings, I renounced everything. I do not wish to praise myself, but--

ANNA. Please don't walk up and down so much!

PAOLO. Excuse me. Will you allow me to sit here next to you? [_Long silence._] When shall I see you smile, Anna? No, do not get up. Then it is not true that you have pardoned me!

ANNA. What do you wish, Paolo? What do you wish of me? Say it quickly!

PAOLO. You made me promise never to speak of it.

ANNA. Oh, but I said that you would break your promise immediately. You are wrong though, believe me. Do not ask me anything. When there is no more danger I promise you, and I will keep my promise. I promise that I will tell you everything without your asking me. And it will be good for both of us. But I wish to choose the moment.

PAOLO. All right then. Do not tell me anything, but come away with me, with me alone. I will attend to Mario. He was coming to please you and he will be much happier to see us leave together, as a sign of peace. I understand that it is repulsive to you to re-awaken those memories; all right, instead of awakening them I will make you forget them--I swear it--I swear that I will never speak of them again, but come away with me and you shall see how much love....

ANNA. Do not insist, Paolo. If you insist I shall come--but--

PAOLO. No, no, I do not insist. You see me here begging. I do not want you by force. But listen once more, listen. I am grateful, you must understand, for that which you have done. Oh, I shall recompense you for it all my life. I realize there is not a more saintly woman in all the world, but you must enter into my soul and feel a little pity also for me.

ANNA. Ah, ah! [_Laughs bitterly._]

PAOLO. Why do you prolong this torment? You said when there is no more danger! What danger is there? Upon whom depends this danger--from you or from me? What can time change for us? I have always loved you, I love you now, and in this moment I love you as I have never loved you! Give me your hand--only your hand. God, Anna! You are beautiful! And you are my wife--you are my wife and the oath which you took when we were married, is not only one of faithfulness, but of love. Come away--come away.

ANNA. No, no, no.

PAOLO. No? Are you afraid? Afraid of being unfaithful to him?

ANNA. Paolo--Paolo!

PAOLO. And if I wish it?

ANNA. You cannot wish it.

PAOLO. And if I want?

ANNA. Paolo!--

PAOLO. And if I command?

ANNA. You will, in one moment, destroy all my plan. Think--your violence is a liberation for me.

PAOLO. Oh, come--or speak!

ANNA. Do you wish it so? We have come to that? I have done all that I could.

PAOLO. Yes, go on. Speak!

ANNA. I loved Luciano and I love him still.

PAOLO. Oh!

ANNA. I loved him. I loved him--do you hear? I loved him and I feel an immense joy to say it here and you did not see that I was dying to say it--and when I saw you nearly stifling me with your ferocious curiosity, I said to myself: "It will out--it will out"... And it has come. I loved him, I love him and I have never loved any one in the world but him and I feel only remorse for my virtue. Now do you know?

PAOLO. Very well! [_Starts to go._]

ANNA. Ah, no. Remain here--now you hear me. You wished that I speak, now I do.... It is I now who command you to stay. You must understand very well that after a scene such as this, everything is finished between us, so I must tell you everything. I listened to you and will listen to you again if you wish, but you also must listen to me. What have you ever done for me? What help have you given me? Have you known how to see when it was right that you should see? Have you known even how to suspect? Was it necessary that a man die.... Not even that! When you were not suffering, as you are suffering now, did you know how to see the way I suffered? You thought that my sorrow was for a dead relative! You did not understand that I was crazed; you slept next to me and yet you did not realize that the first few nights I bit the covers so as not to cry out. In a moment you realize all the facts. And what are these facts? That I, your wife for many years, have defended your peace in silence. I have fulfilled that which people call my duty. Then your curiosity is awakened and to make up for lost time you wish to violate my soul and penetrate down to its very depths. Ah--Paolo, no, no; one cannot do this. No, it will not help to know everything. One does not enter into the soul by the front door; one enters by stealth. You have tried to force an entrance; now you see there is nothing more inside for you.

PAOLO. No? You think you are right, eh? You are right--it is true--I admit that you are right. So I have never had your love, eh? You have said so; that I never had your love! Then what? You are right. Still--do you know what I shall do? I throw you out of my house!

ANNA [_happily_]. I go, I go, I go and I shall never come back! And do not beg me and do not come after me. I have no more strength to have pity, when I say good-by, I shall be as dead to you! [_Runs off into her room. Paolo stunned, stares after her awaiting for her return. Anna returns with her hat and cloak, crosses to exit._]

PAOLO. No, Anna, no, no, no. Anna, no. For pity's sake wait! We are both mad. What will become of us? I need you. [_Paolo tries to get in her way to stop her._] Do not go. I do not want you to--remain here. I was crazy--do not go, you will see that--for all my life--[_Anna tries to break away._] No, for pity's sake--if you go--if you break from me--if you speak--I feel that this will be the end of everything! Remain! Remain, Anna! [_She breaks away._]

ANNA. Good-by! [_Exits._]

[_Curtain._]

LOVE OF ONE'S NEIGHBOR

A COMEDY

BY LEONID ANDREYEV TRANSLATED BY THOMAS SELTZER.

Reprinted from "The Plays of the Washington Square Players," published by Frank Shay.

The professional and amateur stage rights on this play are strictly reserved by Mr. Thomas Seltzer. Applications for permission to produce the play should be made to Mr. Seltzer, 5 West 50th St., New York City.

LOVE OF ONE'S NEIGHBOR

A COMEDY BY LEONID ANDREYEV

[SCENE: _A wild place in the mountains_.

_A man in an attitude of despair is standing on a tiny projection of a rock that rises almost sheer from the ground. How he got there it is not easy to say, but he cannot be reached either from above or below. Short ladders, ropes and sticks show that attempts have been made to save the unknown person, but without success._

_It seems that the unhappy man has been in that desperate position a long time. A considerable crowd has already collected, extremely varied in composition. There are venders of cold drinks; there is a whole little bar behind which the bartender skips about out of breath and perspiring--he has more on his hands than he can attend to; there are peddlers selling picture postal cards, coral beads, souvenirs, and all sorts of trash. One fellow is stubbornly trying to dispose of a tortoise-shell comb, which is really not tortoise-shell. Tourists keep pouring in from all sides, attracted by the report that a catastrophe is impending--Englishmen, Americans, Germans, Russians, Frenchmen, Italians, etc., with all their peculiar national traits of character, manner and dress. Nearly all carry alpenstocks, field-glasses and cameras. The conversation is in different languages, all of which, for the convenience of the reader, we shall translate into English._

_At the foot of the rock where the unknown man is to fall, two policemen are chasing the children away and partitioning off a space, drawing a rope around short stakes stuck in the ground. It is noisy and jolly._]

POLICEMAN. Get away, you loafer! The man'll fall on your head and then your mother and father will be making a hullabaloo about it.

BOY. Will he fall here?

POLICEMAN. Yes, here.

BOY. Suppose he drops farther?

SECOND POLICEMAN. The boy is right. He may get desperate and jump, land beyond the rope and hit some people in the crowd. I guess he weighs at least about two hundred pounds.

FIRST POLICEMAN. Move on, move on, you! Where are you going? Is that your daughter, lady? Please take her away! The young man will soon fall.

LADY. Soon? Did you say he is going to fall soon? Oh, heavens, and my husband's not here!

LITTLE GIRL. He's in the cafe, mamma.

LADY [_desperately_]. Yes, of course. He's always in the cafe. Go call him, Nellie. Tell him the man will soon drop. Hurry! Hurry!

VOICES. Waiter!--Garcon--Kellner--Three beers out here!--No beer?--What?--Say, that's a fine bar--We'll have some in a moment--Hurry up--Waiter!--Waiter!--Garcon!

FIRST POLICEMAN. Say, boy, you're here again?

BOY. I wanted to take the stone away.

POLICEMAN. What for?

BOY. So he shouldn't get hurt so badly when he falls.

SECOND POLICEMAN. The boy is right. We ought to remove the stone. We ought to clear the place altogether. Isn't there any sawdust or sand about?

[_Two English tourists enter. They look at the unknown man through field-glasses and exchange remarks._]

FIRST TOURIST. He's young.

SECOND TOURIST. How old?

FIRST TOURIST. Twenty-eight.

SECOND TOURIST. Twenty-six. Fright has made him look older.

FIRST TOURIST. How much will you bet?

SECOND TOURIST. Ten to a hundred. Put it down.

FIRST TOURIST [_writing in his notebook. To the policeman_]. How did he get up there? Why don't they take him off?

POLICEMAN. They tried, but they couldn't. Our ladders are too short.

SECOND TOURIST. Has he been here long?

POLICEMAN. Two days.

FIRST TOURIST. Aha! He'll drop at night.

SECOND TOURIST. In two hours. A hundred to a hundred.

FIRST TOURIST. Put it down. [_He shouts to the man on the rock._] How are you feeling? What? I can't hear you.

UNKNOWN MAN [_in a scarcely audible voice_]. Bad, very bad.

LADY. Oh, heavens, and my husband is not here!

LITTLE GIRL [_running in_]. Papa said he'll get here in plenty of time. He's playing chess.

LADY. Oh, heavens! Nellie, tell him he must come. I insist. But perhaps I had rather--Will he fall soon, Mr. Policeman? No? Nellie, you go. I'll stay here and keep the place for papa.

[_A tall, lanky woman of unusually independent and military appearance and a tourist dispute for the same place. The tourist, a short, quiet, rather weak man, feebly defends his rights; the woman is resolute and aggressive._]

TOURIST. But, lady, it is my place. I have been standing here for two hours.

MILITARY WOMAN. What do I care how long you have been standing here. I want this place. Do you understand? It offers a good view, and that's just what I want. Do you understand?

TOURIST [_weakly_]. It's what I want, too.

MILITARY WOMAN. I beg your pardon, what do you know about these things anyway?

TOURIST. What knowledge is required? A man will fall. That's all.

MILITARY WOMAN [_mimicking_]. "A man will fall. That's all." Won't you have the goodness to tell me whether you have ever seen a man fall? No? Well, I did. Not one, but three. Two acrobats, one rope-walker and three aeronauts.

TOURIST. That makes six.

MILITARY WOMAN [_mimicking_]. "That makes six." Say, you are a mathematical prodigy. And did you ever see a tiger tear a woman to pieces in a zoo, right before your eyes? Eh? What? Yes, exactly. Now, I did--Please! Please!

[_The tourist steps aside, shrugging his shoulders with an air of injury, and the tall woman triumphantly takes possession of the stone she has won by her prowess. She sits down, spreading out around her her bag, handkerchief, peppermints, and medicine bottle, takes off her gloves and wipes her field-glass, glancing pleasantly on all around. Finally she turns to the lady who is waiting for her husband in the cafe_].

MILITARY WOMAN [_amiably_]. You will tire yourself out, dear. Why don't you sit down?

LADY. Oh, my, don't talk about it. My legs are as stiff as that rock there.

MILITARY WOMAN. Men are so rude nowadays. They will never give their place to a woman. Have you brought peppermints with you?

LADY [_frightened_]. No. Why? Is it necessary?

MILITARY WOMAN. When you keep looking up a long time you are bound to get sick. Sure thing. Have you spirits of ammonia? No? Good gracious, how thoughtless! How will they bring you back to consciousness when he falls? You haven't any smelling salts either, I dare say. Of course not. Have you anybody to take care of you, seeing that you are so helpless yourself?

LADY [_frightened_]. I will tell my husband. He is in the cafe.

MILITARY WOMAN. Your husband is a brute.

POLICEMAN. Whose coat is this? Who threw this rag here?

BOY. It's mine. I spread my coat there so that he doesn't hurt himself so badly when he falls.

POLICEMAN. Take it away.

[_Two tourists armed with cameras contending for the same position._]

FIRST TOURIST. I wanted this place.

SECOND TOURIST. You wanted it, but I got it.

FIRST TOURIST. You just came here. I have had this place for two days.

SECOND TOURIST. Then why did you go without even leaving your shadow?

FIRST TOURIST. I wasn't going to starve myself to death.

COMB-VENDER [_mysteriously_]. Tortoise-shell.

TOURIST [_savagely_]. Well?

VENDOR. Genuine tortoise-shell.

TOURIST. Go to the devil.

THIRD TOURIST, PHOTOGRAPHER. For heaven's sake, lady, you're sitting on my camera!

LITTLE LADY. Oh! Where is it?

TOURIST. Under you, under you, lady.

LITTLE LADY. I am so tired. What a wretched camera you have. I thought it felt uncomfortable and I was wondering why. Now I know; I am sitting on your camera.

TOURIST [_agonized_]. Lady!

LITTLE LADY. I thought it was a stone. I saw something lying there and I thought: A queer-looking stone; I wonder why it's so black. So that's what it was; it was your camera. I see.

TOURIST [_agonized_]. Lady, for heaven's sake!

LITTLE LADY. Why is it so large, tell me. Cameras are small, but this one is so large. I swear I never had the faintest suspicion it was a camera. Can you take my picture? I would so much like to have my picture taken with the mountains here for a background, in this wonderful setting.

TOURIST. How can I take your picture if you are sitting on my camera?

LITTLE LADY [_jumping up, frightened_]. Is it possible? You don't say so. Why didn't you tell me so? Does it take pictures?

VOICES. Waiter, one beer!--What did you bring wine for?--I gave you my order long ago.--What will you have, sir?--One minute.--In a second. Waiter!--Waiter--Toothpicks!--

[_A fat tourist enters in haste, panting, surrounded by a numerous family._]

TOURIST [_crying_]. Mary! Aleck! Jimmie!--Where is Mary? For God's sake! Where is Mary?

STUDENT [_dismally_]. Here she is, papa.

TOURIST. Where is she? Mary!

GIRL. Here I am, papa.

TOURIST. Where in the world are you? [_He turns around._] Ah, there! What are you standing back of me for? Look, look! For goodness' sake, where are you looking?

GIRL [_dismally_]. I don't know, papa.

TOURIST. No, that's impossible. Imagine! She never once saw a lightning flash. She always keeps her eyes open as wide as onions, but the instant it flashes she closes them. So she never saw lightning, not once. Mary, you are missing it again. There it is! You see!

STUDENT. She sees, papa.

TOURIST. Keep an eye on her. [_Suddenly dropping into tone of profound pity._] Ah, poor young man. Imagine! He'll fall from that high rock. Look, children, see how pale he is! That should be a lesson to you how dangerous climbing is.

STUDENT [_dismally_]. He won't fall to-day, papa!

SECOND GIRL. Papa, Mary has closed her eyes again.

FIRST STUDENT. Let us sit down, papa! Upon my word, he won't fall to-day. The porter told me so. I can't stand it any more. You've been dragging us about every day from morning till night visiting art galleries.

TOURIST. What's that? For whose benefit am I doing this? Do you think I enjoy spending my time with a dunce?

SECOND GIRL. Papa, Mary is blinking her eyes.

SECOND STUDENT. I can't stand it, either. I have terrible dreams. Yesterday I dreamed of garcons the whole night long.

TOURIST. Jimmie.

FIRST STUDENT. I have gotten so thin I am nothing but skin and bones. I can't stand it any more, father. I'd rather be a farmer, or tend pigs.

TOURIST. Aleck.

FIRST STUDENT. If he were really to fall--but it's a fake. You believe every lie told you! They all lie. Baedeker lies, too. Yes, your Baedeker lies!

MARY [_dismally_]. Papa, children, he's beginning to fall.

[_The man on the rock shouts something down into the crowd. There is general commotion._ (_Voices._) _"Look, he's falling." Field-glasses are raised; the photographers, violently agitated, click their cameras; the policemen diligently clean the place where he is to fall._]

PHOTOGRAPHER. Oh, hang it! What is the matter with me? The devil! When a man's in a hurry--

SECOND PHOTOGRAPHER. Brother, your camera is closed.

PHOTOGRAPHER. The devil take it.

VOICES. Hush! He's getting ready to fall.--No, he's saying something.--No, he's falling.--Hush!

UNKNOWN MAN ON THE ROCK [_faintly_]. Save me! Save me!

TOURIST. Ah, poor young man. Mary, Jimmie, there's a tragedy for you. The sky is clear, the weather is beautiful, and has he to fall and be shattered to death? Can you realize how dreadful that is, Aleck?

STUDENT [_wearily_]. Yes, I can realize it.

TOURIST. Mary, can you realize it? Imagine. There is the sky. There are people enjoying themselves and partaking of refreshments. Everything is so nice and pleasant, and he has to fall. What a tragedy! Do you remember Hamlet?

SECOND GIRL [_prompting_]. Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, of Elsinore.

JAMES. Of Helsingfors, I know. Don't bother me, father!

MARY [_dismally_]. He dreamed about garcons all night long.

ALECK. Why don't you order sandwiches, father.

COMB-VENDER [_mysteriously_]. Tortoise-shell. Genuine tortoise-shell.

TOURIST [_credulously_]. Stolen?

VENDOR. Why, sir, the idea!

TOURIST [_angrily_]. Do you mean to tell me it's genuine if it isn't stolen? Go on. Not much.

MILITARY WOMAN [_amiably_]. Are all these your children?

TOURIST. Yes, madam. A father's duty. You see, they are protesting. It is the eternal conflict between fathers and children. Here is such a tragedy going on, such a heart-rending tragedy--Mary, you are blinking your eyes again.

MILITARY WOMAN. You are quite right. Children must be hardened to things. But why do you call this a terrible tragedy? Every roofer, when he falls, falls from a great height. But this here--what is it? A hundred, two hundred feet. I saw a man fall plumb from the sky.

TOURIST [_overwhelmed_]. You don't say?

ALECK. Children, listen. Plumb from the sky.

MILITARY WOMAN. Yes, yes. I saw an aeronaut drop from the clouds and go crash upon an iron roof.

TOURIST. How terrible!

MILITARY WOMAN. That's what I call a tragedy. It took two hours to bring me back to consciousness, and all that time they pumped water on me, the scoundrels. I was nearly drowned. From that day on I never step out of the door without taking spirits of ammonia with me.

[_Enter a strolling troop of Italian singers and musicians: a short, fat tenor, with a reddish beard and large, watery, stupidly dreamy eyes, singing with extraordinary sweetness; a skinny humpback with a jockey cap, and a screeching baritone; a bass who is also a mandolinist, looking like a bandit; a girl with a violin, closing her eyes when she plays, so that only the whites are seen. They take their stand and begin to sing: "Sul mare lucica--Santa Lucia, Santa Lucia--"_]

MARY [_dismally_]. Papa, children, look. He is beginning to wave his hands.

TOURIST. Is that the effect the music has upon him?

MILITARY WOMAN. Quite possible. Music usually goes with such things. But that'll make him fall sooner than he should. Musicians, go away from here! Go!

[_A tall tourist, with up-curled mustache, violently gesticulating, enters, followed by a small group attracted by curiosity._]

TALL TOURIST. It's scandalous. Why don't they save him? Ladies and gentlemen, you all heard him shout: "Save me." Didn't you?

THE CURIOUS [_in chorus_]. Yes, yes, we heard him.

TALL TOURIST. There you are. I distinctly heard these words: "Save me! Why don't they save me?" It's scandalous. Policemen, policemen! Why don't you save him? What are you doing there?

POLICEMEN. We are cleaning up the place for him to fall.

TALL TOURIST. That's a sensible thing to do, too. But why don't you save him? You ought to save him. If a man asks you to save him, it is absolutely essential to save him. Isn't it so, ladies and gentlemen?

THE CURIOUS [_in chorus_]. True, absolutely true. It is essential to save him.

TALL TOURIST [_with heat_]. We are not heathens, we are Christians. We should love our neighbors. When a man asks to be saved every measure which the government has at its command should be taken to save him. Policemen, have you taken every measure?

POLICEMAN. Every one!

TALL TOURIST. Every one without exception? Gentleman, every measure has been taken. Listen, young man, every measure has been taken to save you. Did you hear?

UNKNOWN MAN [_in a scarcely audible voice_]. Save me!

TALL TOURIST [_excitedly_]. Gentlemen, did you hear? He again asked to be saved. Policemen, did you hear?

ONE OF THE CURIOUS [_timidly_]. It is my opinion that it is absolutely necessary to save him.

TALL TOURIST. That's right. Exactly. Why, that's what I have been saying for the last two hours. Policemen, do you hear? It is scandalous.

ONE OF THE CURIOUS [_a little bolder_]. It is my opinion that an appeal should be made to the highest authority.

THE REST [_in chorus_]. Yes, yes, a complaint should be made. It is scandalous. The government ought not to leave any of its citizens in danger. We all pay taxes. He must be saved.

TALL TOURIST. Didn't I say so? Of course we must put up a complaint. Young man! Listen, young man. Do you pay taxes? What? I can't hear.

TOURIST. Jimmie, Katie, listen! What a tragedy! Ah, the poor young man! He is soon to fall and they ask him to pay a domiciliary tax.

KATE [_the girl with glasses, pedantically_]. That can hardly be called a domicile, father. The meaning of domicile is--

JAMES [_pinching her_]. Lickspittle.

MARY [_wearily_]. Papa, children, look! He's again beginning to fall.

[_There is excitement in the crowd, and again a bustling and shouting among the photographers._]

TALL TOURIST. We must hurry, ladies and gentlemen. He must be saved at any cost. Who's going with me?

THE CURIOUS [_in chorus_]. We are all going! We are all going?

TALL TOURIST. Policemen, did you hear? Come, ladies and gentlemen!

[_They depart, fiercely gesticulating. The cafe grows more lively. The sound of clinking beer glasses and the clatter of steins is heard, and the beginning of a loud German song. The bartender, who has forgotten himself while talking to somebody, starts suddenly and runs off, looks up to the sky with a hopeless air and wipes the perspiration from his face with his napkin. Angry calls of Waiter! Waiter!_]

UNKNOWN MAN [_rather loudly_]. Can you let me have some soda water?

[_The waiter is startled, looks at the sky, glances at the man on the rock, and pretending not to have heard him, walks away._]

MANY VOICES. Waiter! Beer!

WAITER. One moment, one moment!

[_Two drunken men come out from the cafe._]

LADY. Ah, there is my husband. Come here quick.

MILITARY WOMAN. A downright brute.

DRUNKEN MAN [_waving his hand to the unknown man_]. Say, is it very bad up there? Hey?

UNKNOWN MAN [_rather loudly_]. Yes, it's bad. I am sick and tired of it.

DRUNKEN MAN. Can't you get a drink?

UNKNOWN MAN. No, how can I?

SECOND DRUNKEN MAN. Say, what are you talking about? How can he get a drink? The man is about to die and you tempt him and try to get him excited. Listen, up there, we have been drinking your health right along. It won't hurt you, will it?

FIRST DRUNKEN MAN. Ah, go on! What are you talking about? How can it hurt him? Why, it will only do him good. It will encourage him. Listen, honest to God, we are very sorry for you, but don't mind us. We are going to the cafe to have another drink. Good-by.

SECOND DRUNKEN MAN. Look, what a crowd.

FIRST DRUNKEN MAN. Come, or he'll fall and then they'll close the cafe.

[_Enter a new crowd of tourists, a very elegant gentleman, the chief correspondent of European newspapers at their head. He is followed by an ecstatic whisper of respect and admiration. Many leave the cafe to look at him, and even the waiter turns slightly around, glances at him quickly, smiles happily and continues on his way, spilling something from his tray._]

VOICES. The correspondent! The correspondent! Look!

LADY. Oh, my, and my husband is gone again!

TOURIST. Jimmie, Mary, Aleck, Katie, Charlie, look! This is the chief correspondent. Do you realize it? The very highest of all. Whatever he writes goes.

KATE. Mary, dear, again you are not looking.

ALECK. I wish you would order some sandwiches for us. I can't stand it any longer. A human being has to eat.

TOURIST [_ecstatically_]. What a tragedy! Katie, dear, can you realize it? Consider how awful. The weather is so beautiful, and the chief correspondent. Take out your note-book, Jimmie.

JAMES. I lost it, father.

CORRESPONDENT. Where is he?

VOICES [_obligingly_]. There, there he is. There! A little higher. Still higher! A little lower! No, higher!

CORRESPONDENT. If you please, if you please, ladies and gentlemen, I will find him myself. Oh, yes, there he is. Hm! What a situation!

TOURIST. Won't you have a chair?

CORRESPONDENT. Thank you. [_Sits down._] Hm! What a situation! Very interesting. Very interesting, indeed! [_Whisks out his note-book; amiably to the photographers._] Have you taken any pictures yet, gentlemen?

FIRST PHOTOGRAPHER. Yes, sir, certainly, certainly. We have photographed the place showing the general character of the locality--

SECOND PHOTOGRAPHER. The tragic situation of the young man--

CORRESPONDENT. Ye-es, very, very interesting.

TOURIST. Did you hear, Aleck? This smart man, the chief correspondent, says it's interesting, and you keep bothering about sandwiches. Dunce!

ALECK. May be he has had his dinner already.

CORRESPONDENT. Ladies and gentlemen, I beg you to be quiet.

OBLIGING VOICES. It is quieter in the cafe.

CORRESPONDENT [_shouts to the unknown man_]. Permit me to introduce myself. I am the chief correspondent of the European press. I have been sent here at the special request of the editors. I should like to ask you several questions concerning your situation. What is your name? What is your general position? How old are you? [_The unknown man mumbles something._]

CORRESPONDENT [_a little puzzled_]. I can't hear a thing. Has he been that way all the time?

VOICE. Yes, it's impossible to hear a word he says.

CORRESPONDENT [_jotting down something in his note-book_]. Fine! Are you a bachelor? [_The unknown man mumbles._]

CORRESPONDENT. I can't hear you. Are you married? Yes?

TOURIST. He said he was a bachelor.

SECOND TOURIST. No, he didn't. Of course, he's married.

CORRESPONDENT [_carelessly_]. You think so? All right. We'll put down, married. How many children have you? Can't hear. It seems to me he said three. Hm! Anyway, we'll put down five.

TOURIST. Oh, my, what a tragedy. Five children! Imagine!

MILITARY WOMAN. He is lying.

CORRESPONDENT [_shouting_]. How did you get into this position? What? I can't hear? Louder! Repeat. What did you say? [_Perplexed, to the crowd._] What did he say? The fellow has a devilishly weak voice.

FIRST TOURIST. It seems to me he said that he lost his way.

SECOND TOURIST. No, he doesn't know himself how he got there.

VOICES. He was out hunting.--He was climbing up the rocks.--No, no! He is simply a lunatic!

CORRESPONDENT. I beg your pardon, I beg your pardon, ladies and gentlemen! Anyway, he didn't drop from the sky. However--[_He quickly jots down in his note-book._] Unhappy young man--suffering from childhood with attacks of lunacy.--The bright light of the full moon--the wild rocks.--Sleepy janitor--didn't notice--

FIRST TOURIST [_to the second, in a whisper_]. But it's a new moon now.

SECOND TOURIST. Go, what does a layman know about astronomy.

TOURIST [_ecstatically_]. Mary, pay attention to this! You have before you an ocular demonstration of the influence of the moon on living organisms. What a terrible tragedy to go out walking on a moonlit night and find suddenly that you have climbed to a place where it is impossible to climb down or be taken down.

CORRESPONDENT [_shouting_]. What feelings are you experiencing? I can't hear. Louder! Ah, so? Well, well! What a situation!

CROWD [_interested_]. Listen, listen! Let's hear what his feelings are. How terrible!

CORRESPONDENT [_writes in his note-book, tossing out detached remarks_]. Mortal terror, numbs his limbs.--A cold shiver goes down his spinal column.--No hope.--Before his mental vision rises a picture of family bliss: Wife making sandwiches; his five children innocently lisping their love.--Grandma in the armchair with a tube to her ear, that is, grandpa in the arm-chair, with a tube to his ear and grandma.--Deeply moved by the sympathy of the public.--His last wish before his death that the words he uttered with his last breath should be published in our newspapers--

MILITARY WOMAN [_indignantly_]. My! He lies like a salesman.

MARY [_wearily_]. Papa, children, look, he is starting to fall again.

TOURIST [_angrily_]. Don't bother me. Such a tragedy is unfolding itself right before your very eyes--and you--What are you making such big eyes for again?

CORRESPONDENT [_shouting_]. Hold on fast. That's it! My last question: What message do you wish to leave for your fellow citizens before you depart for the better world?

UNKNOWN MAN. That they may all go to the devil.

CORRESPONDENT. What? Hm, yes--[_He writes quickly._] Ardent love--is a stanch opponent of the law granting equal rights to negroes. His last words: "Let the black niggers--"

PASTOR [_out of breath, pushing through the crowd_]. Where is he? Ah, where is he? Ah, there! Poor young man. Has there been no clergyman here yet? No? Thank you. Am I the first?

CORRESPONDENT [_writes_]. A touching dramatic moment.--A minister has arrived.--All are trembling on the verge of suspense. Many are shedding tears--

PASTOR. Excuse me, excuse me! Ladies and gentlemen, a lost soul wishes to make its peace with God--[_He shouts._] My son, don't you wish to make your peace with God? Confess your sins to me. I will grant you remission at once! What? I cannot hear?

CORRESPONDENT [_writes_]. The air is shaken with the people's groans. The minister of the church exhorts the criminal, that is, the unfortunate man, in touching language.--The unfortunate creature with tears in his eyes thanks him in a faint voice--

UNKNOWN MAN [_faintly_]. If you won't go away I will jump on your head. I weigh three hundred pounds. [_All jump away frightened behind each other._]

VOICES. He is falling! He is falling!

TOURIST [_agitatedly_]. Mary, Aleck, Jimmie.

POLICEMAN [_energetically_]. Clear the place, please! Move on!

LADY. Nellie, go quick and tell your father he is falling.

PHOTOGRAPHER [_in despair_]. Oh my, I am out of films [_tosses madly about, looking pitifully at the unknown man_]. One minute, I'll go and get them. I have some in my overcoat pocket over there. [_He walks a short distance, keeping his eyes fixed on the unknown man, and then returns._] I can't, I am afraid I'll miss it. Good heavens! They are over there in my overcoat. Just one minute, please. I'll fetch them right away. What a fix.

PASTOR. Hurry, my friend. Pull yourself together and try to hold out long enough to tell me at least your principal sins. You needn't mention the lesser ones.

TOURIST. What a tragedy?

CORRESPONDENT [_writes_]. The criminal, that is, the unhappy man, makes a public confession and does penance. Terrible secrets revealed. He is a bank robber--blew up safes.

TOURIST [_credulously_]. The scoundrel.

PASTOR [_shouts_]. In the first place, have you killed? Secondly, have you stolen? Thirdly, have you committed adultery?

TOURIST. Mary, Jimmie, Katie, Aleck, Charlie, close your ears.

CORRESPONDENT [_writing_]. Tremendous excitement in the crowd.--Shouts of indignation.

PASTOR [_hurriedly_]. Fourthly, have you blasphemed? Fifthly, have you coveted your neighbor's ass, his ox, his slave, his wife? Sixthly--

PHOTOGRAPHER [_alarmed_]. Ladies and gentlemen, an ass!

SECOND PHOTOGRAPHER. Where? I can't see it!

PHOTOGRAPHER [_calmed_]. I thought I heard it.

PASTOR. I congratulate you, my son! I congratulate you! You have made your peace with God. Now you may rest easy--Oh, God, what do I see? The Salvation Army! Policeman, chase them away!

[_Enter a Salvation Army band, men and women in uniforms. There are only three instruments, a drum, a violin and a piercingly shrill trumpet._]

SALVATION ARMY MAN [_frantically beating his drum and shouting in a nasal voice_]. Brethren and sisters--

PASTOR [_shouting even louder in a still more nasal voice in an effort to drown the other's_]. He has already confessed. Bear witness, ladies and gentlemen, that he has confessed and made his peace with heaven.

SALVATION ARMY WOMAN [_climbing on a rock and shrieking_]. I once wandered in the dark just as this sinner and I lived a bad life and was a drunkard, but when the light of truth--

A VOICE. Why, she is drunk now.

PASTOR. Policeman, didn't he confess and make his peace with heaven?

[_The Salvation Army man continues to beat his drum frantically; the rest begin to drawl a song. Shouts, laughter, whistling. Singing in the cafe, and calls of "Waiter!" in all languages. The bewildered policemen tear themselves away from the pastor, who is pulling them somewhere; the photographers turn and twist about as if the seats were burning under them. An English lady comes riding in on a donkey, who, stopping suddenly, sprawls out his legs and refuses to go farther, adding his noise to the rest. Gradually the noise subsides. The Salvation Army band solemnly withdraws, and the pastor, waving his hands, follows them._]

FIRST ENGLISH TOURIST [_to the other_]. How impolite! This crowd doesn't know how to behave itself.

SECOND ENGLISH TOURIST. Come, let's go away from here.

FIRST ENGLISH TOURIST. One minute. [_He shouts._] Listen, won't you hurry up and fall?

SECOND ENGLISH TOURIST. What are you saying, Sir William?

FIRST ENGLISH TOURIST [_shouting_]. Don't you see that's what they are waiting for? As a gentleman you should grant them this pleasure and so escape the humiliation of undergoing tortures before this mob.

SECOND ENGLISH TOURIST. Sir William.

TOURIST [_ecstatically_]. See? It's true. Aleck, Jimmie, it's true. What a tragedy!

SEVERAL TOURISTS [_going for the Englishman_]. How dare you?

FIRST ENGLISH TOURIST [_shoving them aside_]. Hurry up and fall! Do you hear? If you haven't the backbone I'll help you out with a pistol shot.

VOICES. That red-haired devil has gone clear out of his mind.

POLICEMAN [_seizing the Englishman's hand_]. You have no right to do it, it's against the law. I'll arrest you.

SOME TOURISTS. A barbarous nation!

[_The unknown man shouts something. Excitement below._]

VOICES. Hear, hear, hear!

UNKNOWN MAN [_aloud_]. Take that jackass away to the devil. He wants to shoot me. And tell the boss that I can't stand it any longer.

VOICES. What's that? What boss? He is losing his mind, the poor man.

TOURIST. Aleck! Mary! This is a mad scene. Jimmie, you remember Hamlet? Quick.

UNKNOWN MAN [_angrily_]. Tell him my spinal column is broken.

MARY [_wearily_]. Papa, children, he's beginning to kick with his legs.

KATE. Is that what is called convulsions, papa?

TOURIST [_rapturously_]. I don't know. I think it is. What a tragedy?

ALECK [_glumly_]. You fool! You keep cramming and cramming and you don't know that the right name for that is agony. And you wear eyeglasses, too. I can't bear it any longer, papa.

TOURIST. Think of it, children. A man is about to fall down to his death and he is bothering about his spinal column.

[_There is a noise. A man in a white vest, very much frightened, enters, almost dragged by angry tourists. He smiles, bows on all sides, stretches out his arms, now running forward as he is pushed, now trying to escape in the crowd, but is seized and pulled again._]

VOICES. A bare-faced deception! It is an outrage. Policeman, policeman, he must be taught a lesson!

OTHER VOICES. What is it? What deception? What is it all about? They have caught a thief!

THE MAN IN THE WHITE VEST [_bowing and smiling_]. It's a joke, ladies and gentlemen, a joke, that's all. The people were bored, so I wanted to provide a little amusement for them.

UNKNOWN MAN [_angrily_]. Boss!

THE MAN IN THE WHITE VEST. Wait a while, wait a while.

UNKNOWN MAN. Do you expect me to stay here until the Second Advent? The agreement was till twelve o'clock. What time is it now?

TALL TOURIST [_indignantly_]. Do you hear, ladies and gentlemen? This scoundrel, this man here in the white vest hired that other scoundrel up there and just simply tied him to the rock.

VOICES. Is he tied?

TALL TOURIST. Yes, he is tied and he can't fall. We are excited and worrying, but he couldn't fall even if he tried.

UNKNOWN MAN. What else do you want? Do you think I am going to break my neck for your measly ten dollars? Boss, I can't stand it any more. One man wanted to shoot me. The pastor preached me for two hours. This is not in the agreement.

ALECK. Father, I told you that Baedeker lies. You believe everything anybody tells you and drag us about without eating.

MAN IN THE WHITE VEST. The people were bored. My only desire was to amuse the people.

MILITARY WOMAN. What is the matter? I don't understand a thing. Why isn't he going to fall? Who, then, is going to fall?

TOURIST. I don't understand a thing either. Of course he's got to fall!

JAMES. You never understand anything, father. Weren't you told that he's tied to the rock?

ALECK. You can't convince him. He loves every Baedeker more than his own children.

JAMES. A nice father!

TOURIST. Silence!

MILITARY WOMAN. What is the matter? He must fall.

TALL TOURIST. The idea! What a deception. You'll have to explain this.

MAN IN THE WHITE VEST. The people were bored. Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen, but wishing to accommodate you--give you a few hours of pleasant excitement--elevate your spirits--inspire you with altruistic sentiments--

ENGLISHMAN. Is the cafe yours?

MAN IN THE WHITE VEST. Yes.

ENGLISHMAN. And is the hotel below also yours?

GENTLEMAN. Yes. The people were bored--

CORRESPONDENT [_writing_]. The proprietor of the cafe, desiring to increase his profits from the sale of alcoholic beverages, exploits the best human sentiments.--The people's indignation--

UNKNOWN MAN [_angrily_]. Boss, will you have me taken off at once or won't you?

HOTEL KEEPER. What do you want up there? Aren't you satisfied? Didn't I have you taken off at night?

UNKNOWN MAN. Well, I should say so. You think I'd be hanging here nights, too!

HOTEL OWNER. Then you can stand it a few minutes longer. The people are bored--

TALL TOURIST. Say, have you any idea of what you have done? Do you realize the enormity of it? You are scoundrels, who for your own sordid personal ends have impiously exploited the finest human sentiment, love of one's neighbor. You have caused us to undergo fear and suffering. You have poisoned our hearts with pity. And now, what is the upshot of it all? The upshot is that this scamp, your vile accomplice, is bound to the rock and not only will he not fall as everybody expects, but he _can't_.

MILITARY WOMAN. What is the matter? He has got to fall.

TOURIST. Policeman! Policeman!

[_The pastor enters, out of breath._]

PASTOR. What? Is he still living? Oh, there he is! What fakirs those Salvationists are.

VOICES. Don't you know that he is bound?

PASTOR. Bound! Bound to what? To life? Well, we are all bound to life until death snaps the cord. But whether he is bound or not bound, I reconciled him with heaven, and that's enough. But those fakirs--

TOURIST. Policeman! Policeman, you must draw up an official report. There is no way out of it.

MILITARY WOMAN [_going for the hotel owner_]. I will not allow myself to be fooled. I saw an aeronaut drop from the clouds and go crash upon a roof. I saw a tiger tear a woman to pieces--

PHOTOGRAPHER. I spoiled three films photographing that scamp. You will have to answer for this, sir. I will hold you responsible.

TOURIST. An official report! An official report! Such a bare-faced deception. Mary, Jimmie, Aleck, Charlie, call a policeman.

HOTEL KEEPER [_drawing back, in despair_]. But, I can't make him fall if he doesn't want to. I did everything in my power, ladies and gentlemen!

MILITARY WOMAN. I will not allow it.

HOTEL KEEPER. Excuse me. I promise you on my word of honor that the next time he will fall. But he doesn't want to, to-day.

UNKNOWN MAN. What's that? What did you say about the next time?

HOTEL KEEPER. You shut up there!

UNKNOWN MAN. For ten dollars?

PASTOR. Pray, what impudence! I just made his peace with heaven when he was in danger of his life. You have heard him threatening to fall on my head, haven't you? And still he is dissatisfied. Adulterer, thief, murderer, coveter of your neighbor's ass--

PHOTOGRAPHER. Ladies and gentlemen, an ass!

SECOND PHOTOGRAPHER. Where, where is an ass?

PHOTOGRAPHER [_calmed_]. I thought I heard one.

SECOND PHOTOGRAPHER. It is you who are an ass. I have become cross-eyed on account of your shouting: "An ass! An ass!"

MARY [_wearily_]. Papa, children, look! A policeman is coming.

[_Excitement and noise. On one side a crowd pulling a policeman, on the other the hotel keeper; both keep crying: "Excuse me! Excuse me!"_]

TOURIST. Policeman, there he is, the fakir, the swindler.

PASTOR. Policeman, there he is, the adulterer, the murderer, the coveter of his neighbor's ass--

POLICEMAN. Excuse me, excuse me, ladies and gentlemen. We will bring him to his senses in short order and make him confess.

HOTEL KEEPER. I can't make him fall if he doesn't want to.

POLICEMAN. Hey, you, young man out there! Can you fall or can't you? Confess!

UNKNOWN MAN [_sullenly_]. I don't want to fall!

VOICES. Aha, he has confessed. What a scoundrel!

TALL TOURIST. Write down what I dictate, policeman--"Desiring--for the sake of gain to exploit the sentiment of love of one's neighbor--the sacred feeling--a-a-a--"

TOURIST. Listen, children, they are drawing up an official report. What exquisite choice of language!

TALL TOURIST. The sacred feeling which--

POLICEMAN [_writing with painful effort, his tongue stuck out_]. Love of one's neighbor--the sacred feeling which--

MARY [_wearily_]. Papa, children, look! An advertisement is coming.

[_Enter musicians with trumpets and drums, a man at their head carrying on a long pole a huge placard with the picture of an absolutely bald head, and printed underneath: "I was bald."_]

UNKNOWN MAN. Too late. They are drawing up a report here. You had better skidoo!

THE MAN CARRYING THE POLE [_stopping and speaking in a loud voice_]. I had been bald from the day of my birth and for a long time thereafter. That miserable growth, which in my tenth year covered my scalp was more like wool than real hair. When I was married my skull was as bare as a pillow and my young bride--

TOURIST. What a tragedy! Newly married and with such a head! Can you realize how dreadful that is, children?

[_All listen with interest, even the policeman stopping in his arduous task and inclining his ear with his pen in his hand._]

THE MAN CARRYING THE POLE [_solemnly_]. And the time came when my matrimonial happiness literally hung by a hair. All the medicines recommended by quacks to make my hair grow--

TOURIST. Your note-book, Jimmie.

MILITARY WOMAN. But when is he going to fall?

HOTEL KEEPER [_amiably_]. The next time, lady, the next time. I won't tie him so hard--you understand?

[_Curtain._]

THE BOOR

A COMEDY

BY ANTON TCHEKOFF TRANSLATED BY HILMAR BAUKAGE.

CHARACTERS

HELENA IVANOVNA POPOV [_a young widow, mistress of a country estate_]. GRIGORJI STEPANOVITCH SMIRNOV [_proprietor of a country estate_]. LUKA [_servant of Mrs. Popov_]. A GARDENER. A COACHMAN. _Several Workmen._

PLACE: _The Estate of Mrs. Popov_. TIME: _The Present_.

[_The stage shows an elegantly furnished reception room._]

Reprinted from "The World's Best Plays by Celebrated European Authors," edited by Barrett H. Clark, and published by Samuel French, by permission of, and special arrangements with, Samuel French.

THE BOOR

A COMEDY BY ANTON TCHEKOFF

[_Mrs. Popov discovered in deep mourning, sitting upon a sofa, gazing steadfastly at a photograph. Luka is also present._]

LUKA. It isn't right, ma'am--You're wearing yourself out! The maid and the cook have gone looking for berries, everything that breathes is enjoying life, even the cat knows how to be happy--slips about the courtyard and catches birds; but you hide yourself here in the house as though you were in a cloister and have no pleasures--Yes, truly, by actual reckoning you haven't left this house for a whole year.

MRS. POPOV. And I shall never leave it--why should I? My life is over. He lies in his grave, and I have buried myself within these four walls. We are both dead.

LUKA. There you are again! It's too awful to listen to, so it is! Nikolai Michailovitch is dead, it was the will of the Lord and the Lord has given him eternal peace. You have grieved over it and that ought to be enough. Now it's time to stop. One can't weep and wear mourning forever! My wife died a few years ago, too. I grieved for her, I wept a whole month--and then it was over. Must one be forever singing lamentations? That would be more than your husband was worth! [_He sighs._] You have forgotten all your neighbors. You don't go out and you won't receive any one. We live,--you'll pardon me--like the spiders, and the good light of day we never see. All the livery is eaten by the mice--As though there weren't any more nice people in the world! But the whole neighborhood is full of gentlefolk. In Riblov the regiment is stationed, officers--simply beautiful! One can't see enough of them! Every Friday a ball, and military music every day. Oh, my dear, dear ma'am, young and pretty as you are, if you'd only let your spirits live! Beauty can't last forever. When ten short years are over, then you'll be glad enough to go out a bit! And meet the officers--and then it'll be too late.

MRS. POPOV [_resolutely_]. Please, don't speak of these things to me again. You know very well that since the death of Nikolai Michailovitch my life is absolutely nothing to me. You think I live, but it only seems that I live. Do you understand? Oh, that his departed soul may see how I love him--Oh, I know, it's no secret to you; he was often unjust towards me, cruel and--he wasn't faithful, but I shall be faithful to the grave and prove to him how I am able to love. There, in the beyond, he'll find me the same, as I was until his death.

LUKA. What is the use of all these words? When you'd so much rather go walking in the garden or order Tobby or Welikan harnessed to the trap, and visit the neighbors.

MRS. POPOV [_weeping_]. Oh!

LUKA. Madam, dear, dear Madam, what is it? In heaven's name?

MRS. POPOV. He loved Tobby so! He always took him when he drove to the Kortschagins or the Vlassovs. What a wonderful horseman he was! How fine he looked! When he pulled at the reins with all his might! Tobby, Tobby, give him an extra measure of oats to-day!

LUKA. Yes, ma'am.

[_A bell rings loudly._]

MRS. POPOV [_shudders_]. What's that? Say that I am receiving no one.

LUKA. Yes, ma'am. [_He goes out center._]

MRS. POPOV [_gazing at the photograph_]. You shall see, Nikol, how I can love and forgive--My love will die only with me--when my poor heart stops beating. [_She smiles through her tears._] And aren't you ashamed? I have been a good, true wife, I have imprisoned myself and I shall remain true until the grave, and you--you--you're not ashamed of yourself, my dear monster! Betrayed me, quarreled with me, left me alone for weeks--

[_Luka enters in great excitement._]

LUKA. Oh, ma'am, some one is asking for you, insists on seeing you--

MRS. POPOV. You told him that since my husband's death I receive no one?

LUKA. I said so, but he won't listen, he says that it is a pressing matter.

MRS. POPOV. I--re--ceive--no--one!

LUKA. I told him that, but he's a wild-man, he swore and pushed himself into the room--he's in the dining room now.

MRS. POPOV [_excitedly_]. Good. Show him in. What an intruder!

[_Luka goes out center._]

MRS. POPOV. What a bore people are! What can they want with me? Why do they disturb my peace? [_She sighs._] Yes, it is clear I must go to a cloister. [_Meditatively._] Yes, in a cloister--

[_Smirnov enters followed by Luka._]

SMIRNOV [_to Luka_]. Fool, you make too much noise! You're an ass! [_Discovering Mrs. Popov--politely._] Madam, I have the honor to introduce myself; Lieutenant in the Artillery, retired, country gentleman, Grigorji Stepanovitch Smirnov! I'm forced to bother you about an exceedingly important matter.

MRS. POPOV [_without offering her hand_]. What is it you wish?

SMIRNOV. Your deceased husband, with whom I had the honor to be acquainted, left me two notes amounting to about twelve hundred rubles. Inasmuch as I have to meet the interest to-morrow on a loan from the Agrarian Bank, I should like to request, madam, that you pay me the money to-day.

MRS. POPOV. Twelve hundred--and for what was my husband indebted to you?

SMIRNOV. He had bought oats from me.

MRS. POPOV [_with a sigh to Luka_]. Don't forget to have Tobby given an extra measure of oats.

[_Luka goes out._]

MRS. POPOV [_to Smirnov_]. If Nikolai Michailovitch is indebted to you, I will of course pay you, but, I am sorry, I haven't the money to-day. To-morrow my manager will be back from the city and I shall notify him to pay you what is due you, but until then I cannot satisfy your request. Furthermore to-day it is just seven months since the death of my husband and I am not in the mood to discuss money matters.

SMIRNOV. And I am in the mood to fly up the chimney with my feet in the air if I can't lay hands on that interest to-morrow. They'll sequestrate my estate!

MRS. POPOV. Day after to-morrow you will receive the money.

SMIRNOV. I don't need the money day after to-morrow, I need it to-day.

MRS. POPOV. I'm sorry I can't pay you to-day.

SMIRNOV. And I can't wait until day after to-morrow.

MRS. POPOV. But what can I do if I haven't it?

SMIRNOV. So you can't pay?

MRS. POPOV. I cannot.

SMIRNOV. Hm.--Is that your last word?

MRS. POPOV. My last.

SMIRNOV. Absolutely?

MRS. POPOV. Absolutely.

SMIRNOV. Thank you. We shan't forget it. [_He shrugs his shoulders._] And then they expect me to stand for all that. The toll gatherer just now met me in the road and asked, why are you always worrying, Grigorji Stepanovitch? Why in heaven's name shouldn't I worry? I need money, I feel the knife at my throat. Yesterday morning I left my house in the early dawn and called on all my debtors. If even one of them had paid his debt! I worked the skin off my fingers! The devil knows in what sort of Jew-inn I slept, in a room with a barrel of brandy! And now at last I come here, seventy versts from home, hope for a little money and all you give me is moods. Why shouldn't I worry?

MRS. POPOV. I thought I made it plain to you that my manager will return from town and then you will get your money?

SMIRNOV. I did not come to see the manager, I came to see you. What the devil--pardon the language--do I care for your manager?

MRS. POPOV. Really, sir, I am neither used to such language nor such manners. I shan't listen to you any further. [_She goes out left._]

SMIRNOV. What can one say to that? Moods! Seven months since her husband died! And do I have to pay the interest or not? I repeat the question, have I to pay the interest or not? Well yes, the husband is dead and all that, the manager is--the devil with him--traveling somewhere. Now tell me, what am I to do? Shall I run away from my creditors in a balloon? Or push my head into a stone wall? If I call on Grusdev he chooses to be "not at home," Iroschevitch has simply hidden himself, I have quarreled with Kurzin until I came near throwing him out of the window, Masutov is ill and this one in here has--moods! Not one of the crew will pay up! And all because I've spoiled them all, because I'm an old whiner, an old dish rag! I'm too tender hearted with them. But you wait! I'll show you! I permit nobody to play tricks with me, the devil with 'em all! I'll stay here and not budge from the spot until she pays! Brrr! How angry I am, how terribly angry I am! Every tendon is trembling with anger and I can hardly breathe--ah, I'm even growing ill. [_He calls out._] Servant!

[_Luka enters._]

LUKA. What is it you wish?

SMIRNOV. Bring me Kvas or water! [_Luka goes out._] Well, what can we do? She hasn't it on hand? What sort of logic is that? A fellow stands with the knife at his throat, he needs money, he is just at the point of hanging himself, and she won't pay because she isn't in the mood to discuss money matters. See! Pure woman's logic. That's why I never liked to talk to women and why I hate to do it now. I would rather sit on a powder barrel than talk with a woman. Brr!--I'm getting cold as ice, this affair has made me so angry. I only need to see such a romantic creature from the distance to get so angry that I have cramps in the calves? It's enough to make one yell for help!

[_Enter Luka._]

LUKA [_hands him water_]. Madam is ill and is not receiving.

SMIRNOV. March! [_Luka goes out._] Ill and isn't receiving! All right, it isn't necessary. I won't receive either. I'll sit here and stay until you bring that money. If you're ill a week, I'll sit here a week. If you're ill a year, I'll sit here a year. As heaven is a witness I'll get my money. You don't disturb me with your mourning--or with your dimples. We know these dimples! [_He calls out the window._] Simon, unharness. We aren't going to leave right away. I am going to stay here. Tell them in the stable to give the horses some oats. The left horse has twisted the bridle again. [_Imitating him._] Stop. I'll show you how. Stop. [_Leaves window._] It's awful. Unbearable heat, no money, didn't sleep well last night and now mourning-dresses with moods. My head aches, perhaps I ought to have a drink. Ye-s, I must have a drink. [_Calling._] Servant!

LUKA. What do you wish?

SMIRNOV. A little drink. [_Luka goes out. Smirnov sits down and looks at his clothes._] Ugh, a fine figure! No use denying that. Dust, dirty boots, unwashed, uncombed, straw on my vest--the lady probably took me for a highwayman. [_He yawns._] It was a little impolite to come into a reception room with such clothes. Oh well, no harm done. I'm not here as guest. I'm a creditor. And there is no special costume for creditors.

LUKA [_entering with glass_]. You take a great deal of liberty, sir.

SMIRNOV [_angrily_]. What?

LUKA. I--I--I just--

SMIRNOV. Whom are you talking to? Keep quiet.

LUKA [_angrily_]. Nice mess! This fellow won't leave! [_He goes out._]

SMIRNOV. Lord, how angry I am! Angry enough to throw mud at the whole world! I even feel ill--servant!

[_Mrs. Popov comes in with downcast eyes._]

MRS. POPOV. Sir, in my solitude I have become unaccustomed to the human voice and I cannot stand the sound of loud talking. I beg of you, please to cease disturbing my quiet.

SMIRNOV. Pay me my money and I'll leave.

MRS. POPOV. I told you once plainly in your native tongue that I haven't the money on hand; wait until day after to-morrow.

SMIRNOV. And I also have the honor of informing you in your native tongue that I need the money, not day after to-morrow, but to-day. If you don't pay me to-day I shall have to hang myself to-morrow.

MRS. POPOV. But what can I do when I haven't the money? How strange!

SMIRNOV. So you are not going to pay immediately? You're not?

MRS. POPOV. I can't.

SMIRNOV. Then I'll sit here and stay until I get the money. [_He sits._] You will pay day after to-morrow? Excellent! Here I stay until day after to-morrow. [_Jumps up._] I ask you: do I have to pay that interest to-morrow or not? Or do you think I'm joking?

MRS. POPOV. Sir, I beg of you, don't scream! This is not a stable.

SMIRNOV. I'm not asking you about a stable, I'm asking you whether I have to pay that interest to-morrow or not?

MRS. POPOV. You have no idea how a lady should be treated.

SMIRNOV. Oh, yes, I know how to treat ladies.

MRS. POPOV. No, you don't. You are an ill-bred, vulgar person--respectable people don't speak so with ladies.

SMIRNOV. Oh, how remarkable! How do you want one to speak with you? In French perhaps. Madame, je vous prie--how fortunate I am that you won't pay me my money! Pardon me for having disturbed you. What beautiful weather we are having to-day. And how this mourning becomes you. [_He makes an ironic bow._]

MRS. POPOV. Not at all funny--vulgar!

SMIRNOV [_imitating her_]. Not at all funny--vulgar. I don't understand how to behave in the company of ladies. Madam, in the course of my life I have seen more women than you have sparrows. Three times I have fought duels over women, twelve women I threw over and nine threw me over. There was a time when I played the fool, used honeyed language, bows and scrapings. I loved, suffered, sighed to the moon, melted in love's torments. I loved passionately, I loved to madness, in every key, chattered like a magpie on emancipation, sacrificed half my fortune in the tender passion until now the devil knows I've had enough of it. Your obedient servant will let you lead him around by the nose no more. Enough! Black eyes, passionate eyes, coral lips, dimples in cheeks, moonlight whispers, soft, modest sighs,--for all that, madam, I wouldn't pay a copper cent. I am not speaking of the present company but of women in general; from the tiniest to the greatest, they are all conceited, hypocritical, chattering, odious, deceitful from top to toe; vain, petty, cruel with a maddening logic and [_he strikes his forehead_] in this respect, please excuse my frankness, but one sparrow is worth ten of the aforementioned petticoat-philosophers. When one sees one of the romantic creatures before him he imagines that he is looking at some holy being, so wonderful that its one breath could dissolve him in a sea of a thousand charms and delights--but if one looks into the soul--it's nothing but a common crocodile. [_He seizes the arm-chair and breaks it in two._] But the worst of all is that this crocodile imagines that it is a chef-d'oeuvre and that it has a monopoly on all the tender passions. May the devil hang me upside down if there is anything to love about a woman! When she is in love all she knows is how to complain and shed tears. If the man suffers and makes sacrifices she trails her train about and tries to lead him around by the nose. You have the misfortune to be a woman and you naturally know woman's nature; tell me on your honor, have you ever in your life seen a woman who was really true and faithful? You never saw one. Only the old and the deformed are true and faithful. It's easier to find a cat with horns or a white woodcock than a faithful woman.

MRS. POPOV. But just allow me to ask, who is true and faithful in love? The man, perhaps?

SMIRNOV. Yes, indeed! The man!

MRS. POPOV. The man! [_She laughs ironically._] The man is true and faithful in love! Well, that is something new. [_She laughs bitterly._] How can you make such a statement? Men true and faithful! As long as we have gone as far as we have I may as well say that of all the men I have known my husband was the best--I loved him passionately with all my soul, as only a young, sensible woman may love, I gave him my youth, my happiness, my fortune, my life. I worshiped him like a heathen. And what happened? This best of all men betrayed me right and left in every possible fashion. After his death I found his desk filled with a collection of love letters. While he was alive he left me alone for months--it is horrible to even think about it--he made love to other women in my very presence, he wasted my money and made fun of my feelings,--and in spite of all that I trusted him and was true to him. And more than that, he is dead and I am still true to him. I have buried myself within these four walls and I shall wear this mourning to my grave.

SMIRNOV [_laughing disrespectfully_]. Mourning! What on earth do you take me for? As if I didn't know why you wore this black domino and why you buried yourself within these four walls. As if I didn't know! Such a secret! So romantic! Some knight will pass the castle, will gaze up at the windows and think to himself: "Here dwells the mysterious Tamara who, for love of her husband, has buried herself within four walls." Oh, I understand the art!

MRS. POPOV [_springing up_]. What? What do you mean by saying such things to me?

SMIRNOV. You have buried yourself alive, but meanwhile you have not forgotten to powder your nose!

MRS. POPOV. How dare you speak to me so?

SMIRNOV. Don't scream at me, please, I'm not the manager. Just let me call things by their right names. I am not a woman and I am accustomed to speak out what I think. So please don't scream.

MRS. POPOV. I'm not screaming. It is you who are doing the screaming. Please leave me, I beg of you.

SMIRNOV. Pay me my money and I'll leave.

MRS. POPOV. I won't give you the money.

SMIRNOV. You won't? You won't give me my money?

MRS. POPOV. I don't care what you do. You won't get a kopeck! Leave me alone.

SMIRNOV. As I haven't the pleasure of being either your husband or your fiance please don't make a scene. [_He sits down._] I can't stand it.

MRS. POPOV [_breathing hard_]. You are going to sit down?

SMIRNOV. I already have.

MRS. POPOV. Kindly leave the house!

SMIRNOV. Give me the money.

MRS. POPOV. I don't care to speak with impudent men. Leave! [_Pause._] You aren't going?

SMIRNOV. No.

MRS. POPOV. No?

SMIRNOV. No.

MRS. POPOV. Very well. [_She rings the bell._]

[_Enter Luka._]

MRS. POPOV. Luka, show the gentleman out.

LUKA [_going to Smirnov_]. Sir, why don't you leave when you are ordered? What do you want--

SMIRNOV [_jumping up_]. Whom do you think you are talking to? I'll grind you to powder.

LUKA [_puts his hand to his heart_]. Good Lord! [_He drops into a chair._] Oh, I'm ill, I can't breathe!

MRS. POPOV. Where is Dascha? [_Calling._] Dascha! Pelageja! Dascha! [_She rings._]

LUKA. They're all gone! I'm ill. Water!

MRS. POPOV [_to Smirnov_]. Leave! Get out!

SMIRNOV. Kindly be a little more polite!

MRS. POPOV [_striking her fists and stamping her feet_]. You are vulgar! You're a boor! A monster!

SMIRNOV. Wh--at did you say?

MRS. POPOV. I said you were a boor, a monster!

SMIRNOV [_steps toward her quickly_]. Permit me to ask what right you have to insult me?

MRS. POPOV. Yes, I insult you. What of it? Do you think I am afraid of you?

SMIRNOV. And you think that because you are a romantic creature that you can insult me without being punished? I challenge you! Now you have it.

LUKA. Merciful heaven! Water!

SMIRNOV. We'll have a duel.

MRS. POPOV. Do you think because you have big fists and a steer's neck that I am afraid of you?

SMIRNOV. That is the limit! I allow no one to insult me and I make no exception because you are a woman, one of the "weaker sex"!

MRS. POPOV [_trying to cry him down_]. Boor, boor, boor!

SMIRNOV. It is high time to do away with the old superstition that it is only a man who is forced to give satisfaction. If there is equity at all let there be equity in all things. There's a limit!

MRS. POPOV. You wish to fight a duel? Very well.

SMIRNOV. Immediately.

MRS. POPOV. Immediately. My husband had pistols. I'll bring them. [_She hurries away, then turns._] Oh, what a pleasure it will be to put a bullet in your impudent head. The devil take you! [_She goes out._]

SMIRNOV. I'll shoot her down! I'm no fledgling, no sentimental, young puppy. For me there is no weaker sex.

LUKA. Oh, sir. [_Falls to his knees._] Have mercy on me, an old man, and go away. You have frightened me to death already and now you want to fight a duel.

SMIRNOV [_paying no attention_]. A duel. That's equity, that's emancipation. That way the sexes are made equal. I'll shoot her down as a matter of principle. What can a person say to such a woman? [_Imitating her._] "The devil take you. I'll put a bullet in your impudent head." What can a person say to that? She was angry, her eyes blazed, she accepted the challenge. On my honor it's the first time in my life that I ever saw such a woman.

LUKA. Oh, sir. Go away. Go away from here.

SMIRNOV. That _is_ a woman. I can understand her. A real woman. No shilly-shallying, but fire, powder, and noise! It would be a pity to shoot a woman like that.

LUKA [_weeping_]. Oh, sir; go away.

[_Enter Mrs. Popov._]

MRS. POPOV. Here are the pistols. But before we have our duel please show me how to shoot. I have never had a pistol in my hand before!

LUKA. God be merciful and have pity upon us! I'll go and get the gardener and the coachman. Why has this horror come to us! [_He goes out._]

SMIRNOV [_looking at the pistols_]. You see there are different kinds of pistols. There are special duelling pistols with cap and ball. But these are revolvers, Smith & Wesson, with ejectors, fine pistols. A pair like that cost at least ninety rubles. This is the way to hold a revolver. [_Aside._] Those eyes, those eyes! A real woman!

MRS. POPOV. Like this?

SMIRNOV. Yes, that way. Then you pull the hammer back--so--then you aim--put your head back a little--just stretch your arm out, please. So--then press your finger on the thing like that, and that is all. The chief thing is this: don't get excited, don't hurry your aim, and take care that your hand doesn't tremble.

MRS. POPOV. It isn't as well to shoot inside, let's go into the garden.

SMIRNOV. Yes. I'll tell you now that I am going to shoot into the air.

MRS. POPOV. That is too much. Why?

SMIRNOV. Because--because--That's my business why.

MRS. POPOV. You are afraid. Yes. A-h-h-h. No, no, my dear sir, no welching. Please follow me. I won't rest myself, until I've made a hole in your head that I hate so much. Are you afraid?

SMIRNOV. Yes, I'm afraid.

MRS. POPOV. You are lying. Why won't you fight?

SMIRNOV. Because--because--I--like you.

MRS. POPOV [_with an angry laugh_]. You like me! He dares to say that he likes me. [_She points to the door._] Go.

SMIRNOV [_laying the revolver silently on the table, takes his hat and goes; at the door he stops a moment gazing at her silently, then he approaches her undecidedly_]. Listen? Are you still angry? I was mad as the devil, but please understand me--how can I express myself?--The thing is like this--such things are--[_He raises his voice._] How is it my fault that you owe me money? [_Grasps the chair back which breaks._] The devil knows what breakable furniture you have! I like you! Do you understand?--I--I'm almost in love!

MRS. POPOV. Leave. I hate you.

SMIRNOV. Lord! What a woman! I never in my life met one like her. I'm lost, ruined! I've been caught like a mouse in a trap.

MRS. POPOV. Go, or I'll shoot.

SMIRNOV. Shoot! You have no idea what happiness it would be to die in sight of those beautiful eyes, to die from the revolver in this little velvet hand--I'm mad! Consider it and decide immediately for if I go now; we shall never see each other again. Decide--speak--I am a noble, a respectable man, have an income of ten thousand, can shoot a coin thrown into the air--I own some fine horses. Will you be my wife?

MRS. POPOV [_swings the revolver angrily_]. Shoot!

SMIRNOV. My mind is not clear--I can't understand--servant--water! I have fallen in love like any young man. [_He takes her hand and she cries with pain._] I love you! [_He kneels._] I love you as I have never loved before. Twelve women, I threw over, nine were untrue to me, but not one of them all have I loved as I love you. I am conquered, lost, I lie at your feet like a fool and beg for your hand. Shame and disgrace! For five years I haven't been in love, I thanked the Lord for it and now I am caught, like a carriage tongue in another carriage. I beg for your hand! Yes or no? Will you?--Good! [_He gets up and goes to the door quickly._]

MRS. POPOV. Wait a moment--

SMIRNOV [_stopping_]. Well?

MRS. POPOV. Nothing. You may go. But--wait a moment. No, go on, go on. I hate you. Or no. Don't go. Oh, if you knew how angry I was, how angry! [_She throws the revolver onto the chair._] My finger is swollen from this thing. [_She angrily tears her handkerchief._] What are you standing there for? Get out!

SMIRNOV. Farewell!

MRS. POPOV. Yes, go. [_Cries out._] What are you going for? Wait--no, go!! Oh, how angry I am! Don't come too near, don't come too near--er--come--no nearer.

SMIRNOV [_approaching her_]. How angry I am with myself. Fallen in love like a school-boy, thrown myself on my knees. I've got a chill! [_Strongly._] I love you. This is fine,--all I needed was to fall in love. To-morrow I have to pay my interest, the hay harvest has begun and then you appear. [_He takes her in his arms._] I can never forgive myself.

MRS. POPOV. Go away! Take your hands off me! I hate you--you--this is--[_A long kiss._]

[_Enter Luka with an ax, the gardener with a rake, the coachman with a pitch-fork, workmen with poles._]

LUKA [_staring at the pair_]. Merciful Heavens! [_A long pause._]

MRS. POPOV [_dropping her eyes_]. Tell them in the stable that Tobby isn't to have any oats.

[_Curtain._]

HIS WIDOW'S HUSBAND

A COMEDY

BY JACINTO BENEVENTE TRANSLATED BY JOHN GARRETT UNDERHILL.

First presented at the Teatro Principe Alfonso, Madrid, on the evening of the nineteenth of October, 1908.

CHARACTERS

CAROLINA. EUDOSIA. PAQUITA. FLORENCIO. CASALONGA. ZURITA. VALDIVIESO.

THE SCENE _is laid in a provincial capital_.

Reprinted from "Plays: First Series," by permission of, and special arrangements with, Mr. John Garrett Underhill and Charles Scribner's Sons. Applications for permission to produce HIS WIDOW'S HUSBAND should be addressed to the Society of Spanish Authors, 20 Nassau Street, New York.

HIS WIDOW'S HUSBAND

A COMEDY BY JACINTO BENEVENTE

[_Carolina is seated as Zurita enters._]

ZURITA. My friend!

CAROLINA. My good Zurita, it is so thoughtful of you to come so promptly! I shall never be able to repay all your kindness.

ZURITA. I am always delighted to be of service to a friend.

CAROLINA. I asked them to look for you everywhere. Pardon the inconvenience, but the emergency was extreme. I am in a terrible position; all the tact in the world can never extricate me from one of those embarrassing predicaments--unless you assist me by your advice.

ZURITA. Count upon my advice; count upon me in anything. However, I cannot believe that you are really in an embarrassing predicament.

CAROLINA. But I am, my friend; and you are the only one who can advise me. You are a person of taste; your articles and society column are the standard of good form with us. Everybody accepts and respects your decisions.

ZURITA. Not invariably, I am sorry to say--especially now that I have taken up the suppression of the hips, which are fatal to the success of any _toilette_. Society was formerly very select in this city, but it is no longer the same, as you no doubt have occasion to know. Too many fortunes have been improvised, too many aristocratic families have descended in the scale. There has been a great change in society. The _parvenus_ dominate--and money is so insolent! People who have it imagine that other things can be improvised--as education, for example, manners, good taste. Surely you must realize that such things cannot be improvised. Distinction is a hothouse plant. We grow too few gardenias nowadays--like you, my friend. On the other hand, we have an abundance of sow-thistles. Not that I am referring to the Nunez family.... How do you suppose those ladies enliven their Wednesday evenings? With a gramophone, my friend, with a gramophone--just like any vulgar cafe; although I must confess that it is an improvement upon the days when the youngest sang, the middle one recited, and all played together. Nevertheless it is horrible. You can imagine my distress.

CAROLINA. You know, of course, that I never take part in their Wednesdays. I never call unless I am sure they are not at home.

ZURITA. But that is no longer a protection; they leave the gramophone. And the maid invites you to wait and entertain yourself with the _Mochuelo_. What is a man to do? It is impossible to resent the records upon the maid. But we are wandering from the subject. You excite my curiosity.

CAROLINA. You know that to-morrow is the day of the unveiling of the statue of my husband, of my previous husband--

ZURITA. A fitting honor to the memory of that great, that illustrious man. This province owes him much, and so does all Spain. We who enjoyed the privilege of calling ourselves his friends, should be delighted to see justice done to his deserts at last, here where political jealousies and intrigues have always belittled the achievements of our eminent men. But Don Patricio Molinete could have no enemies. To-morrow will atone for much of the pettiness of the past.

CAROLINA. No doubt. I feel I ought to be proud and happy, although you understand the delicacy of my position. Now that I have married again, my name is not the same. Yet it is impossible to ignore the fact that once it was mine, especially as everybody knows that we were a model couple. I might perhaps have avoided the situation by leaving town for a few days on account of my health, but then that might have been misinterpreted. People might have thought that I was displeased, or that I declined to participate.

ZURITA. Assuredly. Although your name is no longer the same, owing to circumstances, the force of which we appreciate, that is no reason why you should be deprived of the honor of having borne it worthily at the time. Your present husband has no right to take offense.

CAROLINA. No, poor Florencio! In fact, he was the first to realize that I ought to take a leading part in the rejoicing. Poor Florencio was always poor Patricio's greatest admirer. Their political ideas were the same; they agreed in everything.

ZURITA. Apparently.

CAROLINA. As I have reason to know. Poor Patricio loved me dearly; perhaps that was what led poor Florencio to imagine that there was something in me to justify the affection of that great-hearted and intellectual man. It was enough for me to know that Florencio was Patricio's most intimate friend in order to form my opinion of him. Of course, I recognize that Florencio's gifts will never enable him to shine so brilliantly, but that is not to say that he is wanting in ability. He lacks ambition, that is all. All his desires are satisfied at home with me, at his own fireside. And I am as well pleased to have it so. I am not ambitious myself. The seasons which I spent with my husband in Madrid were a source of great uneasiness to me. I passed the week during which he was Minister of Agriculture in one continual state of anxiety. Twice he nearly had a duel--over some political question. I did not know which way to turn. If he had ever become Prime Minister, as was actually predicted by a newspaper which he controlled, I should have been obliged to take to my bed for the week.

ZURITA. You are not like our senator's wife, Senora Espinosa, nor the wife of our present mayor. They will never rest, nor allow others to do so, until they see their husbands erected in marble.

CAROLINA. Do you think that either Espinosa or the mayor are of a caliber to deserve statues?

ZURITA. Not publicly, perhaps. In a private chapel, in the class of martyrs and husbands, it might not be inappropriate. But I am growing impatient.

CAROLINA. As you say, friend Zurita, it might seem marked for me to leave the city. Yet if I remain I must attend the unveiling of the monument to my poor Patricio; I must be present at the memorial exercises to-night in his honor; I must receive the delegations from Madrid and the other cities, as well as the committees from the rest of the province. But what attitude ought I to assume? If I seem too sad, nobody will believe that my feeling is sincere. On the other hand, it would not be proper to appear altogether reconciled. Then people would think that I had forgotten too quickly. In fact, they think so already.

ZURITA. Oh, no! You were very young when you became a widow. Life was just beginning for you.

CAROLINA. It is a delicate matter, however, to explain to my sisters-in-law. Tell me, what ought I to wear? Anything severe, an attempt at mourning, would be ridiculous, since I am going with my husband; on the other hand, I should not like to suggest a festive spirit. What do you think, friend Zurita? Give me your advice. What would you wear?

ZURITA. It is hard to say; the problem is difficult. Something rich and black, perhaps, relieved by a note of violet. The unveiling of a monument to perpetuate the memory of a great man is not an occasion for mourning. Your husband is partaking already of the joys of immortality, in which no doubt, he anticipates you.

CAROLINA. Thank you so much.

ZURITA. Do not thank me. You have done enough. You have been faithful to his memory. You have married again, but you have married a man who was your husband's most intimate friend. You have not acted like other widows of my acquaintance--Senora Benitez, for example. She has been living for two years with the deadliest enemy her husband had in the province, without any pretense at getting married--which in her case would have been preposterous.

CAROLINA. There is no comparison.

ZURITA. No, my friend; everybody sympathizes with your position, as they ought.

CAROLINA. The only ones who worry me are my sisters-in-law. They insist that my position is ridiculous, and that of my husband still more so. They do not see how we can have the effrontery to present ourselves before the statue.

ZURITA. Senora, I should not hesitate though it were that of the Commander. Your sisters-in-law exaggerate. Your present husband is the only one you have to consider.

CAROLINA. I have no misgivings upon that score. I know that both will appreciate that my feelings are sincere, one in this world, and the other from the next. As for the rest, the rest--

ZURITA. The rest are your friends and your second husband's friends, as we were of the first. We shall all take your part. The others you can afford to neglect.

CAROLINA. Thanks for those words of comfort. I knew that you were a good friend of ours, as you were also of his.

ZURITA. A friend to both, to all three; _si, senora_, to all three. But here is your husband.

[_Don Florencio enters._]

ZURITA. Don Florencio! My friend!

FLORENCIO. My dear Zurita! I am delighted to see you! I wish to thank you for that charming article in memory of our never-to-be-forgotten friend. It was good of you, and I appreciate it. You have certainly proved yourself an excellent friend of his. Thanks, my dear Zurita, thanks! Carolina and I are both indebted to you for your charming article. It brought tears to our eyes. Am I right, Carolina?

CAROLINA. We were tremendously affected by it.

FLORENCIO. Friend Zurita, I am deeply gratified. For the first time in the history of the province, all parties have united to do honor to this region's most eminent son. But have you seen the monument? It is a work of art. The statue is a perfect likeness--it is the man, the man himself! The allegorical features are wonderfully artistic--Commerce, Industry, and Truth taken altogether in the nude. Nothing finer could be wished. You can imagine the trouble, however, we had with the nudes. The conservative element opposed the nudes, but the sculptor declined to proceed if the nudes were suppressed. In the end we won a decisive victory for Art.

CAROLINA. Do you know, I think it would have been just as well not to have had any nudes? What was the use of offending anybody? Several of our friends are going to remain away from the ceremonies upon that account.

FLORENCIO. How ridiculous! That only shows how far we are behind the times. You certainly have no feeling of that sort after having been the companion of that great, that liberal man. I remember the trip we took to Italy together--you surely recollect it, Carolina. I never saw a man so struck with admiration at those marvelous monuments of pagan and Renaissance art. Oh, what a man! What a wonderful man! He was an artist. Ah! Before I forget it, Carolina, Gutierrez asked me for any pictures you have for the special edition of his paper, and I should like to have him publish the verses which he wrote you when you were first engaged. Did you ever see those verses? That man might have been a poet--he might have been anything else for that matter. Talk about letters! I wish you could see his letters. Carolina, let us see some of those letters he wrote you when you were engaged.

CAROLINA. Not now. That is hardly the time....

FLORENCIO. Naturally. In spite of the satisfaction which we feel, these are trying days for us. We are united by our memories. I fear I shall never be able to control myself at the unveiling of the statue.

CAROLINA. Florencio, for heaven's sake, you must! You must control yourself.

ZURITA. Yes, do control yourself. You must.

FLORENCIO. I am controlling myself.

ZURITA. If there is nothing further that I can do....

CAROLINA. No, thank you, Zurita. I am awfully obliged to you. Now that I know what I am to wear, the situation does not seem half so embarrassing.

ZURITA. I understand. A woman's position is never so embarrassing as when she is hesitating as to what to put on.

CAROLINA. Until to-morrow then?

ZURITA. Don Florencio!

FLORENCIO. Thank you again for your charming article. It was admirable! Admirable!

[_Zurita retires._]

FLORENCIO. I see that you feel it deeply! you are touched. So am I. It is foolish to attempt to conceal it.

CAROLINA. I don't know how to express it, but--I am upset.

FLORENCIO. Don't forget the pictures, however, especially the one where the three of us were taken together on the second platform of the Eiffel tower. It was particularly good.

CAROLINA. Yes, something out of the ordinary. Don't you think, perhaps, that our private affairs, our family life.... How do we know whether at this time, in our situation....

FLORENCIO. What are you afraid of? That is the woman of it. How narrow-minded! You ought to be above such pettiness after having been the wife of such an intelligent man. Every detail of the private life of the great has its interest for history. Those of us who knew him, who in a certain sense were his colaborers--you will not accuse me of immodesty--his colaborers in the great work of his life, owe it to history to see that the truth be known.

CAROLINA. Nevertheless I hardly think I would print those letters--much less the verses. Do you remember what they said?

FLORENCIO. Of course, I remember:

"Like a moth on a pin I preserve all your kisses!..."

Everybody makes allowances for poetry. Nobody is going to take seriously what he reads in a poem. He married you anyway. Why should any one object?

CAROLINA. Stop, Florencio! What are you talking about? We are making ourselves ridiculous.

FLORENCIO. Why should we make ourselves ridiculous? Although I shall certainly stand by you, whatever you decide, if for no other reason than that I am your husband, his widow's husband. Otherwise people might think that I wanted you to forget, that I was jealous of his memory; and you know that is not the case. You know how I admired him, how I loved him--just as he did me. Nobody could get along with him as well as I could; he was not easy to get along with, I do not need to tell you that. He had his peculiarities--they were the peculiarities of a great man--but they were great peculiarities. Like all great men, he had an exaggerated opinion of himself. He was horribly stubborn, like all strong characters. Whenever he got on one of his hobbies no power on earth could pry him off of it. It is only out of respect that I do not say he was pig-headed. I was the only one who had the tact and the patience to do anything with him; you know that well enough. How often you said to me: "Oh, Florencio! I can't stand it any longer!" And then I would reason with you and talk to him, and every time that you had a quarrel I was the one who consoled you afterward.

CAROLINA. Florencio, you are perfectly disgusting! You have no right to talk like this.

FLORENCIO. Very well then, my dear. I understand how you feel. This is a time when everybody is dwelling on his virtues, his good qualities, but I want you to remember that that great man had also his faults.

CAROLINA. You don't know what you are talking about.

FLORENCIO. Compare me with him--

CAROLINA. Florencio? You know that in my mind there has never been any comparison. Comparisons are odious.

FLORENCIO. Not necessarily. But of course you have not! You have never regretted giving up his distinguished name, have you, Carolina, for this humble one of mine? Only I want you to understand that if I had desired to shine, if I had been ambitious.... I have talent myself. Now admit it!

CAROLINA. Of course I do, my dear, of course! But what is the use of talking nonsense?

FLORENCIO. What is the matter with you, anyway? You are nervous to-day. It is impossible to conduct a sensible conversation.--Hello! Your sisters-in-law! I am not at home.

CAROLINA. Don't excite yourself. They never ask for you.

FLORENCIO. I am delighted!... Well, I wish you a short session and escape.

CAROLINA. I am in a fine humor for this sort of thing myself.

[_Florencio goes out. Eudosia and Paquita enter._]

EUDOSIA. I trust that we do not intrude?

CAROLINA. How can you ask? Come right in.

EUDOSIA. It seems we find you at home for once.

CAROLINA. So it seems.

PAQUITA. Strange to say, whenever we call you always appear to be out.

CAROLINA. A coincidence.

EUDOSIA. The coincidence is to find you at home. [_A pause._] We passed your husband on the street.

CAROLINA. Are you sure that you would recognize him?

PAQUITA. Oh! he was not alone.

CAROLINA. Is that so?

EUDOSIA. Paquita saw him with Somolino's wife, at Sanchez the confectioner's.

CAROLINA. Very possibly.

PAQUITA. I should not make light of it, if I were you. You know what Somolino's wife is, to say nothing of Sanchez the confectioner.

CAROLINA. I didn't know about the confectioner.

EUDOSIA. No respectable woman, no woman who even pretends to be respectable, would set foot in his shop since he married that French girl.

CAROLINA. I didn't know about the French girl.

EUDOSIA. Yes, he married her--I say married her to avoid using another term. He married her in Bayonne--if you call such a thing marriage--civilly, which is the way French people marry. It is a land of perdition.

CAROLINA. I am very sorry to hear it because I am awfully fond of sweetmeats. I adore _bonbons_ and _marrons glaces_, and nobody here has as good ones as Sanchez, nor anywhere else for that matter.

PAQUITA. In that case you had as well deny yourself, unless you are prepared to invite criticism. Somolino's wife is the only woman who enters the shop and faces the French girl, who gave her a receipt for dyeing her hair on the spot. You must have noticed how she is doing it now.

CAROLINA. I hadn't noticed.

EUDOSIA. It is not jet-black any more; it is baby-pink--so she is having the Frenchwoman manicure her nails twice a week. Have you noticed the condition of her nails? They are the talk of the town.

[_A pause._]

PAQUITA. Well, I trust he is satisfied.

CAROLINA. Who is he?

PAQUITA. I do not call him your husband. Oh, our poor, dear brother!

CAROLINA. I have not the slightest idea what you are talking about.

EUDOSIA. So he has had his way at last and desecrated the statue of our poor brother with the figures of those naked women?

PAQUITA. As large as life.

CAROLINA. But Florencio is not responsible. It was the sculptor and the committee. I cannot see anything objectionable in them myself. There are such figures on all monuments. They are allegorical.

EUDOSIA. I could understand, perhaps, why the statue of Truth should be unclothed. Something of the sort was always expected of Truth. But I must say that Commerce and Industry might have had a tunic at least. Commerce, in my opinion, is particularly indecent.

PAQUITA. We have declined the seats which were reserved for us. They were directly in front and you could see everything.

EUDOSIA. I suppose you still intend to be present? What a pity that there is nobody to give you proper advice!

CAROLINA. As I have been invited, I judge that I shall be welcome as I am.

PAQUITA. Possibly--if it were good form for you to appear at all. But when you exhibit yourself with that man--who was his best friend--after only three short years!

CAROLINA. Three long years.

EUDOSIA. No doubt they seemed long to you. Three years, did I say? They were like days to us who still keep his memory green!

PAQUITA. Who still bear his name, because no other name sounds so noble in our ears.

EUDOSIA. Rather than change it, we have declined very flattering proposals.

CAROLINA. I am afraid that you have made a mistake. You remember that your brother was very anxious to see you married.

PAQUITA. He imagined that all men were like him, and deserved wives like us, our poor, dear brother! Who would ever have dreamed he could have been forgotten so soon? Fancy his emotions as he looks down on you from the skies.

CAROLINA. I do not believe for one moment that he has any regrets. If he had, then what would be the use of being in paradise? Don't you worry about me. The best thing that a young widow can do is marry at once. I was a very young widow.

EUDOSIA. You were twenty-nine.

CAROLINA. Twenty-six.

EUDOSIA. We concede you twenty-six. At all events, you were not a child--not to speak of the fact that no widow can be said to be a child.

CAROLINA. No more than a single woman can be said to be old. However, I fail to see that there would be any impropriety in my being present at the unveiling of the statue.

EUDOSIA. Do you realize that the premature death of your husband will be the subject of all the speakers? They will dwell on the bereavement which we have suffered through the loss of such an eminent man. How do you propose to take it? When people see you standing there, complacent and satisfied, alongside of that man, do you suppose they will ever believe that you are not reconciled?

PAQUITA. What will your husband do while they are extolling the genius of our brother, and he knows that he never had any?

CAROLINA. That was not your brother's opinion. He thought very highly of Florencio.

EUDOSIA. Very highly. Our poor, dear brother! Among his other abilities he certainly had an extraordinary aptitude for allowing himself to be deceived.

CAROLINA. That assumption is offensive to me; it is unfair to all of us.

EUDOSIA. I hope you brought it with you, Paquita?

PAQUITA. Yes; here it is.

[_Taking out a book._]

EUDOSIA. Just look through this book if you have a moment. It arrived to-day from Madrid and is on sale at Valdivieso's. Just glance through it.

CAROLINA. What is the book? [_Reading the title upon the cover._] "Don Patricio Molinete, the Man and His Work. A Biography. Together with His Correspondence and an Estimate of His Life." Why, thanks--

PAQUITA. No, do not thank us. Read, read what our poor brother has written to the author of this book, who was one of his intimate friends.

CAROLINA. Recaredo Casalonga. Ah! I remember--a rascal we were obliged to turn out of the house. Do you mean to say that scamp Casalonga has any letters? Merely to hear the name makes me nervous.

EUDOSIA. But go on! Page two hundred and fourteen. Is that the page, Paquita?

PAQUITA. It begins on page two hundred and fourteen, but before it amounts to anything turn the page.

CAROLINA. Quick, quick! Let me see. What does he say? What are these letters? What is this? He says that I.... But there is not a word of truth in it. My husband could never have written this.

EUDOSIA. But there it is in cold type. You don't suppose they would dare to print--

CAROLINA. But this is outrageous; this book is a libel. It invades the private life--the most private part of it! It must be stopped.

EUDOSIA. It cannot be stopped. You will soon see whether or not it can be stopped.

PAQUITA. Probably the edition is exhausted by this time.

CAROLINA. Is that so? We shall see! We shall see!--Florencio! Florencio! Come quickly! Florencio!

EUDOSIA. Perhaps he has not yet returned.

PAQUITA. He seemed to be enjoying himself.

CAROLINA. Nonsense! He was never out of the house. You are two old busybodies!

EUDOSIA. Carolina! You said that without thinking.

PAQUITA. I cannot believe my ears. Did you say busybody.

CAROLINA. That is exactly what I said. Now leave me alone. I can't stand it. It is all your fault. You are insupportable!

EUDOSIA and PAQUITA. Carolina!

CAROLINA. Florencio! Florencio!

[_Florencio enters._]

FLORENCIO. What is it, my dear? What is the matter? Ah! You? I am delighted....

EUDOSIA. Yes, we! And we are leaving this house, where we have been insulted--forever!

PAQUITA. Where we have been called busybodies!

EUDOSIA. Where we have been told that we were insupportable!

PAQUITA. And when people say such things you can imagine what they think!

FLORENCIO. But Eudosia, Paquita.... I do not understand. As far as I am concerned....

EUDOSIA. The person who is now your wife will make her explanations to you.

PAQUITA. I never expected to be driven out of our brother's house like this!

EUDOSIA. Our poor, dear brother!

FLORENCIO. But, Carolina--

CAROLINA. Let them go! Let them go! They are impossible.

PAQUITA. Did you hear that, Eudosia? We are impossible!

EUDOSIA. I heard it, Paquita. There is nothing left for us to hear in this house.

CAROLINA. Yes there is! You are as impossible as all old maids.

EUDOSIA. There was something for us to hear after all! Come, Paquita.

PAQUITA. Come, Eudosia.

[_They go out._]

FLORENCIO. What is this trouble between you and your sisters-in-law?

CAROLINA. There isn't any trouble. We were arguing, that was all. There is nothing those women like so much as gossip, or making themselves disagreeable in any way they can. Do you remember Casalonga?

FLORENCIO. Recaredo Casalonga? I should say I did remember him! That man was a character, and strange to say, a profound philosopher with it all. He was quite a humorist.

CAROLINA. Yes, he was. Well, this philosopher, this humorist, has conceived the terribly humorous idea of publishing this book.

FLORENCIO. Let me see. "Don Patricio Molinete, the Man and His Work. A Biography. Together with His Correspondence and an Estimate of His Life." A capital idea! They were great friends, you know, although I don't suppose that there can be anything particular in this book. What could Casalonga tell us anyway?

CAROLINA. Us? Nothing. But go on, go on.

FLORENCIO. You don't say! Letters of Patricio's. Addressed to whom?

CAROLINA. To the author of the book, so it seems. Personal letters, they are confidential. Go on, go on.

FLORENCIO. "Dear Friend: Life is sad. Perhaps you ask the cause of my disillusionment. How is it that I have lost my faith in the future, in the future of our unfortunate land?" I remember that time. He was already ill. This letter was written after he had liver complaint and took a dark view of everything. Ah! What a pity that great men should be subject to such infirmities! Think of the intellect being made the slave of the liver! We are but dust. "The future of this unfortunate land...."

CAROLINA. No, that doesn't amount to anything. Lower down, lower down. Go on.

FLORENCIO. "Life is sad!"

CAROLINA. Are you beginning all over again?

FLORENCIO. No, he repeats himself. What is this? "I never loved but once in my life; I never loved but one woman--my wife." He means you.

CAROLINA. Yes. Go on, go on.

FLORENCIO. "I never trusted but one friend, my friend Florencio." He means me.

CAROLINA. Yes, yes; he means you. But go on, go on.

FLORENCIO. I wonder what he can be driving at. Ah! What does he say? That you, that I....

CAROLINA. Go on, go on.

FLORENCIO. "This woman and this man, the two greatest, the two pure, the two unselfish passions of my life, in whom my very being was consumed--how can I bring myself to confess it? I hardly dare admit it to myself! They are in love--they love each other madly--in secret--perhaps without even suspecting themselves."

CAROLINA. What do you think of that?

FLORENCIO. Suspecting themselves.... "They are struggling to overcome their guilty passion, but how long will they continue to struggle? Yet I am sorry for them both. What ought I to do? I cannot sleep."

CAROLINA. What do you say?

FLORENCIO. Impossible! He never wrote such letters. Besides, if he did, they ought never to have been published.

CAROLINA. But true or false, they have been published, and here they are. Ah! But this is nothing! You ought to see what he says farther on. He goes on communicating his observations, and there are some, to be perfectly frank, which nobody could have made but himself.

FLORENCIO. You don't mean to tell me that you think these letters are genuine?

CAROLINA. They might be for all we know. He gives dates and details.

FLORENCIO. And all the time we thought he suspected nothing!

CAROLINA. You do jump so at conclusions, Florencio. How could he suspect? You know how careful we were about everything, no matter what happened, so as not to hurt his feelings.

FLORENCIO. This only goes to show all the good that it did us.

CAROLINA. He could only suspect--that it was the truth; that we were loving in silence.

FLORENCIO. Then perhaps you can explain to me what was the use of all this silence? Don't you see that what he has done now is to go and blurt the whole thing out to this rascal Casalonga?--an unscrupulous knave whose only interest in the matter is to turn these confidences to his own advantage! It is useless to attempt to defend it. Such foolishness was unpardonable. I should never have believed it of my friend. If he had any doubts about me--about us--why didn't he say so? Then we could have been more careful, and have done something to ease his mind. But this notion of running and telling the first person who happens along.... What a position does it leave me in? In what light do we appear at this time? Now, when everybody is paying respect to his memory, and I have put myself to all this trouble in order to raise money for this monument--what are people going to think when they read these things?

CAROLINA. I always said that we would have trouble with that monument.

FLORENCIO. How shall I have the face to present myself to-morrow before the monument?

CAROLINA. My sisters-in-law were right. We are going to be conspicuous.

FLORENCIO. Ah! But this must be stopped. I shall run at once to the offices of the papers, to the judicial authorities, to the governor, to all the booksellers. As for this Casalonga--Ah! I will settle with him! Either he will retract and confess that these letters are forgeries from beginning to end, or I will kill him! I will fight with him in earnest!

CAROLINA. Florencio! Don't forget yourself! You are going too far. You don't mean a duel? To expose your life?

FLORENCIO. Don't you see that it is impossible to submit to such an indignity? Where is this thing going to stop? Is nobody's private life to be secure? And this goes deeper than the private life--it impugns the sanctity of our intentions.

CAROLINA. No, Florencio!

FLORENCIO. Let me go!

CAROLINA. Florencio! Anything but a duel! No, no!

FLORENCIO. Ah! Either he will retract and withdraw the edition of this libel or, should he refuse....

CAROLINA. Zurita!

FLORENCIO. My friend.... You are just in time!

[_Zurita enters._]

ZURITA. Don Florencio.... Carolina.... Don't say a word! I know how you feel.

FLORENCIO. Did you see it? Did you hear it? Is this a civilized country in which we live?

CAROLINA. But surely he has not heard it already?

ZURITA. Yes, at the Club. Some one had the book; they were passing it around....

FLORENCIO. At the Club?

ZURITA. Don't be alarmed. Everybody thinks it is blackmail--a case of _chantage_. Don Patricio could never have written such letters.

FLORENCIO. Ah! So they think that?

ZURITA. Even if he had, they deal with private matters, which ought never to have been made public.

FLORENCIO. Exactly my idea--with private matters; they are confidential.

ZURITA. I lost no time, as you may be sure, of hurrying to Valdivieso's shop, where the books are on sale. I found him amazed; he was entirely innocent. He bought the copies supposing that the subject was of timely importance; that it was of a serious nature. He hurried at once to withdraw the copies from the window, and ran in search of the author.

FLORENCIO. Of the author? Is the author in town?

ZURITA. Yes, he came with the books; he arrived with them this morning.

FLORENCIO. Ah! So this scamp Casalonga is here, is he? Tell me where I can find him!

ZURITA. At the Hotel de Europa.

CAROLINA. Florencio! Don't you go! Hold him back! He means to challenge him.

ZURITA. Never! It is not worth the trouble. Besides, you ought to hold yourself above such things. Your wife is above them.

FLORENCIO. But what will people say, friend Zurita? What will people say?

ZURITA. Everybody thinks it is a huge joke.

FLORENCIO. A joke? Then our position is ridiculous.

ZURITA. I did not say that. What I do say....

FLORENCIO. No, no, friend Zurita; you are a man of honor, you know that it is necessary for me to kill this man.

CAROLINA. But suppose he is the one who kills you? No, Florencio, not a duel! What is the use of the courts?

FLORENCIO. No, I prefer to fight. My dear Zurita, run in search of another friend and stop at the Hotel de Europa as my representatives. Seek out this man, exact reparation upon the spot--a reparation which shall be resounding, complete. Either he declares over his own signature that those letters are impudent forgeries or, should he refuse....

CAROLINA. Florencio!

FLORENCIO. Stop at nothing! Do not haggle over terms. Let it be pistols with real bullets, as we pace forward each to each!

ZURITA. But, Don Florencio!

CAROLINA. Don't go, I beg of you! Don't leave the house!

FLORENCIO. You are my friend--go at once!

CAROLINA. No, he will never go!

ZURITA. But, Don Florencio! Consider.... The situation is serious.

FLORENCIO. When a man is made ridiculous the situation ceases to be serious! How shall I have the face to show myself before the monument! I--his most intimate friend! She, my wife, his widow! And everybody thinking all the while of those letters, imagining that I, that she.... No, no! Run! Bring me that retraction at once.

ZURITA. Not so fast! I hear the voice of Valdivieso.

FLORENCIO. Eh? And Casalonga's! Has that man the audacity to present himself in my house?

ZURITA. Be calm! Since he is here, perhaps he comes to explain. Let me see--

[_He goes out_.]

CAROLINA. Florencio! Don't you receive him! Don't you have anything to do with that man!

FLORENCIO. I am in my own house. Never fear! I shall not forget to conduct myself as a gentleman. Now we shall see how he explains the matter; we shall see. But you had better retire first. Questions of honor are not for women.

CAROLINA. You know best; only I think I might remain within earshot. I am nervous. My dear!--Where are your arms?

FLORENCIO. What do I need of arms?

CAROLINA. Be careful just the same. Keep cool! Think of me.

FLORENCIO. I am in my own house. Have no fear.

CAROLINA. It upsets me dreadfully to see you in such a state.

FLORENCIO. What are you doing now?

CAROLINA. Removing these vases in case you should throw things. I should hate awfully to lose them; they were a present.

FLORENCIO. Hurry, dear!

CAROLINA. I am horribly nervous. Keep cool, for heavens' sake! Control yourself.

[_Carolina goes out. Zurita reenters._]

ZURITA. Are you calmer now?

FLORENCIO. Absolutely. Is that man here?

ZURITA. Yes, Valdivieso brought him. He desires to explain.

FLORENCIO. Who? Valdivieso? Naturally. But that other fellow, that Casalonga--what does he want?

ZURITA. To have a few words with you; to offer a thousand explanations.

FLORENCIO. No more than one explanation is possible.

ZURITA. Consider a moment. In my opinion it will be wiser to receive him. He appears to be innocent.

FLORENCIO. Of the first instincts of a gentleman.

ZURITA. Exactly. I did not venture to put it so plainly. He attaches no importance to the affair whatever.

FLORENCIO. Of course not! It is nothing to him.

ZURITA. Nothing. However, you will find him disposed to go to any length--retract, make a denial, withdraw the book from circulation. You had best have a few words with him. But first promise to control yourself. Shall I ask them to come in?

FLORENCIO. Yes ... yes! Ask them to come in.

ZURITA. Poor Valdivieso is awfully put out. He always had such a high opinion of you. You are one of the two or three persons in this town who buy books. It would be a tremendous relief to him if you would only tell him that you knew he was incapable....

FLORENCIO. Thoroughly! Poor Valdivieso! Ask him to come in; ask them both to come in.

[_Zurita retires and returns presently with Valdivieso and Casalonga._]

VALDIVIESO. Senor Don Florencio! I hardly know what to say. I am sure that you will not question my good faith in the matter. I had no idea ... in fact, I never suspected....

FLORENCIO. I always knew you were innocent! but this person....

CASALONGA. Come, come now! Don't blame it on me. How the devil was I to know that you were here--and married to his widow! Sport for the gods!

FLORENCIO. Do you hear what he says?

ZURITA. I told you that he appeared to be innocent.

FLORENCIO. And I told you that he was devoid of the first instincts of a gentleman; although I failed to realize to what an extent. Sir--

CASALONGA. Don't be absurd! Stop making faces at me.

FLORENCIO. In the first place, I don't recall that we were ever so intimate.

CASALONGA. Of course we were! Of course! Anyhow, what difference does it make? We were together for a whole season; we were inseparable. Hard times those for us both! But what did we care? When one of us was out of money, all he had to do was to ask the other, and be satisfied.

FLORENCIO. Yes; I seem to recall that the other was always I.

CASALONGA. Ha, ha, ha! That might be. Stranger things have happened. But you are not angry with me, are you? The thing is not worth all this fuss.

FLORENCIO. Do you hear what he says?

VALDIVIESO. You may be sure that if I had had the slightest idea.... I bought the books so as to take advantage of the timeliness of the monument. If I had ever suspected....

CASALONGA. Identically my position--to take advantage of the monument. Life is hard. While the conservatives are in power, I am reduced to extremities. I am at my wit's end to earn an honest penny.

FLORENCIO. I admire your colossal impudence. What are you going to do with a man like this?

ZURITA. Exactly the question that occurred to me. What are you going to do?

CASALONGA. For a time I was reduced to writing plays--like everybody else--although mine were better. That was the reason they did not succeed. Then I married my last landlady; I was obliged to settle with her somehow. A little difference arose between us, so we agreed to separate amicably after smashing all the furniture. However, that will be of no interest to you.

FLORENCIO. No, no, it is of no interest to me.

CASALONGA. A novel, my boy! A veritable work of romance! I wandered all over the country explaining views for the cinematograph. You know what a gift I have for talk? Wherever I appeared the picture houses were crowded--even to the exits. Then my voice gave out. I was obliged to find some other outlet for my activities. I thought of my friends. You know what friends are; as soon as a man needs them he hasn't any friends. Which way was I to turn? I happened to hear that you were unveiling a monument to the memory of friend Patricio. Poor Patricio! That man was a friend! He could always be relied upon. It occurred to me that I might write out a few pages of reminiscences--preferably something personal--and publish any letters of his which I had chanced to preserve.

FLORENCIO. What luck!

CASALONGA. Pshaw! Bread and butter--bread and butter, man! A mere pittance. It occurred to me that they would sell better here than anywhere else--this is where he lived. So I came this morning third class--think of that, third class!--and hurried at once to this fellow's shop. I placed two thousand copies with him, which he took from me at a horrible discount. You know what these booksellers are....

VALDIVIESO. I call you to witness--what was customary under the circumstances. He was selling for cash.

CASALONGA. Am I the man to deny it? You can divide mankind into two classes--knaves and fools.

VALDIVIESO. Listen to this--

CASALONGA. You are not one of the fools.

VALDIVIESO. I protest! How am I to profit by the transaction? Do you suppose that I shall sell a single copy of this libel now that I know that it is offensive to my particular, my excellent friend, Don Florencio, and to his respected wife?

FLORENCIO. Thanks, friend Valdivieso, thanks for that.

VALDIVIESO. I shall burn the edition, although you can imagine what that will cost.

FLORENCIO. The loss will be mine. It will be at my expense.

CASALONGA. What did I tell you? Florencio will pay. What are you complaining about?--If I were in your place, though, I'd be hanged if I would give the man one penny.

VALDIVIESO. What? When you have collected spot cash?

CASALONGA. You don't call that collecting? Not at that discount. The paper was worth more.

FLORENCIO. The impudence of the thing was worth more than the paper.

CASALONGA. Ha, ha, ha! Really, I cannot find it in my heart to be angry with you. You are too clever! But what was I to do? I had to find some outlet for my activities. Are you going to kill me?

FLORENCIO. I have made my arrangements. Do you suppose that I will submit meekly to such an indignity? If you refuse to fight, I will hale you before the courts.

CASALONGA. Drop that tragic tone. A duel? Between us? Over what? Because the wife of a friend--who at the same time happens to be your wife--has been intimate with you? Suppose it had been with some one else!

FLORENCIO. The supposition is improper.

CASALONGA. You are the first man I ever heard of who was offended because it was said that he had been intimate with his wife. The thing is preposterous. How are we ever going to fight over it?

ZURITA. I can see his point of view.

FLORENCIO. Patricio could never have written those letters, much less to you.

CASALONGA. Talk as much as you like, the letters are genuine. Although it may have been foolish of Patricio to have written them--that is a debatable question. I published them so as to enliven the book. A little harmless suggestion--people look for it; it adds spice. Aside from that, what motive could I have had for dragging you into it?

FLORENCIO. I admire your frankness at least.

ZURITA. What do you propose to do with this man?

FLORENCIO. What do you propose?

CASALONGA. You know I was always fond of you. You are a man of ability.

FLORENCIO. Thanks.

CASALONGA. You have more ability than Patricio had. He was a worthy soul, no doubt, but between us, who were in the secret, an utter blockhead.

FLORENCIO. Hardly that.

CASALONGA. I need not tell you what reputations amount to in this country. If he had had your brains, your transcendent ability....

FLORENCIO. How can I stop this man from talking?

CASALONGA. You have always been too modest in my opinion; you have remained in the background in order to give him a chance to shine, to attract attention. Everybody knows that his best speeches were written by you.

FLORENCE. You have no right to betray my confidence.

CASALONGA. Yes, gentlemen, it is only just that you should know. The real brains belonged to this man, he is the one who should have had the statue. As a friend he is wonderful, unique!

FLORENCIO. How am I going to fight with this man?

CASALONGA. I will give out a statement at once--for public consumption--declaring that the letters are forgeries--or whatever you think best; as it appeals to you. Fix it up for yourself. It is of no consequence anyhow. I am above this sort of thing. I should be sorry, however, to see this fellow receive more than his due, which is two _reals_ a copy, or what he paid me.

VALDIVIESO. I cannot permit you to meddle in my affairs. You are a rogue and a cheat.

CASALONGA. A rogue and a cheat? In that case you are the one I will fight with. You are no friend of mine. You are an exploiter of other men's brains.

VALDIVIESO. You are willing to fight with me, are you--a respectable man, the father of a family? After swindling me out of my money!

CASALONGA. Swindling? That is no language to use in this house.

VALDIVIESO. I use it where I like.

FLORENCIO. Gentlemen, gentlemen! This is my house, this is the house of my wife!

ZURITA. Valdivieso!

CASALONGA [_to Florencio_]. I choose you for my second. And you too, my friend--what is your name?

VALDIVIESO. But will you listen to him? Do you suppose that I will fight with this rascal, with the first knave who happens along? I, the father of a family?

CASALONGA. I cannot accept your explanation. My friends will confer with yours and apprise us as to the details. Have everything ready for this afternoon.

VALDIVIESO. Do you stand here and sanction this nonsense? You cannot believe one word that he says. No doubt it would be convenient for you to retire and use me as a Turk's head to receive all the blows, when you are the one who ought to fight!

FLORENCIO. Friend Valdivieso, I cannot permit reflections upon my conduct from you. After all, you need not have purchased the book, which you did for money, knowing that it was improper, since it contained matter which was offensive to me.

VALDIVIESO. Are you speaking in earnest?

FLORENCIO. I was never more in earnest in my life.

CASALONGA. Yes, sir, and it is high time for us all to realize that it is in earnest. It was all your fault. Nobody buys without spending the wares. It was your business to have pointed out to me the indiscretion I was about to commit. [_To Florencio._] I am perfectly willing to withdraw if you wish to fight him, to yield my place as the aggrieved party to you. I should be delighted to act as one of your seconds, with our good friend here--what is your name?

ZURITA. Zurita.

CASALONGA. My good friend Zurita.

VALDIVIESO. Am I losing my mind? This is a trap which you have set for me, a despicable trap!

FLORENCIO. Friend Valdivieso, I cannot tolerate these reflections. I am incapable of setting a trap.

ZURITA. Ah! And so am I! When you entered this house you were familiar with its reputation.

CASALONGA. You have forgotten with whom you are speaking.

VALDIVIESO. Nonsense! This is too much. I wash my hands of the whole business. Is this the spirit in which my advances are received? What I will do now is sell the book--and if I can't sell it, I will give it away! Everybody can read it then--and they can talk as much as they want to. This is the end! I am through.

FLORENCIO. Wait? What was that? I warn you not to sell so much as one copy?

ZURITA. I should be sorry if you did. Take care not to drag me into it.

CASALONGA. Nor me either.

VALDIVIESO. Enough! Do as you see fit--and I shall do the same. This is the end--the absolute end! It is the finish!

[_Rushes out._]

FLORENCIO. Stop him!

CASALONGA. It won't be necessary. I shall go to the shop and take back the edition. Whatever you intended to pay him you can hand directly to me. I am your friend; besides I need the money. This man shall not get the best of me. Oh! By the way, what are you doing to-night? Have dinner with me. I shall expect you at the hotel. Don't forget! If you don't show up, I may drop in myself and have dinner with you.

FLORENCIO. No! What would my wife say? She has trouble enough.

CASALONGA. Nonsense! She knows me, and we should have a good laugh. Is she as charming, as good-looking, as striking as ever? I am keen for her. I don't need to ask whether she is happy. Poor Patricio was a character! What a sight he was! What a figure! And age doubled him for good measure. I'll look in on you later. It has been a rare pleasure this time. There are few friends like you. Come, shake hands! I am touched; you know how it is. See you later! If I don't come back, I have killed my man and am in jail for it. Tell your wife. If I can help out in any way.... Good-by, my friend--ah, yes! Zurita. I have a terrible head to-day. See you later!

[_Goes out._]

FLORENCIO. Did you ever see anything equal of it? I never did, and I knew him of old. But he has made progress.

ZURITA. His assurance is fairly epic.

FLORENCIO. What are you going to do with a man who takes it like this? You cannot kill him in cold blood--

[_Carolina reenters._]

FLORENCIO. Ah! Carolina! Were you listening? You heard everything.

CAROLINA. Yes, and in spite of it I think he is fascinating.

FLORENCIO. Since Carolina feels that way it simplifies the situation.

ZURITA. Why not? She heard the compliments. The man is irresistible.

FLORENCIO. Carolina, it comes simply to this: nobody attaches any importance to the matter. Only two or three copies have been sold.

CAROLINA. Yes, but one of them was to my sisters-in-law, which is the same as if they had sold forty thousand. They will tell everybody.

FLORENCIO. They were doing it anyhow; there is no further cause for worry.

CAROLINA. At all events, I shall not attend the unveiling to-morrow, and you ought not to go either.

FLORENCIO. But, wife!

ZURITA. Ah! The unveiling.... I had forgotten to mention it.

CAROLINA. To mention what?

ZURITA. It has been postponed.

FLORENCIO. How?

ZURITA. The committee became nervous at the last moment over the protests against the nudes. After seeing the photographs many ladies declined to participate. At last the sculptor was convinced, and he has consented to withdraw the statue of Truth altogether, and to put a tunic upon Industry, while Commerce is to have a bathing-suit.

CAROLINA. That will be splendid!

ZURITA. All this, however, will require several days, and by that time everything will have been forgotten.

[_Casalonga reenters with the books. He is completely out of breath and drops them suddenly upon the floor, where they raise a tremendous cloud of dust._]

CAROLINA. _Ay!_

CASALONGA. I had you scared! At your service.... Here is the entire edition. I returned him his thousand pesetas--I declined to make it another penny. I told you that would be all that was necessary. I am a man of my word. Now it is up to you. No more could be asked! I am your friend and have said enough. I shall have to find some other outlet for my activities. That will be all for to-day.

FLORENCIO. I will give you two thousand pesetas. But beware of a second edition!

CASALONGA. Don't begin to worry so soon. With this money I shall have enough to be decent at least--at least for two months. You know me, senora. I am Florencio's most intimate friend, as I was Patricio's most intimate friend, which is to say one of the most intimate friends you ever had.

CAROLINA. Yes, I remember.

CASALONGA. But I have changed since that time.

FLORENCIO. Not a bit of it! He is just the same.

CASALONGA. Yes, the change is in you. You are the same, only you have improved. [_To Carolina._] I am amazed at the opulence of your beauty, which a fortunate marriage has greatly enhanced. Have you any children?

CAROLINA. No....

CASALONGA. You are going to have some.

FLORENCIO. Flatterer!

CASALONGA. But I must leave before night: there is nothing for me to do here.

FLORENCIO. No, you have attended to everything. I shall send it after you to the hotel.

CASALONGA. Add a little while you are about it to cover expenses--by way of a finishing touch.

FLORENCIO. Oh, very well!

CASALONGA. That will be all. Senora, if I can be of service.... My good Zurita! Friend Florencio! Before I die I hope to see you again.

FLORENCIO. Yes! Unless I die first.

CASALONGA. I know how you feel. You take the worst end for yourself.

FLORENCIO. Allow me that consolation.

CASALONGA. God be with you, my friend. Adios! Rest in peace. How different are our fates! Life to you is sweet. You have everything--love, riches, satisfaction. While I--I laugh through my tears!

[_Goes out._]

CAROLINA. That cost you money.

FLORENCIO. What else did you expect? I gave up to avoid a scandal upon your account. I could see that you were nervous. I would have fought if I could have had my way; I would have carried matters to the last extreme. Zurita will tell you so.

CAROLINA. I always said that monument would cost us dear.

FLORENCIO. Obviously! Two thousand pesetas now, besides the twenty-five thousand which I subscribed for the monument, to say nothing of my uniform as Chief of Staff which I had ordered for the unveiling. Then there are the banquets to the delegates....

ZURITA. Glory is always more expensive than it is worth.

FLORENCIO. It is not safe to be famous even at second hand.

CAROLINA. But you are not sorry?

FLORENCIO. No, my Carolina, the glory of being your husband far outweighs in my eyes the disadvantages of being the husband of his widow.

[_Curtain._]

A SUNNY MORNING

A COMEDY

BY SERAFIN AND JOAQUIN ALVAREZ QUINTERO TRANSLATED FROM THE SPANISH BY LUCRETIA XAVIER FLOYD.

Copyrighted, 1914, by Lucretia Xavier Floyd under the title of "A Morning of Sunshine."

CHARACTERS

DONA LAURA. PETRA [_her maid_]. DON GONZALO. JUANITO [_his servant_].

TIME: _The Present_.

Published by special arrangement with Mrs. Lucretia Xavier Floyd and Mr. John Garrett Underhill, the Society of Spanish Authors. Applications for permission to produce this play must be made to the Society of Spanish Authors, Room 62, 20 Nassau Street, New York.

A SUNNY MORNING

A COMEDY BY SERAFIN AND JOAQUIN ALVAREZ QUINTERO

[_Scene laid in a retired part of a park in Madrid, Spain. A bench at right. Bright, sunny morning in autumn. Dona Laura, a handsome old lady of about 70, with white hair and of very refined appearance, although elderly, her bright eyes and entire manner prove her mental facilities are unimpaired. She enters accompanied by her maid Petra, upon whose arm she leans with one hand, while the other holds a parasol which she uses as a cane._]

DONA LAURA. I am so glad we have arrived. I feared my seat would be occupied. What a beautiful morning!

PETRA. The sun is rather hot.

DONA LAURA. Yes, to you who are only 20 years old. [_She sits down on the bench._] Oh, I feel more tired to-day than usual. [_Noticing Petra, who seems impatient._] Go, if you wish to chat with your guard.

PETRA. He is not my guard, Senora; he belongs to the park.

DONA LAURA. He belongs more to you than to the park. Go seek him, but remain within calling distance.

PETRA. I see him over there waiting for me.

DONA LAURA. Do not remain away more than ten minutes.

PETRA. Very well, Senora. [_Walks toward right, but is detained._]

DONA LAURA. Wait a moment.

PETRA. What does the Senora wish?

DONA LAURA. You are carrying away the bread crumbs.

PETRA. Very true. I don't know where my head is.

DONA LAURA [_smiling_]. I do. It is where your heart is--with your guard.

PETRA. Here, Senora. [_She hands Dona Laura a small bag. Exit Petra._]

DONA LAURA. Adios. [_Glancing toward trees._] Here come the rogues. They know just when to expect me. [_She rises, walks toward right, throws three handfuls of bread crumbs._] These are for the most daring, these for the gluttons, and these for the little ones which are the biggest rogues. Ha, ha. [_She returns to her seat and watches with a pleased expression, the pigeons feeding._] There, that big one is always the first. That little fellow is the least timid. I believe he would eat from my hand. That one takes his piece and flies to that branch. He is a philosopher. But from where do they all come? It seems as if the news had been carried. Ha, ha. Don't quarrel. There is enough for all. To-morrow I'll bring more.

[_Enter Don Gonzalo and Juanito. Don Gonzalo is an old gentleman over 70, gouty and impatient. He leans upon Juanito's arm and drags his feet along as he walks. He displays ill temper._]

DON GONZALO. Idling their time away. They should be saying Mass.

JUANITO. You can sit here, Senor. There is only a lady.

[_Dona Laura turns her head and listens to the dialogue._]

DON GONZALO. I won't, Juanito. I want a bench to myself.

JUANITO. But there is none.

DON GONZALO. But that one over there is mine.

JUANITO. But there are three priests sitting there.

DON GONZALO. Let them get up. Have they gone, Juanito?

JUANITO. No, indeed. They are in animated conversation.

DON GONZALO. Just as if they were glued to the seat. No hope of their leaving. Come this way, Juanito. [_They walk toward birds._]

DONA LAURA [_indignantly_]. Look out!

DON GONZALO [_turning his head_]. Are you talking to me, Senora?

DONA LAURA. Yes, to you.

DON GONZALO. What do you wish?

DONA LAURA. You have scared away the birds who were feeding on bread crumbs.

DON GONZALO. What do I care about the birds.

DONA LAURA. But I do.

DON GONZALO. This is a public park.

DONA LAURA. Then why do you complain that the priests have taken your bench?

DON GONZALO. Senora, we have not been introduced to each other. I do not know why you take the liberty of addressing me. Come, Juanito. [_Both exit._]

DONA LAURA. What an ill-natured old man. Why must some people get so fussy and cross when they reach a certain age? I am glad. He lost that bench, too. Serves him right for scaring the birds. He is furious. Yes, yes; find a seat if you can. Poor fellow! He is wiping the perspiration from his face. Here he comes. A carriage would not raise more dust than he does with his feet.

[_Enter Don Gonzalo and Juanito._]

DON GONZALO. Have the priests gone yet, Juanito?

JUANITO. No, indeed, Senor. They are still there.

DON GONZALO. The authorities should place more benches here for these sunny mornings. Well, I suppose I must resign myself and sit on the same bench with the old lady. [_Muttering to himself, he sits at the extreme end of Dona Laura's bench and looks at her indignantly. Touches his hat as he greets her._] Good morning.

DONA LAURA. What, you here again?

DON GONZALO. I repeat that we have not been introduced.

DONA LAURA. I am responding to your greeting.

DON GONZALO. Good morning should be answered by good morning, and that is what you should have said.

DONA LAURA. And you should have asked permission to sit on this bench which is mine.

DON GONZALO. The benches here are public property.

DONA LAURA. Why, you said the one the priests occupied was yours.

DON GONZALO. Very well, very well. I have nothing more to say. [_Between his teeth_.] Doting old woman. She should be at home with her knitting and counting her beads.

DONA LAURA. Don't grumble any more. I'm not going to leave here just to please you.

DON GONZALO [_brushing the dust from his shoes with his handkerchief_]. If the grounds were sprinkled more freely it would be an improvement.

DONA LAURA. What an idea, to brush your shoes with your handkerchief.

DON GONZALO. What?

DONA LAURA. Do you use a shoe brush as a handkerchief?

DON GONZALO. By what right do you criticize my actions?

DONA LAURA. By the rights of a neighbor.

DON GONZALO. Juanito, give me my book. I do not care to hear any more nonsense.

DONA LAURA. You are very polite.

DON GONZALO. Pardon me, Senora, but if you did not interfere with what does not concern you.

DONA LAURA. I generally say what I think.

DON GONZALO. And say more than you should. Give me the book, Juanito.

JUANITO. Here it is, Senor. [_Juanito takes book from pocket, hands it to Don Gonzalo; then exits._]

[_Don Gonzalo, casting indignant glances at Dona Laura, puts on an enormous pair of glasses, takes from his pocket a reading-glass, adjusts both to suit him, opens his book._]

DONA LAURA. I thought you were going to take out a telescope now.

DON GONZALO. What, again?

DONA LAURA. Your sight must be fine.

DON GONZALO. Many times better than yours.

DONA LAURA. Yes, it is very evident.

DON GONZALO. Many hares and partridges could bear testimony to my words.

DONA LAURA. Do you hunt?

DON GONZALO. I did, and even now--

DONA LAURA. Oh, yes, of course.

DON GONZALO. Yes, Senora. Every Sunday I take my gun and dog, you understand, and go to one of my properties near Aravaca, just to kill time.

DONA LAURA. Yes, to kill time. That is all you can kill.

DON GONZALO. Do you think so? I could show you a wild boar's head in my study--

DONA LAURA. Yes, and I could show you a tiger's skin in my boudoir. What an argument!

DON GONZALO. Very well, Senora, please allow me to read. I do not feel like having more conversation.

DONA LAURA. Well, keep quiet then.

DON GONZALO. But first I shall take a pinch of snuff. [_Takes out snuff box._] Will you have some? [_Offers box to Dona Laura._]

DONA LAURA. If it is good?

DON GONZALO. It is of the finest. You will like it.

DONA LAURA [_taking pinch of snuff_]. It clears my head.

DON GONZALO. And mine.

DONA LAURA. Do you sneeze?

DON GONZALO. Yes, Senora, three times.

DONA LAURA. And so do I. What a coincidence!

[_After taking the snuff, they await the sneezes, making grimaces, and then sneeze alternately three times each._]

DON GONZALO. There, I feel better.

DONA LAURA. So do I. [_Aside._] The snuff has made peace between us.

DON GONZALO. You will excuse me if I read aloud?

DONA LAURA. Read as you please; you will not disturb me.

DON GONZALO [_reading_]. "All love is sad, but sad and all, it is the best thing that exists." That is from Campoamor.

DONA LAURA. Ah!

DON GONZALO [_reading_]. "The daughters of the mothers I once loved, kiss me now as they would kiss a wooden image." Those lines are in the humorous vein.

DONA LAURA [_laughing_]. So I see.

DON GONZALO. There are some beautiful poems in this book. Listen: "Twenty years have passed. He returns."

DONA LAURA. You cannot imagine how it affects me to see you reading with all those glasses.

DON GONZALO. Can it be possible that you read without requiring any?

DONA LAURA. Certainly.

DON GONZALO. At your age? You must be jesting.

DONA LAURA. Pass me the book, please. [_takes book, reads aloud._] "Twenty years have passed. He returns. And each upon beholding the other exclaims--Can it be possible that this is he? Merciful heavens, can this be she?"

[_Dona Laura returns book to Don Gonzalo._]

DON GONZALO. Indeed, you are to be envied for your wonderful eyesight.

DONA LAURA [_aside_]. I knew the lines from memory.

DON GONZALO. I am very fond of good verse, very fond. I even composed some in my youth.

DONA LAURA. Good ones?

DON GONZALO. Of all kinds. I was a great friend of Espronceda, Zorrilla, Becquer and others. I first met Zorrilla in America.

DONA LAURA. Why, have you been in America?

DON GONZALO. Several times. The first time I went I was only six years old.

DONA LAURA. Columbus must have carried you in one of his caravels.

DON GONZALO [_laughing_]. Not quite as bad as that. I am old, I admit, but I did not know Ferdinand and Isabella. [_They both laugh._] I was also a great friend of Campoamor. I met him in Valencia. I am a native of that city.

DONA LAURA. You are?

DON GONZALO. I was brought up there and there I spent my early youth. Have you ever visited that city?

DONA LAURA. Yes, Senor. Not far from Valencia there was a mansion that if still there, should retain memories of me. I spent there several seasons. This was many, many years ago. It was near the sea, concealed among lemon and orange trees. They called it--let me see, what did they call it?--"Maricela."

DON GONZALO [_startled_]. Maricela?

DONA LAURA. Maricela. Is the name familiar to you?

DON GONZALO. Yes, very familiar. If my memory serves me right, for we forget as we grow old, there lived in that mansion the most beautiful woman I have ever seen, and I assure you I have seen a few. Let me see--what was her name? Laura--Laura--Laura Lorente.

DONA LAURA [_startled_]. Laura Lorente?

DON GONZALO. Yes. [_They look at each other strangely._]

DONA LAURA [_recovering herself_]. Nothing. You reminded me of my best friend.

DON GONZALO. How strange!

DONA LAURA. It is strange. She was called "The Silver Maiden."

DON GONZALO. Precisely, "The Silver Maiden." By that name she was known in that locality. I seem to see her as if she were before me now, at that window of the red roses. Do you remember that window?

DONA LAURA. Yes, I remember. It was that of her room.

DON GONZALO. She spent many hours there. I mean in my days.

DONA LAURA [_sighing_]. And in mine, too.

DON GONZALO. She was ideal. Fair as a lily, jet black hair and black eyes, with a very sweet expression. She seemed to cast a radiance wherever she was. Her figure was beautiful, perfect. "What forms of sovereign beauty God models in human sculpture!" She was a dream.

DONA LAURA [_aside_]. If you but knew that dream was now by your side, you would realize what dreams are worth. [_Aloud_.] She was very unfortunate and had a sad love affair.

DON GONZALO. Very sad. [_They look at each other._]

DONA LAURA. You know of it?

DON GONZALO. Yes.

DONA LAURA [_aside_]. Strange are the ways of Providence! This man is my early lover.

DON GONZALO. The gallant lover, if we refer to the same affair--

DONA LAURA. To the duel?

DON GONZALO. Precisely, to the duel. The gallant lover was--my cousin, of whom I was very fond.

DONA LAURA. Oh, yes, a cousin. My friend told me in one of her letters the story of that love affair, truly romantic. He, your cousin, passed by on horseback every morning by the rose path under her window, and tossed up to her balcony a bouquet of flowers which she caught.

DON GONZALO. And later in the afternoon, the gallant horseman would return by the same path, and catch the bouquet of flowers she would toss him. Was it not so?

DONA LAURA. Yes. They wanted to marry her to a merchant whom she did not fancy.

DON GONZALO. And one night, when my cousin watched under her window to hear her sing, this new lover presented himself unexpectedly.

DONA LAURA. And insulted your cousin.

DON GONZALO. There was a quarrel.

DONA LAURA. And later a duel.

DON GONZALO. Yes, at sunrise, on the beach, and the merchant was badly wounded. My cousin had to conceal himself for a few days and later to fly.

DONA LAURA. You seem to know the story perfectly.

DON GONZALO. And so do you.

DONA LAURA. I have told you that my friend related it to me.

DON GONZALO. And my cousin to me. [_Aside._] This woman is Laura. What a strange fate has brought us together again.

DONA LAURA [_aside_]. He does not suspect who I am. Why tell him? Let him preserve his illusion.

DON GONZALO [_aside_]. She does not suspect she is talking to her old lover. How can she? I will not reveal my identity.

DONA LAURA. And was it you, by chance, who advised your cousin to forget Laura?

DON GONZALO. Why, my cousin never forgot her for one instant.

DONA LAURA. How do you account, then, for his conduct?

DON GONZALO. I will explain. The young man first took refuge in my house, fearful of the consequences of his duel with that man, so much beloved in that locality. From my home he went to Seville, then came to Madrid. He wrote to Laura many letters, some in verse. But, undoubtedly, they were intercepted by her parents, for she never answered them. Gonzalo then, in despair, and believing his loved one lost to him forever, joined the army, went to Africa, and there, in a trench, met a glorious death, grasping the flag of Spain and repeating the name of his beloved--Laura--Laura--Laura.

DONA LAURA [_aside_]. What an atrocious lie!

DON GONZALO [_aside_]. I could not have killed myself in a more glorious manner.

DONA LAURA. Such a calamity must have caused you the greatest sorrow.

DON GONZALO. Yes, indeed, Senora. As great as if it were a brother. I presume though, that on the contrary, Laura in a short time was chasing butterflies in her garden, indifferent to everything.

DONA LAURA. No, Senor, no indeed.

DON GONZALO. It is usually a woman's way.

DONA LAURA. Even if you consider it a woman's way, the "Silver Maiden" was not of that disposition. My friend awaited news for days, months, a year, and no letter came. One afternoon, just at sunset, and as the first stars were appearing, she was seen to leave the house, and with quick steps, wend her way toward the beach, that beach where her beloved had risked his life. She wrote his name on the sand, then sat upon a rock, her gaze fixed upon the horizon. The waves murmured their eternal monologue and slowly covered the rock where the maiden sat. Shall I tell you the rest?--The tide rose and carried her off to sea.

DON GONZALO. Good heavens!

DONA LAURA. The fishermen of that sea-coast who tell the story, affirm that it was a long time before the waves washed away that name written on the sand. [_Aside._] You will not get ahead of me in inventing a romantic death.

DON GONZALO [_aside_]. She lies more than I do.

DONA LAURA. Poor Laura!

DON GONZALO. Poor Gonzalo!

DONA LAURA [_aside_]. I will not tell him that in two years I married another.

DON GONZALO [_aside_]. I will not tell her that in three months I went to Paris with a ballet dancer.

DONA LAURA. What strange pranks Fate plays! Here you and I, complete strangers, met by chance, and in discussing the romance of friends of long ago, we have been conversing as we were old friends.

DON GONZALO. Yes, it is strange, considering we commenced our conversation quarreling.

DONA LAURA. Because you scared away the birds.

DON GONZALO. I was in a bad temper.

DONA LAURA. Yes, that was evident. [_Sweetly._] Are you coming to-morrow?

DON GONZALO. Most certainly, if it is a sunny morning. And not only will I not scare away the birds, but will also bring them bread crumbs.

DONA LAURA. Thank you very much. They are very interesting and deserve to be noticed. I wonder where my maid is? [_Dona Laura rises; Don Gonzalo also rises._] What time can it be? [_Dona Laura walks toward left._]

DON GONZALO. It is nearly twelve o'clock. Where can that scamp Juanito be? [_Walks toward right._]

DONA LAURA. There she is talking with her guard. [_Signals with her hand for her maid to approach._]

DON GONZALO [_looking at Laura, whose back is turned. Aside_]. No, no, I will not reveal my identity. I am a grotesque figure now. Better that she recall the gallant horseman who passed daily under her window and tossed her flowers.

DONA LAURA. How reluctant she is to leave him. Here she comes.

DON GONZALO. But where can Juanito be? He has probably forgotten everything in the society of some nursemaid. [_Looks toward right and signals with his hand._]

DONA LAURA [_looking at Gonzalo, whose back is turned. Aside_]. No, I will not tell him I am Laura. I am too sadly altered. It is better he should remember me as the blackeyed girl who tossed him flowers as he passed through the rose path in that garden.

[_Juanito enters by right: Petra by left. She has a bunch of violets in her hand._]

DONA LAURA. Well, Petra, I thought you were never coming.

DON GONZALO. But, Juanito, what delayed you so? It is very late.

PETRA [_handing violets to Dona Laura_]. My lover gave me these violets for you, Senora.

DONA LAURA. How very nice of him. Thank him for me. They are very fragrant. [_As she takes the violets from her maid, a few loose ones drop to the ground._]

DON GONZALO. My dear Senora, this has been a great honor and pleasure.

DONA LAURA. And it has also been a pleasure to me.

DON GONZALO. Good-by until to-morrow.

DONA LAURA. Until to-morrow.

DON GONZALO. If it is a sunny day.

DONA LAURA. If it is a sunny day. Will you go to your bench?

DON GONZALO. No, Senora, I will come to this, if you do not object?

DONA LAURA. This bench is at your disposal. [_Both laugh._]

DON GONZALO. And I will surely bring the bread crumbs. [_Both laugh again._]

DONA LAURA. Until to-morrow.

DON GONZALO. Until to-morrow.

[_Laura walks away on her maid's arm toward right. Gonzalo, before leaving with Juanito, trembling and with a great effort, stoops to pick up the violets Laura dropped. Just then, Laura turns her head and sees him pick up flowers._]

JUANITO. What are you doing, Senor?

DON GONZALO. Wait, Juanito, wait.

DONA LAURA [_aside_]. There is no doubt. It is he.

DON GONZALO [_walks toward left. Aside_]. There can be no mistake. It is she.

[_Dona Laura and Don Gonzalo wave farewells to each other from a distance._]

DONA LAURA. Merciful heavens! This is Gonzalo.

DON GONZALO. And to think that this is Laura.

[_Before disappearing they give one last smiling look at each other._]

[_Curtain._]

THE CREDITOR

A PLAY

BY AUGUST STRINDBERG

PERSONS

THELKA. ADOLF [_her husband, a painter_]. GUSTAV [_her divorced husband_]. TWO LADIES, A WAITER.

THE CREDITOR

A PLAY BY AUGUST STRINDBERG

[SCENE: _A small watering-place. Time, the present. Stage directions with reference to the actors._

_A drawing-room in a watering-place; furnished as above._

_Door in the middle, with a view out on the sea; side doors right and left; by the side door on the left the button of an electric bell; on the right of the door in the center a table, with a decanter of water and a glass. On the left of the door in the center a what-not; on the right a fireplace in front; on the right a round table and arm-chair; on the left a sofa, a square table, a settee; on the table a small pedestal with a draped figure--papers, books, arm-chairs. Only the items of furniture which are introduced into the action are referred to in the above plan. The rest of the scenery remains unaffected. It is summer, and the day-time._]

## SCENE I.

[_Adolf sits on the settee on the left of the square table; his stick is propped up near him._]

ADOLF. And it's you I've got to thank for all this.

GUSTAV [_walks up and down on the right, smoking a cigar_]. Oh, nonsense.

ADOLF. Indeed, I have. Why, the first day after my wife went away, I lay on my sofa like a cripple and gave myself up to my depression; it was as though she had taken my crutches, and I couldn't move from the spot. A few days went by, and I cheered up and began to pull myself together. The delirious nightmares which my brain had produced, went away. My head became cooler and cooler. A thought which I once had came to the surface again. My desire to work, my impulse to create, woke up. My eye got back again its capacity for sound sharp observation. You came, old man.

GUSTAV. Yes, you were in pretty low water, old man, when I came across you, and you went about on crutches. Of course, that doesn't prove that it was simply my presence that helped so much to your recovery: you needed quiet, and you wanted masculine companionship.

ADOLF. You're right in that, as you are in everything else you say. I used to have it in the old days. But after my marriage it seemed unnecessary. I was satisfied with the friend of my heart whom I had chosen. All the same I soon got into fresh sets, and made many new acquaintances. But then my wife got jealous. She wanted to have me quite to herself; but much worse than that, my friends wanted to have her quite to themselves--and so I was left out in the cold with my jealousy.

GUSTAV. You were predisposed to this illness, you know that.

[_He passes on the left behind the square table and comes to Adolf's left._]

ADOLF. I was afraid of losing her--and tried to prevent it. Are you surprised at it? I was never afraid for a moment that she'd be unfaithful to me.

GUSTAV. What husband ever was afraid?

ADOLF. Strange, isn't it? All I troubled about was simply this--about friends getting influence over her and so being able indirectly to acquire power over me--and I couldn't bear that at all.

GUSTAV. So you and your wife didn't have quite identical views?

ADOLF. I've told you so much, you may as well know everything---my wife is an independent character. [_Gustav laughs._] What are you laughing at, old man?

GUSTAV. Go on, go on. She's an independent character, is she?

ADOLF. She won't take anything from me.

GUSTAV. But she does from everybody else?

ADOLF [_after a pause_]. Yes. And I've felt about all this, that the only reason why my views were so awfully repugnant to her, was because they were mine, not because they appeared absurd on their intrinsic merits. For it often happened that she'd trot out my old ideas, and champion them with gusto as her own. Why, it even came about that one of my friends gave her ideas which he had borrowed direct from me. She found them delightful; she found everything delightful that didn't come from me.

GUSTAV. In other words, you're not truly happy.

ADOLF. Oh yes, I am. The woman whom I desired is mine, and I never wished for any other.

GUSTAV. Do you never wish to be free either?

ADOLF. I wouldn't like to go quite so far as that. Of course the thought crops up now and again, how calmly I should be able to live if I were free--but she scarcely leaves me before I immediately long for her again, as though she were my arm, my leg. Strange. When I'm alone I sometimes feel as though she didn't have any real self of her own, as though she were a part of my ego, a piece out of my inside, that stole away all my will, all my _joie de vivre_. Why, my very marrow itself, to use an anatomical expression, is situated in her; that's what it seems like.

GUSTAV. Viewing the matter broadly, that seems quite plausible.

ADOLF. Nonsense. An independent person like she is, with such a tremendous lot of personal views, and when I met her, what was I then? Nothing. An artistic child which she brought up.

GUSTAV. But afterwards you developed her intellect and educated her, didn't you?

ADOLF. No; her growth remained stationary, and I shot up.

GUSTAV. Yes; it's really remarkable, but her literary talent already began to deteriorate after her first book, or, to put it as charitably as possible, it didn't develop any further. [_He sits down opposite Adolf on the sofa on the left._] Of course she then had the most promising subject-matter--for of course she drew the portrait of her first husband--you never knew him, old man? He must have been an unmitigated ass.

ADOLF. I've never seen him. He was away for more than six months, but the good fellow must have been as perfect an ass as they're made, judging by her description--you can take it from me, old man, that her description wasn't exaggerated.

GUSTAV. Quite; but why did she marry him?

ADOLF. She didn't know him then. People only get to know one another afterwards, don't you know.

GUSTAV. But, according to that, people have no business to marry until--Well, the man was a tyrant, obviously.

ADOLF. Obviously?

GUSTAV. What husband wouldn't be? [_Casually._] Why, old chap, you're as much a tyrant as any of the others.

ADOLF. Me? I? Well, I allow my wife to come and go as she jolly well pleases!

GUSTAV [_stands up_]. Pah! a lot of good that is. I didn't suppose you kept her locked up. [_He turns round behind the square table and comes over to Adolf on the right._] Don't you mind if she's out all night?

ADOLF. I should think I do.

GUSTAV. Look here. [_Resuming his earlier tone._] Speaking as man to man, it simply makes you ridiculous.

ADOLF. Ridiculous? Can a man's trusting his wife make him ridiculous?

GUSTAV. Of course it can. And you've been so for some time. No doubt about it.

[_He walks round the round table on the right._]

ADOLF [_excitedly_]. Me? I'd have preferred to be anything but that. I must put matters right.

GUSTAV. Don't you get so excited, otherwise you'll get an attack again.

ADOLF [_after a pause_]. Why doesn't she look ridiculous when I stay out all night?

GUSTAV. Why? Don't you bother about that. That's how the matter stands, and while you're fooling about moping, the mischief is done.

[_He goes behind the square table, and walks behind the sofa._]

ADOLF. What mischief?

GUSTAV. Her husband, you know, was a tyrant, and she simply married him in order to be free. For what other way is there for a girl to get free, than by getting the so-called husband to act as cover?

ADOLF. Why, of course.

GUSTAV. And now, old man, you're the cover.

ADOLF. I?

GUSTAV. As her husband.

ADOLF [_looks absent_].

GUSTAV. Am I not right?

ADOLF [_uneasily_]. I don't know. [_Pause._] A man lives for years on end with a woman without coming to a clear conclusion about the woman herself, or how she stands in relation to his own way of looking at things. And then all of a sudden a man begins to reflect--and then there's no stopping. Gustav, old man, you're my friend, the only friend I've had for a long time, and this last week you've given me back all my life and pluck. It seems as though you'd radiated your magnetism over me. You were the watchmaker who repairs the works in my brain, and tightened the spring. [_Pause._] Don't you see yourself how much more lucidly I think, how much more connectedly I speak, and at times it almost seems as though my voice had got back the timbre it used to have in the old days.

GUSTAV. I think so, too. What can be the cause of it?

ADOLF. I don't know. Perhaps one gets accustomed to talk more softly to women. Thekla, at any rate, was always ragging me because I shrieked.

GUSTAV. And then you subsided into a minor key, and allowed yourself to be put in the corner.

ADOLF. Don't say that. [_Reflectively._] That wasn't the worst of it. Let's talk of something else--where was I then--I've got it. [_Gustav turns round again at the back of the square table and comes to Adolf on his right._] You came here, old man, and opened my eyes to the mysteries of my art. As a matter of fact, I've been feeling for some time that my interest in painting was lessening, because it didn't provide me with a proper medium to express what I had in me; but when you gave me the reason for this state of affairs, and explained to me why painting could not possibly be the right form for the artistic impulse of the age, then I saw the true light and I recognized that it would be from now onwards impossible for me to create in colors.

GUSTAV. Are you so certain, old man, that you won't be able to paint any more, that you won't have any relapse?

ADOLF. Quite. I have tested myself. When I went to bed the evening after our conversation I reviewed your chain of argument point by point, and felt convinced that it was sound. But the next morning, when my head cleared again, after the night's sleep, the thought flashed through me like lightning that you might be mistaken all the same. I jumped up, and snatched up a brush and palette, in order to paint, but--just think of it!--it was all up. I was no longer capable of any illusion. The whole thing was nothing but blobs of color, and I was horrified at the thought. I could never have believed I could convert any one else to the belief that painted canvas was anything else except painted canvas. The scales had fallen from my eyes, and I could as much paint again as I could become a child again.

GUSTAV. You realized then that the real striving of the age, its aspiration for reality, for actuality, can only find a corresponding medium in sculpture, which gives bodies extension in the three dimensions.

ADOLF [_hesitating_]. The three dimensions? Yes--in a word, bodies.

GUSTAV. And now you want to become a sculptor? That means that you were a sculptor really from the beginning; you got off the line somehow, so you only needed a guide to direct you back again to the right track. I say, when you work now, does the great joy of creation come over you?

ADOLF. Now, I live again.

GUSTAV. May I see what you're doing?

ADOLF [_undraping a figure on the small table_]. A female figure.

GUSTAV [_probing_]. Without a model, and yet so lifelike?

ADOLF [_heavily_]. Yes, but it is like somebody; extraordinary how this woman is in me, just as I am in her.

GUSTAV. That last is not so extraordinary--do you know anything about transfusion?

ADOLF. Blood transfusion? Yes.

GUSTAV. It seems to me that you've allowed your veins to be opened a bit too much. The examination of this figure clears up many things which I'd previously only surmised. You loved her infinitely?

ADOLF. Yes; so much that I could never tell whether she is I, or I am her; when she laughed I laughed; when she cried I cried, and when--just imagine it--our child came into the world I suffered the same as she did.

GUSTAV [_stepping a little to the right_]. Look here, old chap, I am awfully sorry to have to tell you, but the symptoms of epilepsy are already manifesting themselves.

ADOLF [_crushed_]. In me? What makes you say so.

GUSTAV. Because I watched these symptoms in a younger brother of mine, who eventually died of excess.

[_He sits down in the arm-chair by the circular table._]

ADOLF. How did it manifest itself--that disease, I mean?

[_Gustav gesticulates vividly; Adolf watches with strained attention, and involuntarily imitates Gustav's gestures._]

GUSTAV. A ghastly sight. If you feel at all off color, I'd rather not harrow you by describing the symptoms.

ADOLF [_nervously_]. Go on; go on.

GUSTAV. Well, it's like this. Fate had given the youngster for a wife a little innocent, with kiss-curls, dove-like eyes, and a baby face, from which there spoke the pure soul of an angel. In spite of that, the little one managed to appropriate the man's prerogative.

ADOLF. What is that?

GUSTAV. Initiative, of course; and the inevitable result was that the angel came precious near taking him away to heaven. He first had to be on the cross and feel the nails in his flesh.

ADOLF [_suffocating_]. Tell me, what was it like?

GUSTAV [_slowly_]. There were times when he and I would sit quite quietly by each other and chat, and then--I'd scarcely been speaking a few minutes before his face became ashy white, his limbs were paralyzed, and his thumbs turned in towards the palm of the hand. [_With a gesture._] Like that! [_Adolf imitates the gesture._] And his eyes were shot with blood, and he began to chew, do you see, like this. [_He moves his lips as though chewing; Adolf imitates him again._] The saliva stuck in his throat; the chest contracted as though it had been compressed by screws on a joiner's bench; there was a flicker in the pupils like gas jets; foam spurted from his mouth, and he sank gently back in the chair as though he were drowning. Then--

ADOLF [_hissing_]. Stop!

GUSTAV. Then--are you unwell?

ADOLF. Yes.

GUSTAV [_gets up and fetches a glass of water from the table on the right near the center door_]. Here, drink this, and let's change the subject.

ADOLF [_drinks, limp_]. Thanks; go on.

GUSTAV. Good! When he woke up he had no idea what had taken place. [_He takes the glass back to the table._] He had simply lost consciousness. Hasn't that ever happened to you?

ADOLF. Now and again I have attacks of dizziness. The doctor puts it down to anaemia.

GUSTAV [_on the right of Adolf_]. That's just how the thing starts, mark you. Take it from me, you're in danger of contracting epilepsy; if you aren't on your guard, if you don't live a careful and abstemious life, all round.

ADOLF. What can I do to effect that?

GUSTAV. Above all, you must exercise the most complete continence.

ADOLF. For how long?

GUSTAV. Six months at least.

ADOLF. I can't do it. It would upset all our life together.

GUSTAV. Then it's all up with you.

ADOLF. I can't do it.

GUSTAV. You can't save your own life? But tell me, as you've taken me into your confidence so far, haven't you any other wound that hurts you?--some other secret trouble in this multifarious life of ours, with all its numerous opportunities for jars and complications? There is usually more than one _motif_ which is responsible for a discord. Haven't you got a skeleton in the cupboard, old chap, which you hide even from yourself? You told me a minute ago you'd given your child to people to look after. Why didn't you keep it with you?

[_He goes behind the square table on the left and then behind the sofa._]

ADOLF [_covers the figure on the small table with a cloth_]. It was my wife's wish to have it nursed outside the house.

GUSTAV. The motive? Don't be afraid.

ADOLF. Because when the kid was three years old she thought it began to look like her first husband.

GUSTAV. Re-a-lly? Ever seen the first husband?

ADOLF. No, never. I just once cast a cursory glance over a bad photograph, but I couldn't discover any likeness.

GUSTAV. Oh, well, photographs are never like, and besides, his type of face may have changed with time. By the by, didn't that make you at all jealous?

ADOLF. Not a bit. The child was born a year after our marriage, and the husband was traveling when I met Thekla, here--in this watering-place--in this very house. That's why we come here every summer.

GUSTAV. Then all suspicion on your part was out of the question? But so far as the intrinsic facts of the matter are concerned you needn't be jealous at all, because it not infrequently happens that the children of a widow who marries again are like the deceased husband. Very awkward business, no question about it; and that's why, don't you know, the widows are burned alive in India. Tell me, now, didn't you ever feel jealous of him, of the survival of his memory in your own self? Wouldn't it have rather gone against the grain if he had just met you when you were out for a walk, and, looking straight at Thekla, said "We," instead of "I"? "We."

ADOLF. I can't deny that the thought has haunted me.

GUSTAV [_sits down opposite Adolf on the sofa on the left_]. I thought as much, and you'll never get away from it. There are discords in life, you know, which never get resolved, so you must stuff your ears with wax, and work. Work, get older, and heap up over the coffin a mass of new impressions, and then the corpse will rest in peace.

ADOLF. Excuse my interrupting you--but it is extraordinary at times how your way of speaking reminds me of Thekla. You've got a trick, old man, of winking with your right eye as though you were counting, and your gaze has the same power over me as hers has.

GUSTAV. No, really?

ADOLF. And now you pronounce your "No, really?" in the same indifferent tone that she does. "No, really?" is one of her favorite expressions, too, you know.

GUSTAV. Perhaps there is a distant relationship between us: all men and women are related of course. Anyway, there's no getting away from the strangeness of it, and it will be interesting for me to make the acquaintance of your wife, so as to observe this remarkable characteristic.

ADOLF. But just think of this, she doesn't take a single expression from me; why, she seems rather to make a point of avoiding all my special tricks of speech; all the same, I have seen her make use of one of my gestures; but it is quite the usual thing in married life for a husband and a wife to develop the so-called marriage likeness.

GUSTAV. Quite. But look here now. [_He stands up._] That woman has never loved you.

ADOLF. Nonsense.

GUSTAV. Pray excuse me, woman's love consists simply in this--in taking in, in receiving. She does not love the man from whom she takes nothing: she has never loved you.

[_He turns round behind the square table and walks to Adolf's right._]

ADOLF. I suppose you don't think that she'd be able to love more than once?

GUSTAV. No. Once bit, twice shy. After the first time, one keeps one's eyes open, but you have never been really bitten yet. You be careful of those who have; they're dangerous customers.

[_He goes round the circular table on the right._]

ADOLF. What you say jabs a knife into my flesh. I've got a feeling as though something in me were cut through, but I can do nothing to stop it all by myself, and it's as well it should be so, for abscesses will be opened in that way which would otherwise never be able to come to a head. She never loved me? Why did she marry me, then?

GUSTAV. Tell me first how it came about that she did marry you, and whether she married you or you her?

ADOLF. God knows! That's much too hard a question to be answered offhand, and how did it take place?--it took more than a day.

GUSTAV. Shall I guess?

[_He goes behind the round table, toward the left, and sits on the sofa._]

ADOLF. You'll get nothing for your pains.

GUSTAV. Not so fast! From the insight which you've given me into your own character, and that of your wife, I find it pretty easy to work out the sequence of the whole thing. Listen to me and you'll be quite convinced. [_Dispassionately and in an almost jocular tone._] The husband happened to be traveling on study and she was alone. At first she found a pleasure in being free. Then she imagined that she felt the void, for I presume that she found it pretty boring after being alone for a fortnight. Then he turned up, and the void begins gradually to be filled--the picture of the absent man begins gradually to fade in comparison, for the simple reason that he is a long way off--you know of course the psychological algebra of distance? And when both of them, alone as they were, felt the awakening of passion, they were frightened of themselves, of him, of their own conscience. They sought for protection, skulked behind the fig-leaf, played at brother and sister, and the more sensual grew their feelings the more spiritual did they pretend their relationship really was.

ADOLF. Brother and sister! How did you know that?

GUSTAV. I just thought that was how it was. Children play at mother and father, but of course when they grow older they play at brother and sister--so as to conceal what requires concealment; they then discard their chaste desires; they play blind man's bluff till they've caught each other in some dark corner, where they're pretty sure not to be seen by anybody. [_With increased severity._] But they are warned by their inner consciences that an eye sees them through the darkness. They are afraid--and in their panic the absent man begins to haunt their imagination--to assume monstrous proportions--to become metamorphosed--he becomes a nightmare who oppresses them in that love's young dream of theirs. He becomes the creditor [_he raps slowly on the table three times with his finger, as though knocking at the door_] who knocks at the door. They see his black hand thrust itself between them when their own are reaching after the dish of pottage. They hear his unwelcome voice in the stillness of the night, which is only broken by the beating of their own pulses. He doesn't prevent their belonging to each other, but he is enough to mar their happiness, and when they have felt this invisible power of his, and when at last they want to run away, and make their futile efforts to escape the memory which haunts them, the guilt which they have left behind, the public opinion which they are afraid of, and they lack the strength to bear their own guilt, then a scapegoat has to be exterminated and slaughtered. They posed as believers in Free Love, but they didn't have the pluck to go straight to him, to speak straight out to him and say, "We love each other." They were cowardly, and that's why the tyrant had to be assassinated. Am I not right?

ADOLF. Yes; but you're forgetting that she trained me, gave me new thoughts.

GUSTAV. I haven't forgotten it. But tell me, how was it that she wasn't able to succeed in educating the other man--in educating him into being really modern?

ADOLF. He was an utter ass.

GUSTAV. Right you are--he was an ass; but that's a fairly elastic word, and according to her description of him, in her novel, his asinine nature seemed to have consisted principally in the fact that he didn't understand her. Excuse the question, but is your wife really as deep as all that? I haven't found anything particularly profound in her writings.

ADOLF. Nor have I. I must really own that I too find it takes me all my time to understand her. It's as though the machinery of our brains couldn't catch on to each other properly--as though something in my head got broken when I try to understand her.

GUSTAV. Perhaps you're an ass as well.

ADOLF. No, I flatter myself I'm not that, and I nearly always think that she's in the wrong--and, for the sake of argument, would you care to read this letter which I got from her to-day?

[_He takes a letter out of his pocketbook._]

GUSTAV [_reads it cursorily_]. Hum, I seem to know the style so well.

ADOLF. Like a man's, almost.

GUSTAV. Well, at any rate I know a man who had a style like that. [_Standing up._] I see she goes on calling you brother all the time--do you always keep up the comedy for the benefit of your two selves? Do you still keep on using the fig leaves, even though they're a trifle withered--you don't use any term of endearment?

ADOLF. No. In my view, I couldn't respect her quite so much if I did.

GUSTAV [_hands back the letter_]. I see, and she calls herself "sister" so as to inspire respect.

[_He turns around and passes the square table on Adolf's right._]

ADOLF. I want to esteem her more than I do myself. I want her to be my better self.

GUSTAV. Oh, you be your better self; though I quite admit it's less convenient than having somebody else to do it for you. Do you want, then, to be your wife's inferior?

ADOLF. Yes, I do. I find pleasure in always allowing myself to be beaten by her a little. For instance, I taught her swimming, and it amuses me when she boasts about being better and pluckier than I am. At the beginning I simply pretended to be less skillful and courageous than she was, in order to give her pluck, but one day, God knows how it came about, I was actually the worse swimmer and the one with less pluck. It seemed as though she's taken all my grit away in real earnest.

GUSTAV. And haven't you taught her anything else?

ADOLF. Yes--but this is in confidence--I taught her spelling, because she didn't know it. Just listen to this. When she took over the correspondence of the household I gave up writing letters, and--will you believe it?--simply from lack of practice I've lost one bit of grammar after another in the course of the year. But do you think she ever remembers that she has to thank me really for her proficiency? Not for a minute. Of course, I'm the ass now.

GUSTAV. Ah, really? You're the ass now, are you?

ADOLF. I'm only joking, of course.

GUSTAV. Obviously. But this is pure cannibalism, isn't it? Do you know what I mean? Well, the savages devour their enemies so as to acquire their best qualities. Well, this woman has devoured your soul, your pluck, your knowledge.

ADOLF. And my faith. It was I who kept her up to the mark and made her write her first book.

GUSTAV [_with facial expression_]. Re-a-lly?

ADOLF. It was I who fed her up with praise, even when I thought her work was no good. It was I who introduced her into literary sets, and tried to make her feel herself in clover; defended her against criticism by my personal intervention. I blew courage into her, kept on blowing it for so long that I got out of breath myself. I gave and gave and gave--until nothing was left for me myself. Do you know--I'm going to tell you the whole story--do you know how the thing seems to me now? One's temperament is such an extraordinary thing, and when my artistic successes looked as though they would eclipse her--her prestige--I tried to buck her up by belittling myself and by representing that my art was one that was inferior to hers. I talked so much of the general insignificant role of my particular art, and harped on it so much, thought of so many good reasons for my contention, that one fine day I myself was soaked through and through with the worthlessness of the painter's art; so all that was left was a house of cards for you to blow down.

GUSTAV. Excuse my reminding you of what you said, but at the beginning of our conversation you were asserting that she took nothing from you.

ADOLF. She doesn't--now, at any rate; now there is nothing left to take.

GUSTAV. So the snake has gorged herself, and now she vomits.

ADOLF. Perhaps she took more from me than I knew of.

GUSTAV. Oh, you can reckon on that right enough--she took without your noticing it. [_He goes behind the square table and comes in front of the sofa._] That's what people call stealing.

ADOLF. Then what it comes to is that she hasn't educated me at all?

GUSTAV. Rather you her. Of course she knew the trick well enough of making you believe the contrary. Might I ask how she pretended to educate you?

ADOLF. Oh--at first--hum!

GUSTAV. Well? [_He leans his arms on the table._]

ADOLF. Well, I--

GUSTAV. No; it was she--she.

ADOLF. As a matter of fact I couldn't say which it was.

GUSTAV. You see.

ADOLF. Besides, she destroyed my faith as well, and so I went backward until you came, old chap, and gave me a new faith.

GUSTAV [_he laughs_]. In sculpture?

[_He turns round by the square table and comes to Adolf's right._]

ADOLF [_hesitating_]. Yes.

GUSTAV. And you believed in it?--in that abstract, obsolete art from the childhood of the world. Do you believe that by means of pure form and three dimensions--no, you don't really--that you can produce an effect on the real spirit of this age of ours, that you can create illusions without color? Without color, I say. Do you believe that?

ADOLF [_tonelessly_]. No.

GUSTAV. Nor do I.

ADOLF. But why did you say you did?

GUSTAV. You make me pity you.

ADOLF. Yes, I am indeed to be pitied. And now I'm bankrupt, absolutely--and the worst of it is I haven't got her any more.

GUSTAV [_with a few steps toward the right_]. What good would she be to you? She would be what God above was to me before I became an atheist--a subject on which I could lavish my reverence. You keep your feeling of reverence dark, and let something else grow on top of it--a healthy contempt, for instance.

ADOLF. I can't live without some one to reverence.

GUSTAV. Slave!

[_He goes round the table on the right._]

ADOLF. And without a woman to reverence, to worship.

GUSTAV. Oh, the deuce! Then you go back to that God of yours--if you really must have something on which you can crucify yourself; but you call yourself an atheist when you've got the superstitious belief in women in your own blood; you call yourself a free thinker when you can't think freely about a lot of silly women. Do you know what all this illusive quality, this sphinx-like mystery, this profundity in your wife's temperament all really comes to? The whole thing is sheer stupidity; why, the woman can't distinguish between A.B. and bull's foot for the life of her. And look here, it's something shoddy in the mechanism, that's where the fault lies. Outside it looks like a fifty-guinea hunting watch, open it and you find it's tuppenny-halfpenny gun-metal. [_He comes up to Adolf._] Put her in trousers, draw a mustache under her nose with a piece of coal, and then listen to her in the same state of mind, and then you'll be perfectly convinced that it is quite a different kettle of fish altogether---a gramaphone which reproduces, with rather less volume, your words and other people's words. Do you know how a woman is constituted? Yes, of course you do. A boy with the breasts of a mother, an immature man, a precocious child whose growth has been stunted, a chronically anaemic creature that has a regular emission of blood thirteen times in the year. What can you do with a thing like that?

ADOLF. Yes--but--but then how can I believe--that we are really on an equality?

GUSTAV [_moves away from him again towards the right_]. Sheer hallucination! The fascination of the petticoat. But it is so; perhaps, in fact you have become like each other, the leveling has taken place. But I say. [_He takes out his watch._] We've been chatting for quite long enough. Your wife's bound to be here shortly. Wouldn't it be better to leave off now, so that you can rest for a little?

[_He comes nearer and holds out his hand to say good-by. Adolf grips his hand all the tighter._]

ADOLF. NO, don't leave me. I haven't got the pluck to be alone.

GUSTAV. Only for a little while. Your wife will be coming in a minute.

ADOLF. Yes, yes--she's coming. [_Pause._] Strange, isn't it? I long for her and yet I'm frightened of her. She caresses me, she is tender, but her kisses have something in them which smothers one, something which sucks, something which stupefies. It is as though I were the child at the circus whose face the clown is making up in the dressing-room, so that it can appear red-cheeked before the public.

GUSTAV [_leaning on the arm of Adolf's chair_]. I'm sorry for you, old man. Although I'm not a doctor I am in a position to tell you that you are a dying man. One only has to look at your last pictures to be quite clear on the point.

ADOLF. What do you say--what do you mean?

GUSTAV. Your coloring is so watery, so consumptive and thin, that the yellow of the canvas shines through. It is just as though your hollow ashen white cheeks were looking out at me.

ADOLF. Ah!

GUSTAV. Yes, and that's not only my view. Haven't you read to-day's paper?

ADOLF [_he starts_]. No.

GUSTAV. It's before you on the table.

ADOLF [_he gropes after the paper without having the courage to take it_]. Is it in here?

GUSTAV. Read it, or shall I read it to you?

ADOLF. No.

GUSTAV [_turns to leave_]. If you prefer it, I'll go.

ADOLF. NO, no, no! I don't know how it is--I think I am beginning to hate you, but all the same I can't do without your being near me. You have helped to drag me out of the slough which I was in, and, as luck would have it, I just managed to work my way clear and then you knocked me on the head and plunged me in again. As long as I kept my secrets to myself I still had some guts--now I'm empty. There's a picture by an Italian master that describes a torture scene. The entrails are dragged out of a saint by means of a windlass. The martyr lies there and sees himself getting continually thinner and thinner, but the roll on the windless always gets perpetually fatter, and so it seems to me that you get stronger since you've taken me up and that you're taking away now with you, as you go, my innermost essence, the core of my character, and there's nothing left of me but an empty husk.

GUSTAV. Oh, what fantastic notions; besides, your wife is coming back with your heart.

ADOLF. No; no longer, after you have burnt it for me. You have passed through me, changing everything in your track to ashes--my art, my love, my hope, my faith.

GUSTAV [_comes near to him again_]. Were you so splendidly off before?

ADOLF. No, I wasn't, but the situation might have been saved; now it's too late. Murderer!

GUSTAV. We've wasted a little time. Now we'll do some sowing in the ashes.

ADOLF. I hate you! I curse you!

GUSTAV. A healthy symptom. You've still got some strength, and now I'll screw up your machinery again. I say. [_He goes behind the square table on the left and comes in front of the sofa._] Will you listen to me and obey me?

ADOLF. Do what you will with me, I'll obey.

GUSTAV. Look at me.

ADOLF [_looks him in the face_]. And now you look at me again with that other expression in those eyes of yours, which draws me to you irresistibly.

GUSTAV. Now listen to me.

ADOLF. Yes, but speak of yourself. Don't speak any more of me: it's as though I were wounded, every movement hurts me.

GUSTAV. Oh no, there isn't much to say about me, don't you know. I'm a private tutor in dead languages and a widower, that's all. [_He goes in front of the table._] Hold my hand.

[_Adolf does so._]

ADOLF. What awful strength you must have, it seems as though a fellow were catching hold of an electric battery.

GUSTAV. And just think, I was once quite as weak as you are. [_Sternly._] Get up.

ADOLF [_gets up_]. I am like a child without any bones, and my brain is empty.

GUSTAV. Take a walk through the room.

ADOLF. I can't.

GUSTAV. You must; if you don't I'll hit you.

ADOLF [_stands up_]. What do you say?

GUSTAV. I've told you--I'll hit you.

ADOLF [_jumps back to the circular table on the right, beside himself._] You!

GUSTAV [_follows him_]. Bravo! That's driven the blood to your head, and woken up your self-respect. Now I'll give you an electric shock. Where's your wife?

ADOLF. Where's my wife?

GUSTAV. Yes.

ADOLF. At--a meeting.

GUSTAV. Certain?

ADOLF. Absolutely.

GUSTAV. What kind of a meeting?

ADOLF. An orphan association.

GUSTAV. Did you part friends?

ADOLF [_hesitating_]. Not friends.

GUSTAV. Enemies, then? What did you say to make her angry?

ADOLF. You're terrible. I'm frightened of you. How did you manage to know that?

GUSTAV. I've just got three known quantities, and by their help I work out the unknown. What did you say to her, old chap?

ADOLF. I said--only two words--but two awful words. I regret them--I regret them.

GUSTAV. You shouldn't do that. Well, speak!

ADOLF. I said, "Old coquette."

GUSTAV. And what else?

ADOLF. I didn't say anything else.

GUSTAV. Oh yes, you did; you've only forgotten it. Perhaps because you haven't got the pluck to remember it. You've locked it up in a secret pigeonhole; open it.

ADOLF. I don't remember.

GUSTAV. But I know what it was--the sense was roughly this: "You ought to be ashamed of yourself to be always flirting at your age. You're getting too old to find any more admirers."

ADOLF. Did I say that--possibly? How did you manage to know it?

GUSTAV. On my way here I heard her tell the story on the steamer.

ADOLF. To whom?

GUSTAV [_walks up and down on the left_]. To four boys, whom she happened to be with. She has a craze for pure boys, just like--

ADOLF. A perfectly innocent _penchant_.

GUSTAV. Quite as innocent as playing brother and sister when one is father and mother.

ADOLF. You saw her, then?

GUSTAV. Yes, of course; but you've never seen her if you didn't see her then--I mean, if you weren't present--and that's the reason, don't you know, why a husband can never know his wife. Have you got her photograph?

ADOLF [_takes a photo out of his pocketbook. Inquisitively_]. Here you are.

GUSTAV [_takes it_]. Were you present when it was taken?

ADOLF. No.

GUSTAV. Just look at it? Is it like the portrait you painted? No, the features are the same, but the expression is different. But you don't notice that, because you insist on seeing in it the picture of her which you've painted. Now look at this picture as a painter, without thinking of the original. What does it represent? I can see nothing but a tricked-out flirt, playing the decoy. Observe the cynical twist in the mouth, which you never managed to see. You see that her look is seeking a man quite different from you. Observe the dress is _decollete_, the coiffure titivated to the last degree, the sleeves finished high up. You see?

ADOLF. Yes, now I see.

GUSTAV. Be careful, my boy.

ADOLF. Of what?

GUSTAV [_gives him back the portrait_]. Of her revenge. Don't forget that by saying she was no longer attractive to men you wounded her in the one thing which she took most seriously. If you'd called her literary works twaddle she'd have laughed, and pitied your bad taste, but now--take it from me--if she hasn't avenged herself already it's not her fault.

ADOLF. I must be clear on that point.

[_He goes over to Gustav, and sits down in his previous place. Gustav approaches him._]

GUSTAV. Find out yourself.

ADOLF. Find out myself?

GUSTAV. Investigate. I'll help you, if you like.

ADOLF [_after a pause_]. Good. Since I've been condemned to death once--so be it--sooner or later it's all the same what's to happen.

GUSTAV. One question first. Hasn't your wife got just one weak point?

ADOLF. Not that I know of. [_Adolf goes to the open door in the center_]. Yes. You can hear the steamer in the Sound now--she'll be here soon. And I must go down to meet her.

GUSTAV [_holding him back_]. No, stay here. Be rude to her. If she's got a good conscience she'll let you have it so hot and strong that you won't know where you are. But if she feels guilty she'll come and caress you.

ADOLF. Are you so sure of it?

GUSTAV. Not absolutely. At times a hare goes back in the tracks, but I'm not going to let this one escape me. My room is just here. [_Points to the door on the right and goes behind Adolf's chair._] I'll keep this position, and be on the look-out, while you play your game here, and when you've played it to the end we'll exchange parts. I'll go in the cage and leave myself to the tender mercies of the snake, and you can stand at the keyhole. Afterwards we'll meet in the park and compare notes. But pull yourself together, old man, and if you show weakness I'll knock on the floor twice with a chair.

ADOLF [_getting up_]. Right. But don't go away: I must know that you're in the next room.

GUSTAV. You can trust me for that. But be careful you aren't afraid when you see later on how I can dissect a human soul and lay the entrails here on the table. It may seem a bit uncanny to beginners, but if you've seen it done once you don't regret it. One thing more, don't say a word that you've met me, or that you have made any acquaintance during her absence--not a word. I'll ferret out her weak point myself. Hush! She's already up there in her room. She's whistling--then she's in a temper. Now stick to it. [_He points to the left._] And sit here on this chair, then she'll have to sit there [_He points to the sofa on the left._], and I can keep you both in view at the same time.

ADOLF. We've still got an hour before dinner. There are no new visitors, for there has been no bell to announce them. We'll be alone together--more's the pity!

GUSTAV. You seem pretty limp. Are you unwell?

ADOLF. I'm all right; unless, you know, I'm frightened of what's going to happen. But I can't help its happening. The stone rolls, but it was not the last drop of water that made it roll, nor yet the first--everything taken together brought it about.

GUSTAV. Let it roll, then; it won't have any peace until it does. Good-by, for the time being.

[_Exit on the right. Adolf nods to him, stands up for a short time, looking at the photograph, tears it to pieces, and throws the fragments behind the circular table on the right; he then sits down in his previous place, nervously arranges his tie, runs his fingers through his hair, fumbles with the lapels of his coat, etc. Thekla enters on the left._]

## SCENE II.

THEKLA [_frank, cheerful and engaging, goes straight up to her husband and kisses him_]. Good-day, little brother; how have you been getting on?

[_She stands on his left._]

ADOLF [_half overcome but jocularly resisting_]. What mischief have you been up to, for you to kiss me?

THEKLA. Yes, let me just confess. Something very naughty--I've spent an awful lot of money.

ADOLF. Did you have a good time, then?

THEKLA. Excellent. [_She goes to his right._] But not at the Congress. It was as dull as ditch-water, don't you know. But how has little brother been passing the time, when his little dove had flown away?

[_She looks around the room, as though looking for somebody or scenting something, and thus comes behind the sofa on the left._]

ADOLF. Oh, the time seemed awfully long.

THEKLA. Nobody to visit you?

ADOLF. Not a soul.

THEKLA [_looks him up and down and sits down on the sofa_]. Who sat here?

ADOLF. Here? No one.

THEKLA. Strange! The sofa is as warm as anything, and there's the mark of an elbow in the cushion. Have you had a lady visitor?

[_She stands up._]

ADOLF. Me? You're not serious?

THEKLA [_turns away from the square table and comes to Adolf's right_]. How he blushes! So the little brother wants to mystify me a bit, does he? Well, let him come here and confess what he's got on his conscience to his little wife.

[_She draws him to her. Adolf lets his head sink on her breast; laughing._]

ADOLF. You're a regular devil, do you know that?

THEKLA. No, I know myself so little.

ADOLF. Do you never think about yourself?

THEKLA [_looking in the air, while she looks at him searchingly_]. About myself? I only think about myself. I am a shocking egoist, but how philosophical you've become, my dear.

ADOLF. Put your hand on my forehead.

THEKLA [_playfully_]. Has he got bees in his bonnet again? Shall I drive them away? [_She kisses him on the forehead._] There, it's all right now? [_Pause, moving away from him to the right._] Now let me hear what he's been doing to amuse himself. Painted anything pretty?

ADOLF. No; I've given up painting!

THEKLA. What, you've given up painting!

ADOLF. Yes, but don't scold me about it. How could I help it if I wasn't able to paint any more?

THEKLA. What are you going to take up then?

ADOLF. I'm going to be a sculptor. [_Thekla passes over in front of the square table and in front of the sofa._] Yes, but don't blame me--just look at this figure.

THEKLA [_unwraps the figure on the table_]. Hallo, I say. Who's this meant to be?

ADOLF. Guess!

THEKLA [_tenderly_]. Is it meant to be his little wife? And he isn't ashamed of it, is he?

ADOLF. Hasn't he hit the mark?

THEKLA. How can I tell?--the face is lacking.

[_She drapes the figure._]

ADOLF. Quite so--but all the rest? Nice?

THEKLA [_taps him caressingly on yhe cheek_]. Will he shut up? Otherwise I'll kiss him.

[_She goes behind him; Adolf defending himself._]

ADOLF. Look out, look out, anybody might come.

THEKLA [_nestling close to him_]. What do I care! I'm surely allowed to kiss my own husband. That's only my legal right.

ADOLF. Quite so; but do you know the people here in the hotel take the view that we're not married because we kiss each other so much, and our occasional quarreling makes them all the more cocksure about it, because lovers usually carry on like that.

THEKLA. But need there be any quarrels? Can't he always be as sweet and good as he is at present. Let him tell me. Wouldn't he like it himself? Wouldn't he like us to be happy?

ADOLF. I should like it, but--

THEKLA [_with a step to the right_]. Who put it into his head not to paint any more?

ADOLF. You're always scenting somebody behind me and my thoughts. You're jealous.

THEKLA. I certainly am. I was always afraid some one might estrange you from me.

ADOLF. You're afraid of that, you say, though you know very well that there isn't a woman living who can supplant you--that I can't live without you.

THEKLA. I wasn't frightened the least bit of females. It was your friends I was afraid of: they put all kinds of ideas into your head.

ADOLF [_probing_]. So you were afraid? What were you afraid of?

THEKLA. Some one has been here. Who was it?

ADOLF. Can't you stand my looking at you?

THEKLA. Not in that way. You aren't accustomed to look at me like that.

ADOLF. How am I looking at you then?

THEKLA. You are spying underneath your eyelids.

ADOLF. Right through. Yes, I want to know what it's like inside.

THEKLA. I don't mind. As you like. I've nothing to hide, but--your very manner of speaking has changed--you employ expressions. [_Probing._] You philosophize. Eh? [_She goes toward him in a menacing manner._] Who has been here?

ADOLF. My doctor--nobody else.

THEKLA. Your doctor! What doctor?

ADOLF. The doctor from Stroemastad.

THEKLA. What's his name?

ADOLF. Sjoeberg.

THEKLA. What did he say?

ADOLF. Well--he said, among other things--that I'm pretty near getting epilepsy.

THEKLA [_with a step to the right_]. Among other things! What else did he say?

ADOLF. Oh, something extremely unpleasant.

THEKLA. Let me hear it.

ADOLF. He forbade us to live together as man and wife for some time.

THEKLA. There you are. I thought as much. They want to separate us. I've already noticed it for some time.

[_She goes round the circular table toward the right._]

ADOLF. There was nothing for you to notice. There was never the slightest incident of that description.

THEKLA. What do you mean?

ADOLF. How could it have been possible for you to have seen something which wasn't there if your fear hadn't heated your imagination to so violent a pitch that you saw what never existed? As a matter of fact, what were you afraid of? That I might borrow another's eye so as to see you as you really were, not as you appeared to me?

THEKLA. Keep your imagination in check, Adolf. Imagination is the beast in the human soul.

ADOLF. Where did you get this wisdom from? From the pure youths on the steamer, eh?

THEKLA [_without losing her self-possession_]. Certainly--even youth can teach one a great deal.

ADOLF. You seem for once in a way, to be awfully keen on youth?

THEKLA [_standing by the door in the center_]. I have always been so, and that's how it came about that I loved you. Any objection?

ADOLF. Not at all. But I should very much prefer to be the only one.

THEKLA [_coming forward on his right, and joking as though speaking to a child_]. Let the little brother look here. I've got such a large heart that there is room in it for a great many, not only for him.

ADOLF. But little brother doesn't want to know anything about the other brothers.

THEKLA. Won't he just come here and let himself be teased by his little woman, because he's jealous--no, envious is the right word.

[_Two knocks with a chair are heard from the room on the right._]

ADOLF. No, I don't want to fool about, I want to speak seriously.

THEKLA [_as though speaking to a child_]. Good Lord! he wants to speak seriously. Upon my word! Has the man become serious for once in his life? [_Comes on his left, takes hold of his head and kisses him._] Won't he laugh now a little?

[_Adolf laughs._]

THEKLA. There, there!

ADOLF [_laughs involuntarily_]. You damned witch, you! I really believe you can bewitch people.

THEKLA [_comes in front of the sofa_]. He can see for himself, and that's why he mustn't worry me, otherwise I shall certainly bewitch him.

ADOLF [_springs up_]. Thekla! Sit for me a minute in profile, and I'll do the face for your figure.

THEKLA. With pleasure.

[_She turns her profile toward him._]

ADOLF [_sits down, fixes her with his eyes and acts as though he were modeling_]. Now, don't think of me, think of somebody else.

THEKLA. I'll think of my last conquest.

ADOLF. The pure youth?

THEKLA. Quite right. He had the duckiest, sweetest little mustache, and cheeks like cherries, so delicate and soft, one could have bitten right into them.

ADOLF [_depressed_]. Just keep that twist in your mouth.

THEKLA. What twist?

ADOLF. That cynical insolent twist which I've never seen before.

THEKLA [_makes a grimace_]. Like that?

ADOLF. Quite. [_He gets up._] Do you know how Bret Harte describes the adulteress?

THEKLA [_laughs_]. No, I've never read that Bret What-do-you-call-him.

ADOLF. Oh! she's a pale woman who never blushes.

THEKLA. Never? Oh yes, she does; oh yes, she does. Perhaps when she meets her lover, even though her husband and Mr. Bret didn't manage to see anything of it.

ADOLF. Are you so certain about it?

THEKLA [_as before_]. Absolutely. If the man isn't able to drive her very blood to her head, how can he possibly enjoy the pretty spectacle?

[_She passes by him toward the right._]

ADOLF [_raving_]. Thekla! Thekla!

THEKLA. Little fool!

ADOLF [_sternly_]. Thekla!

THEKLA. Let him call me his own dear little sweetheart, and I'll get red all over before him, shall I?

ADOLF [_disarmed_]. I'm so angry with you, you monster, that I should like to bite you.

THEKLA [_playing with him_]. Well, come and bite me; come.

[_She holds out her arms towards him._]

ADOLF [_takes her by the neck and kisses her_]. Yes, my dear, I'll bite you so that you die.

THEKLA [_joking_]. Look out, somebody might come.

[_She goes to the fireplace on the right and leans on the chimneypiece._]

ADOLF. Oh, what do I care if they do. I don't care about anything in the whole world so long as I have you.

THEKLA. And if you don't have me any more?

ADOLF [_sinks down on the chair on the left in front of the circular table_]. Then I die!

THEKLA. All right, you needn't be frightened of that the least bit; I'm already much too old, you see, for anybody to like me.

ADOLF. You haven't forgotten those words of mine?--I take them back.

THEKLA. Can you explain to me why it is that you're so jealous, and at the same time so sure of yourself?

ADOLF. No, I can't explain it, but it may be that the thought that another man has possessed you, gnaws and consumes me. It seems to me at times as though our whole love were a figment of the brain--a passion that had turned into a formal matter of honor. I know nothing which would be more intolerable for me to bear, than for him to have the satisfaction of making me unhappy. Ah, I've never seen him, but the very thought that there is such a man who watches in secret for my unhappiness, who conjures down on me the curse of heaven day by day, who would laugh and gloat over my fall--the very idea of the thing lies like a nightmare on my breast, drives me to you, holds me spellbound, cripples me.

THEKLA [_goes behind the circular table and comes on Adolf's right_]. Do you think I should like to give him that satisfaction, that I should like to make his prophecy come true?

ADOLF. No, I won't believe that of you.

THEKLA. Then if that's so, why aren't you easy on the subject?

ADOLF. It's your flirtations which keep me in a chronic state of agitation. Why do you go on playing that game?

THEKLA. It's no game. I want to be liked, that's all.

ADOLF. Quite so; but only liked by men.

THEKLA. Of course. Do you suggest it would be possible for one of us women to get herself liked by other women?

ADOLF. I say. [_Pause._] Haven't you heard recently--from him?

THEKLA. Not for the last six months.

ADOLF. Do you never think of him?

THEKLA [_after a pause, quickly and tonelessly_]. No. [_With a step toward the left._] Since the death of the child there is no longer any tie between us. [_Pause._]

ADOLF. And you never see him in the street?

THEKLA. No; he must have buried himself somewhere on the west coast. But why do you harp on that subject just now?

ADOLF. I don't know. When I was so alone these last few days, it just occurred to me what he must have felt like when he was left stranded.

THEKLA. I believe you've got pangs of conscience.

ADOLF. Yes.

THEKLA. You think you're a thief, don't you?

ADOLF. Pretty near.

THEKLA. All right. You steal women like you steal children or fowl. You regard me to some extent like his real or personal property. Much obliged.

ADOLF. No; I regard you as his wife, and that's more than property: it can't be made up in damages.

THEKLA. Oh yes, it can. If you happen to hear one fine day that he has married again, these whims and fancies of yours will disappear. [_She comes over to him._] Haven't you made up for him to me?

ADOLF. Have I?--and did you use to love him in those days?

THEKLA [_goes behind him to the fireplace on the right_]. Of course I loved him--certainly.

ADOLF. And afterwards?

THEKLA. I got tired of him.

ADOLF. And just think, if you get tired of me in the same way?

THEKLA. That will never be.

ADOLF. But suppose another man came along with all the qualities that you want in a man? Assume the hypothesis, wouldn't you leave me in that case?

THEKLA. No.

ADOLF. If he riveted you to him so strongly that you couldn't be parted from him, then of course you'd give me up?

THEKLA. No; I have never yet said anything like that.

ADOLF. But you can't love two people at the same time?

THEKLA. Oh yes. Why not?

ADOLF. I can't understand it.

THEKLA. Is anything then impossible simply because you can't understand it? All men are not made on the same lines, you know.

ADOLF [_getting up a few steps to the left_]. I am now beginning to understand.

THEKLA. No, really?

ADOLF [_sits down in his previous place by the square table_]. No, really? [_Pause, during which he appears to be making an effort to remember something, but without success._] Thekla, do you know that your frankness is beginning to be positively agonizing? [_Thekla moves away from him behind the square table and goes behind the sofa on the left._] Haven't you told me, times out of number, that frankness is the most beautiful virtue you know, and that I must spend all my time in acquiring it? But it seems to me you take cover behind your frankness.

THEKLA. Those are the new tactics, don't you see.

ADOLF [_after a pause_]. I don't know how it is, but this place begins to feel uncanny. If you don't mind, we'll travel home this very night.

THEKLA. What an idea you've got into your head again. I've just arrived, and I've no wish to travel off again.

[_She sits down on the sofa on the left._]

ADOLF. But if I want it?

THEKLA. Nonsense! What do I care what you want? Travel alone.

ADOLF [_seriously_]. I now order you to travel with me by the next steamer.

THEKLA. Order? What do you mean by that?

ADOLF. Do you forget that you're my wife?

THEKLA [_getting up_]. Do you forget that you're my husband?

ADOLF [_following her example_]. That's just the difference between one sex and the other.

THEKLA. That's right, speak in that tone--you have never loved me.

[_She goes past him to the right up to the fireplace._]

ADOLF. Really?

THEKLA. No, for loving means giving.

ADOLF. For a man to love means giving, for a woman to love means taking--and I've given, given, given.

THEKLA. Oh, to be sure, you've given a fine lot, haven't you?

ADOLF. Everything.

THEKLA [_leans on the chimneypiece_]. There has been a great deal besides that. And even if you did give me everything, I accepted it. What do you mean by coming now and handing the bill for your presents? If I did take them, I proved to you by that very fact that I loved you. [_She approaches him._] A girl only takes presents from her lover.

ADOLF. From her lover, I agree. There you spoke the truth. [_With a step to the left._] I was just your lover, but never your husband.

THEKLA. A man ought to be jolly grateful when he's spared the necessity of playing cover, but if you aren't satisfied with the position you can have your _conge_. I don't like a husband.

ADOLF. No, I noticed as much, for when I remarked, some time back, that you wanted to sneak away from me, and get a set of your own, so as to be able to deck yourself out with my feathers, to scintillate with my jewels, I wanted to remind you of your guilt. And then I changed from your point of view into that inconvenient creditor, whom a woman would

## particularly prefer to keep at a safe distance from one, and then you

would have liked to have canceled the debt, and to avoid getting any more into my debt; you ceased to pilfer my coffers and transferred your attention to others. I was your husband without having wished it, and your hate began to arise; but now I'm going to be your husband, whether you want it or not. I can't be your lover any more, that's certain!

[_He sits down in his previous place on the right._]

THEKLA [_half joking, she moves away behind the table and goes behind the sofa_]. Don't talk such nonsense.

ADOLF. You be careful! It's a dangerous game, to consider every one else an ass and only oneself smart.

THEKLA. Everybody does that more or less.

ADOLF. And I'm just beginning to suspect that that husband of yours wasn't such an ass after all.

THEKLA. Good God! I really believe you're beginning to have sympathy--for him?

ADOLF. Yes, almost.

THEKLA. Well, look here. Wouldn't you like to make his acquaintance, so as to pour out your heart to him if you want to? What a charming picture! But I, too, begin to feel myself drawn to him somehow. I'm tired of being the nurse of a baby like you. [_She goes a few steps forward and passes by Adolf on the right._] He at any rate was a man, even though he did make the mistake of being my husband.

ADOLF. Hush, hush! But don't talk so loud, we might be heard.

THEKLA. What does it matter, so long as we're taken for man and wife.

ADOLF. So this is what it comes to then? You are now beginning to be keen both on manly men and pure boys.

THEKLA. There are no limits to my keenness, as you see. And my heart is open to the whole world, great and small, beautiful and ugly. I love the whole world.

ADOLF [_standing up_]. Do you know what that means?

THEKLA. No, I don't know, I only feel.

ADOLF. It means that old age has arrived.

THEKLA. Are you starting on that again now? Take care!

ADOLF. You take care!

THEKLA. What of?

ADOLF. Of this knife.

[_Goes towards her._]

THEKLA [_flippantly_]. Little brother shouldn't play with such dangerous toys.

[_She passes by him behind the sofa._]

ADOLF. I'm not playing any longer.

THEKLA [_leaning on the arm of the sofa_]. Really, he's serious, is he, quite serious? Then I'll jolly well show you--that you made a mistake. I mean--you'll never see it yourself, you'll never know it. The whole world will be up to it, but you jolly well won't, you'll have suspicions and surmises and you won't enjoy a single hour of peace. You will have the consciousness of being ridiculous and of being deceived, but you'll never have proofs in your hand, because a husband never manages to get them. [_She makes a few steps to the right in front of him and toward him._] That will teach you to know me.

ADOLF [_sits down in his previous place by the table on the left_]. You hate me.

THEKLA. No, I don't hate you, nor do I think that I could ever get to hate you. Simply because you're a child.

ADOLF. Listen to me! Just think of the time when the storm broke over us. [_Standing up._] You lay there like a new-born child and shrieked; you caught hold of my knees and I had to kiss your eyes to sleep. Then I was your nurse, and I had to be careful that you didn't go out into the street without doing your hair. I had to send your boots to the shoe-maker. I had to take care there was something in the larder. I had to sit by your side and hold your hand in mine by the hour, for you were frightened, frightened of the whole world, deserted by your friends, crushed by public opinion. I had to cheer you up till my tongue stuck to my palate and my head ached; I had to pose as a strong man, and compel myself to believe in the future, until at length I succeeded in breathing life into you while you lay there like the dead. Then it was I you admired, then it was I who was the man; not the athlete like the man you deserted, but the man of psychic strength, the man of magnetism, who transferred his moral force into your enervated muscles and filled your empty brain with new electricity. And then I put you on your feet again, got a small court for you, whom I jockeyed into admiring you, as a sheer matter of friendship to myself, and I made you mistress over me and my home. I painted you in my finest pictures, in rose and azure on a ground of gold, and there was no exhibition in which you didn't have the place of honor. At one moment you were called St. Cecelia, then you were Mary Stuart, Karm Mansdotter, Ebba Brahe, and so I succeeded in awakening and stimulating your interests and so I compelled the yelping rabble to look at you with my own dazzled eyes. I impressed your personality on them by sheer force. I compelled them until you had won their overwhelming sympathy--so that at last you have the free _entree_. And when I had created you in this way it was all up with my own strength--I broke down, exhausted by the strain. [_He sits down in his previous place. Thekla turns toward the fireplace on the right._] I had lifted you up, but at the same time I brought myself down; I fell ill; and my illness began to bore you, just because things were beginning to look a bit rosy for you--and then it seemed to me many times as though some secret desire were driving you to get away from your creditor and accomplice. Your love became that of a superior sister, and through want of a better