part I

fell into the habit of the new role of the little brother. Your

tenderness remained the same as ever, in fact it has rather increased, but it is tinged with a grain of pity which is counterbalanced by a strong dose of contempt, and that will increase until it becomes complete, even as my genius is on the wane and your star is in the ascendant. It seems, too, as though your source were likely to dry up, when I leave off feeding it, or, rather, as soon as you show that you don't want to draw your inspiration from me any longer. And so we both go down, but you need somebody you can put in your pocket, somebody new, for you are weak and incapable of carrying any moral burden yourself. So I became the scapegoat to be slaughtered alive, but all the same we had become like twins in the course of years, and when you cut through the thread of my longing, you little thought that you were throttling our own self. You are a branch from my tree, and you wanted to cut yourself free from your parent stem before it had struck roots, but you are unable to flourish on your own, and the tree in its turn couldn't do without its chief branch, and so both perish.

THEKLA. Do you mean, by all that, that you've written my books?

ADOLF. No; you say that so as to provoke me into a lie. I don't express myself so crudely as you, and I've just spoken for five minutes on end simply so as to reproduce all the nuances, all the half-tones, all the transitions, but your barrel organ has only one key.

THEKLA [_walking up and down on the right_]. Yes, yes; but the gist of the whole thing is that you've written my books.

ADOLF. No, there's no gist. You can't resolve a symphony into one key; you can't translate a multifarious life into a single cipher. I never said anything so crass as that I'd written your books.

THEKLA. But you meant it all the same.

ADOLF [_furious_]. I never meant it.

THEKLA. But the result--

ADOLF [_wildly_]. There's no result if one doesn't add. There is a quotient, a long infinitesimal figure of a quotient, but I didn't add.

THEKLA. You didn't, but I can.

ADOLF. I quite believe you, but I never did.

THEKLA. But you wanted to.

ADOLF [_exhausted, shutting his eyes_]. No, no, no--don't speak to me any more, I'm getting convulsions--be quiet, go away! You're flaying my brain with your brutal pinchers--you're thrusting your claws into my thoughts and tearing them.

[_He loses consciousness, stares in front of him and turns his thumbs inwards._]

THEKLA [_tenderly coming towards him_]. What is it, dear? Are you ill? [_Adolf beats around him. Thekla takes her handkerchief, pours water on to it out of the bottle on the table right of the center door, and cools his forehead with it._] Adolf!

ADOLF [_he shakes his head_]. Yes.

THEKLA. Do you see now that you were wrong?

ADOLF [_after a pause_]. Yes, yes, yes--I see it.

THEKLA. And you ask me to forgive you?

ADOLF. Yes, yes, yes--I ask you to forgive me; but don't talk right into my brain any more.

THEKLA. Now kiss my hand.

ADOLF. I'll kiss your hand, if only you won't speak to me any more.

THEKLA. And now you'll go out and get some fresh air before dinner.

ADOLF [_getting up_]. Yes, that will do me good, and afterwards we'll pack up and go away.

THEKLA. No.

[_She moves away from him up to the fireplace on the right._]

ADOLF. Why not? You must have some reason.

THEKLA. The simple reason that I've arranged to be at the reception this evening.

ADOLF. That's it, is it?

THEKLA. That's it right enough. I've promised to be there.

ADOLF. Promised? You probably said that you'd try to come; it doesn't prevent you from explaining that you have given up your intention.

THEKLA. No, I'm not like you: my word is binding on me.

ADOLF. One's word can be binding without one being obliged to respect every casual thing one lets fall in conversation; or did somebody make you promise that you'd go? In that case, you can ask him to release you because your husband is ill.

THEKLA. No, I've no inclination to do so. And, besides, you're not so ill that you can't quite well come along too.

ADOLF. Why must I always come along too? Does it contribute to your greater serenity?

THEKLA. I don't understand what you mean.

ADOLF. That's what you always say when you know I mean something which you don't like.

THEKLA. Re-a-lly? And why shouldn't I like it?

ADOLF. Stop! stop! Don't start all over again--good-by for the present--I'll be back soon; I hope that in the meanwhile you'll have thought better of it.

[_Exit through the central door and then toward the right. Thekla accompanies him to the back of the stage. Gustav enters, after a pause, from the right._]

## SCENE III.

[_Gustav goes straight up to the table on the left and takes up a paper without apparently seeing Thekla._]

THEKLA [_starts, then controls herself_]. You?

[_She comes forward._]

GUSTAV. It's me--excuse me.

THEKLA [_on his left_]. Where do you come from?

GUSTAV. I came by the highroad, but--I won't stay on here after seeing that--

THEKLA. Oh, you stay--Well, it's a long time.

GUSTAV. You're right, a very long time.

THEKLA. You've altered a great deal, Gustav.

GUSTAV. But you, on the other hand, my dear Thekla, are still quite as fascinating as ever--almost younger, in fact. Please forgive me. I wouldn't for anything disturb your happiness by my presence. If I'd known that you were staying here I would never have--

THEKLA. Please--please, stay. It may be that you find it painful.

GUSTAV. It's all right as far as I'm concerned. I only thought--that whatever I said I should always have to run the risk of wounding you.

THEKLA [_passes in front of him toward the right_]. Sit down for a moment, Gustav; you don't wound me, because you have the unusual gift--which always distinguished you--of being subtle and tactful.

GUSTAV. You're too kind; but how on earth can one tell if--your husband would regard me in the same light that you do.

THEKLA. Quite the contrary. Why, he's just been expressing himself with the utmost sympathy with regard to you.

GUSTAV. Ah! Yes, everything dies away, even the names which we cut on the tree's bark--not even malice can persist for long in these temperaments of ours.

THEKLA. He's never entertained malice against you--why, he doesn't know you at all--and, so far as I'm concerned, I always entertained the silent hope that I would live to see the time in which you would approach each other as friends--or at least meet each other in my presence, shake hands, and part.

GUSTAV. It was also my secret desire to see the woman whom I loved more than my life in really good hands, and, as a matter of fact, I've only heard the very best account of him, while I know all his work as well. All the same, I felt the need of pressing his hand before I grew old, looking him in the face, and asking him to preserve the treasure which providence had entrusted to him, and at the same time I wanted to extinguish the hate which was burning inside me, quite against my will, and I longed to find peace of soul and resignation, so as to be able to finish in quiet that dismal portion of my life which is still left me.

THEKLA. Your words come straight from your heart; you have understood me, Gustav--thanks.

[_She holds out her hand._]

GUSTAV. Ah, I'm a petty man. Too insignificant to allow of your thriving in my shadow. Your temperament, with its thirst for freedom, could not be satisfied by my monotonous life, the slavish routine to which I was condemned, the narrow circle in which I had to move. I appreciate that, but you understand well enough--you who are such an expert psychologist--what a struggle it must have cost me to acknowledge that to myself.

THEKLA. How noble, how great to acknowledge one's weaknesses so frankly--it's not all men who can bring themselves to that point. [_She sighs._] But you are always an honest character, straight and reliable--which I knew how to respect,--but--

GUSTAV. I wasn't--not then, but suffering purges, care ennobles and--and--I have suffered.

THEKLA [_comes nearer to him_]. Poor Gustav, can you forgive me, can you? Tell me.

GUSTAV. Forgive? What? It is I who have to ask you for forgiveness.

THEKLA [_striking another key_]. I do believe that we're both crying--though we're neither of us chickens.

GUSTAV [_softly sliding into another tone_]. Chickens, indeed! I'm an old man, but you--you're getting younger every day.

THEKLA. Do you mean it?

GUSTAV. And how well you know how to dress!

THEKLA. It was you and no one else who taught me that. Do you still remember finding out my special colors?

GUSTAV. No.

THEKLA. It was quite simple, don't you remember? Come, I still remember distinctly how angry you used to be with me if I ever had anything else except pink.

GUSTAV. I angry with you? I was never angry with you.

THEKLA. Oh yes, you were, when you wanted to teach me how to think. Don't you remember? And I wasn't able to catch on.

GUSTAV. Not able to think, everybody can think, and now you're developing a quite extraordinary power of penetration--at any rate in your writings.

THEKLA [_disagreeably affected, tries to change the subject quickly_]. Yes, Gustav dear, I was really awfully glad to see you again, especially under circumstances so unemotional.

GUSTAV. Well, you can't say at any rate that I was such a cantankerous cuss: taking it all round, you had a pretty quiet time of it with me.

THEKLA. Yes; if anything too quiet.

GUSTAV. Really? But I thought, don't you see, that you wanted me to be quiet and nothing else. Judging by your expressions of opinion as a bride, I had to come to that assumption.

THEKLA. How could a woman know then what she really wanted? Besides, mother had always drilled into me to make the best of myself.

GUSTAV. Well, and that's why it is that you're going as strong as possible. There's such a lot always doing in artist life--your husband isn't exactly a home-bird.

THEKLA. But even so one can have too much of a good thing.

GUSTAV [_suddenly changing his tone_]. Why, I do believe you're still wearing my earrings.

THEKLA [_embarrassed_]. Yes, why shouldn't I? We're not enemies, you know--and then I thought I would wear them as a symbol that we're not enemies--besides, you know that earrings like this aren't to be had any more.

[_She takes one off._]

GUSTAV. Well, so far so good; but what does your husband say on the point?

THEKLA. Why should I ask him?

GUSTAV. You don't ask him? But that's rubbing it in a bit too much--it could quite well make him look ridiculous.

THEKLA [_simply--in an undertone_]. If it only weren't so pretty.

[_She has some trouble in adjusting the earring._]

GUSTAV [_who has noticed it_]. Perhaps you will allow me to help you?

THEKLA. Oh, if you would be so kind.

GUSTAV [_presses it into the ear_]. Little ear! I say, dear, supposing your husband saw us now.

THEKLA. Then there'd be a scene.

GUSTAV. Is he jealous, then?

THEKLA. I should think he is--rather!

[_Noise in the room on the right._]

GUSTAV [_passes in front of her toward the right_]. Whose room is that?

THEKLA [_stepping a little toward the left_]. I don't know--tell me how you are now, and what you're doing.

[_She goes to the table on the left._]

GUSTAV. You tell me how you are. [_He goes behind the square table on the left, over to the sofa.--Thekla, embarrassed, takes the cloth off the figure absent-mindedly._] No! who is that? Why--it's you!

THEKLA. I don't think so.

GUSTAV. But it looks like you.

THEKLA [_cynically_]. You think so?

GUSTAV [_sits down on the sofa_]. It reminds one of the anecdote: "How could your Majesty say that?"

THEKLA [_laughs loudly and sits down opposite him on the settee_]. What foolish ideas you do get into your head. Have you got by any chance some new yarns?

GUSTAV. No; but you must know some.

THEKLA. I don't get a chance any more now of hearing anything which is really funny.

GUSTAV. Is he as prudish as all that?

THEKLA. Rather!

GUSTAV. Never different?

THEKLA. He's been so ill lately.

[_Both stand up._]

GUSTAV. Well, who told little brother to walk into somebody else's wasps' nest.

THEKLA [_laughs_]. Foolish fellow, you!

GUSTAV. Poor child! do you still remember that once, shortly after our engagement, we lived in this very room, eh? But then it was furnished differently, there was a secretary for instance, here, by the pillar, and the bed [_With delicacy._] was here.

THEKLA. Hush!

GUSTAV. Look at me!

THEKLA. If you would like me to.

[_They keep their eyes looking into each other's for a minute._]

GUSTAV. Do you think it is possible to forget a thing which has made so deep an impression on one's life?

THEKLA. No; the power of impressions is great, particularly when they are the impressions of one's youth.

[_She turns toward the fireplace on her right._]

GUSTAV. Do you remember how we met for the first time? You were such an ethereal little thing, a little slate on which your parents and governess had scratched some wretched scrawl, which I had to rub out afterwards, and then I wrote a new text on it, according to what I thought right, till it seemed to you that the slate was filled with writing. [_He follows her to the circular table on the right._] That's why, do you see, I shouldn't like to be in your husband's place--no, that's his business. [_Sits down in front of the circular table._] But that's why meeting you has an especial fascination for me. We hit it off together so perfectly, and when I sit down here and chat with you it's just as though I were uncorking bottles of old wine which I myself have bottled. The wine which is served to me is my own, but it has mellowed. And now that I intend to marry again, I have made a very careful choice of a young girl whom I can train according to my own ideas. [_Getting up._] For woman is man's child, don't you know; if she isn't his child, then he becomes hers, and that means that the world is turned upside down.

THEKLA. You're going to marry again?

GUSTAV. Yes. I'm going to try my luck once more, but this time I'll jolly well see that the double harness is more reliable and shall know how to guard against any bolting.

THEKLA [_turns and goes over toward him to the left_]. Is she pretty?

GUSTAV. Yes, according to my taste, but perhaps I'm too old, and strangely enough--now that chance brings me near to you again--I'm now beginning to have grave doubts of the feasibility of playing a game like that twice over.

THEKLA. What do you mean?

GUSTAV. I feel that my roots are too firmly embedded in your soil, and the old wounds break open. You're a dangerous woman, Thekla.

THEKLA. Re-a-lly? My young husband is emphatic that is just what I'm not--that I can't make any more conquests.

GUSTAV. That means he's left off loving you.

THEKLA. What he means by love lies outside my line of country.

[_She goes behind the sofa on the left. Gustav goes after her as far as the table on the left._]

GUSTAV. You've played hide and seek so long with each other that the "he" can't catch the she, nor the she the "he," don't you know. Of course it's just the kind of thing one would expect. You had to play the little innocent, and that makes him quite tame. As a matter of fact a change has its disadvantages--yes, it has its disadvantages.

THEKLA. You reproach me?

GUSTAV. Not for a minute. What always happens, happens with a certain inevitability, and if this particular thing hadn't happened something else would, but this did happen, and here we are.

THEKLA. You're a broad-minded man. I've never yet met anybody with whom I liked so much to have a good straight talk as with you. You have so little patience with all that moralizing and preaching, and you make such small demands on people, that one feels really free in your presence. Do you know I'm jealous of your future wife?

[_She comes forward and passes by him toward the right._]

GUSTAV. And you know I'm jealous of your husband.

THEKLA. And now we must part! Forever!

[_She goes past him till she approaches the center door._]

GUSTAV. Quite right, we must part--but before that, we'll say good-by to each other, won't we?

THEKLA [_uneasily_]. No.

GUSTAV [_dogging her_]. Yes, we will; yes, we will. We'll say good-by; we will drown our memories in an ecstasy which will be so violent that when we wake up the past will have vanished from our recollection forever. There are ecstasies like that, you know. [_He puts his arm around her waist._] You're being dragged down by a sick spirit, who's infecting you with his own consumption. I will breathe new life into you. I will fertilize your genius, so that it will bloom in the autumn like a rose in the spring, I will--

[_Two lady visitors appear on the right behind the central door._]

## SCENE IV.

[_The previous characters; the Two Ladies._]

[_The ladies appear surprised, point, laugh, and exeunt on the left._]

## SCENE V.

THEKLA [_disengaging herself_]. Who was that?

GUSTAV [_casually, while he closes the central door_]. Oh, some visitors who were passing through.

THEKLA. Go away! I'm afraid of you.

[_She goes behind the sofa on the left._]

GUSTAV. Why?

THEKLA. You've robbed me of my soul.

GUSTAV [_comes forward_]. And I give you mine in exchange for it. Besides, you haven't got any soul at all. It's only an optical illusion.

THEKLA. You've got a knack of being rude in such a way that one can't be angry with you.

GUSTAV. That's because you know very well that I am designated for the place of honor--tell me now when--and where?

THEKLA [_coming toward him_]. No. I can't hurt him by doing a thing like that. I'm sure he still loves me, and I don't want to wound him a second time.

GUSTAV. He doesn't love you. Do you want to have proofs?

THEKLA. How can you give me them?

GUSTAV [_takes up from the floor the fragments of photograph behind the circular table on the right_]. Here, look at yourself!

[_He gives them to her._]

THEKLA. Oh, that is shameful!

GUSTAV. There, you can see for yourself--well, when and where?

THEKLA. The false brute!

GUSTAV. When?

THEKLA. He goes away to-night by the eight-o'clock boat.

GUSTAV. Then--

THEKLA. At nine. [_A noise in the room on the right._] Who's in there making such a noise?

GUSTAV [_goes to the right at the keyhole_]. Let's have a look--the fancy table has been upset and there's a broken water-bottle on the floor, that's all. Perhaps some one has shut a dog up there. [_He goes again toward her._] Nine o'clock, then?

THEKLA. Right you are. I should only like him to see the fun--such a piece of deceit, and what's more, from a man that's always preaching truthfulness, who's always drilling into me to speak the truth. But stop--how did it all happen? He received me in almost an unfriendly manner--didn't come to the pier to meet me--then he let fall a remark over the pure boy on the steam-boat, which I pretended not to understand. But how could he know anything about it? Wait a moment. Then he began to philosophize about women--then you began to haunt his brain--then he spoke about wanting to be a sculptor, because sculpture was the art of the present day--just like you used to thunder in the old days.

GUSTAV. No, really?

[_Thekla moves away from Gustav behind the sofa on the left._]

THEKLA. "No, really?" Now I understand. [_To Gustav._] Now at last I see perfectly well what a miserable scoundrel you are. You've been with him and have scratched his heart out of his body. It's you--you who've been sitting here on the sofa. It was you who've been suggesting all these ideas to him: that he was suffering from epilepsy, that he should live a celibate life, that he should pit himself against his wife and try to play her master. How long have you been here?

GUSTAV. Eight days.

THEKLA. You were the man, then, I saw on the steamer?

GUSTAV [_frankly_]. It was I.

THEKLA. And did you really think that I'd fall in with your little game?

GUSTAV [_firmly_]. You've already done it.

THEKLA. Not yet.

GUSTAV [_firmly_]. Yes, you have.

THEKLA [_comes forward_]. You've stalked my lamb like a wolf. You came here with a scoundrelly plan of smashing up my happiness and you've been trying to carry it through until I realize what you were up to and put a spoke in your precious wheel.

GUSTAV [_vigorously_]. That's not quite accurate. The thing took quite another course. That I should have wished in my heart of hearts that things should go badly with you is only natural. Yet I was more or less convinced that it would not be necessary for me to cut in actively; because, I had far too much other business to have time for intrigues. But just now, when I was loafing about a bit, and happened to run across you on the steamer with your circle of young men, I thought that the time had come to get to slightly closer quarters with you two. I came here and that lamb of yours threw himself immediately into the wolf's arms. I aroused his sympathy by methods of reflex suggestion, into details of which, as a matter of good form, I'd rather not go. At first I experienced a certain pity for him, because he was in the very condition in which I had once found myself. Then, as luck would have it, he began unwittingly to probe about in my old wound--you know what I mean--the book--and the ass--then I was overwhelmed by a desire to pluck him to pieces and to mess up the fragments in such a tangle that they could never be put together again. Thanks to the conscientious way in which you have cleared the ground, I succeeded only too easily, and then I had to deal with you. You were the spring in the works that had to be taken to pieces. And, that done, the game was to listen for the smash-up. When I came into this room I had no idea what I was to say. I had a lot of plans in my head, like a chess player, but the character of the opening depended on the moves you made; one move led to another, chance was kind to me. I soon had you on toast--and now you're in a nice mess.

THEKLA. Nonsense.

GUSTAV. Oh yes; what you'd have prayed your stars to avoid has happened: society, in the persons of two lady visitors--I didn't commandeer their appearance because intrigue is not in my line--society, I say, has seen your pathetic reconciliation with your first husband, and the penitent way in which you crawled back into his faithful arms. Isn't that enough?

THEKLA [_she goes over to him toward the right_]. Tell me--you who make such a point of being so logical and so intellectual--how does it come about that you, who make such a point of your maxim that everything which happens happens as a matter of necessity, and that all our actions are determined--

GUSTAV [_corrects her_]. Determined up to a certain extent.

THEKLA. It comes to the same thing.

GUSTAV. No.

THEKLA. How does it come about that you, who are bound to regard me as an innocent person, inasmuch as nature and circumstances have driven me to act as I did, could regard yourself as justified in revenging yourself on me.

GUSTAV. Well, the same principle applies, you see--that is to say, the principle that my temperament and circumstances drove me to revenge myself. Isn't it a case of six of one and half-a-dozen of the other? But do you know why you've got the worst of it in this struggle? [_Thekla looks contemptuous._] Why you and that husband of yours managed to get downed? I'll tell you. Because I was stronger than you, and smarter. It was you, my dear, who was a donkey--and he as well! So you see that one isn't necessarily bound to be quite an ass even though one doesn't write any novels or paint any pictures. Just remember that!

[_He turns away from her to the left._]

THEKLA. Haven't you got a grain of feeling left?

GUSTAV. Not a grain--that's why, don't you know, I'm so good at thinking, as you are perhaps able to see by the slight proofs which I've given you, and can play the practical man equally well, and I've just given you something of a sample of what I can do in that line.

[_He strides round the table and sofa on the left and turns again to her._]

THEKLA. And all this simply because I wounded your vanity?

GUSTAV [_on her left_]. Not that only, but you be jolly careful in the future of wounding other people's vanity--it's the most sensitive part of a man.

THEKLA. What a vindictive wretch! Ugh!

GUSTAV. What a promiscuous wretch. Ugh!

THEKLA. Do you mean that's my temperament?

GUSTAV. Do you mean that's my temperament?

THEKLA [_goes over toward him to the left_]. You wouldn't like to forgive me?

GUSTAV. Certainly, I have forgiven you.

THEKLA. You?

GUSTAV. Quite. Have I ever raised my hand against you two in all these years? No. But when I happened to be here I favored you two with scarce a look and the cleavage between you is already there. Did I ever reproach you, moralize, lecture? No. I joked a little with your husband and the accumulated dynamite in him just happened to go off, but I, who am defending myself like this, am the one who's really entitled to stand here and complain. Thekla, have you nothing to reproach yourself with?

THEKLA. Not the least bit--the Christians say it's Providence that guides our actions, others call it Fate, aren't we quite guiltless?

GUSTAV. No doubt we are to a certain extent. But an infinitesimal something remains, and that contains the guilt, all the same, and the creditors turn up sooner or later! Men and women may be guiltless, but they have to render an account. Guiltless before Him in whom neither of us believes any more, responsible to themselves and to their fellow-men.

THEKLA. You've come, then, to warn me?

GUSTAV. I've come to demand back what you stole from me, not what you had as a present. You stole my honor, and I could only win back mine by taking yours--wasn't I right?

THEKLA [_after a pause, going over to him on the right_]. Honor! Hm! And are you satisfied now?

GUSTAV [_after a pause_]. I am satisfied now.

[_He presses the bell by the door L. for the Waiter._]

THEKLA [_after another pause_]. And now you're going to your bride, Gustav?

GUSTAV. I have none--and shall never have one. I am not going home because I have no home, and shall never have one.

[_Waiter comes in on the lef._]

## SCENE VI.

[_Previous characters--Waiter standing back._]

GUSTAV. Bring me the bill--I'm leaving by the twelve-o'clock boat.

[_Waiter bows and exit left._]

## SCENE VII.

THEKLA. Without a reconciliation?

GUSTAV [_on her left_]. Reconciliation? You play about with so many words that they've quite lost their meaning. We reconcile ourselves? Perhaps we are to live in a trinity, are we? The way for you to effect a reconciliation is to put matters straight. You can't do that alone. You have not only taken something, but you have destroyed what you took, and you can never put it back. Would you be satisfied if I were to say to you: "Forgive me because you mangled my heart with your claws; forgive me for the dishonor you brought upon me; forgive me for being seven years on end the laughing-stock of my pupils, forgive me for freeing you from the control of your parents; for releasing you from the tyranny of ignorance and superstition; for making you mistress over my house; for giving you a position and friends, I, the man who made you into a woman out of the child you were? Forgive me like I forgive you? Anyway, I now regard my account with you as squared. You go and settle up your accounts with the other man.

THEKLA. Where is he? What have you done with him? I've just got a suspicion--a--something dreadful!

GUSTAV. Done with him? Do you still love him?

THEKLA [_goes over to him toward the left_]. Yes.

GUSTAV. And a minute ago you loved me? Is that really so?

THEKLA. It is.

GUSTAV. Do you know what you are, then?

THEKLA. You despise me?

GUSTAV. No, I pity you. It's a characteristic--I don't say a defect, but certainly a characteristic--that is very fatal, by reason of its results. Poor Thekla! I don't know--but I almost think that I'm sorry for it, although I'm quite innocent--like you. But anyway it's perhaps all for the best that you've now got to feel what I felt then. Do you know where your husband is?

THEKLA. I think I know now. [_She points to the right._] He's in your room just here. He has heard everything, seen everything, and you know they say that he who looks upon his vampire dies.

## SCENE VIII.

[_Adolf appears on the right, deadly pale, a streak of blood on his left cheek, a fixed expression in his eyes, white foam on his mouth._]

GUSTAV [_moves back_]. No, here he is--settle with him now! See if he'll be as generous to you as I was. Good-by.

[_He turns to the left, stops after a few steps, and remains standing._]

THEKLA [_goes toward Adolf with outstretched arms_]. Adolf! [_Adolf sinks down in his chair by the table on the left. Thekla throws herself over him and caresses him._] Adolf! My darling child, are you alive? Speak! Speak! Forgive your wicked Thekla! Forgive me! Forgive me! Forgive me! Little brother must answer. Does he hear? My God, he doesn't hear me! He's dead! Good God! O my God! Help! Help us!

GUSTAV. Quite true, she loves him as well--poor creature!

[_Curtain._]

AUTUMN FIRES

A COMEDY

BY GUSTAV WIED TRANSLATED BY BENJAMIN F. GLAZER.

Copyright, 1920, by Benjamin F. Glazer. All rights reserved.

PERSONS

HELMS, } KRAKAU, } HANSEN, } JOHNSTON, } [_Old Men, inmates of an old men's home_]. HAMMER, } BUFFE, } BOLLING, } KNUT [_An eighteen-year-old boy_].

The professional and amateur stage rights are reserved by the translator, Mr. Benjamin F. Glazer, Editorial Department, _The Press_, Philadelphia, Pa., to whom all requests for permission to produce the play should be made.

AUTUMN FIRES

A COMEDY IN ONE ACT BY GUSTAV WIED

[_The room of Helms and Krakau in the Old Men's Home. The time is afternoon of a late September day. There is a window at right looking out on the street and another at left overlooking a courtyard. There is a single door back center which opens into a corridor on both sides of which are similar doors in long regular rows and at the end of which is a stairway from the lower floors._

_An imaginary line divides the room into two equal parts. Helms lives on the street side and Krakau on the side nearest the courtyard. In each division there is a bed, chiffonier, a cupboard, a table, a sofa and several chairs. The stove is on Krakau's side, but by way of compensation Helms has an upholstered arm chair with a tall back. A lamp hangs in the exact center of the ceiling._

_Though there is a low screen which can be used as partial

## partition between the two divisions it is now folded and standing

against the back wall, and the two tables are placed down center, end to end, so that the place is for all present purposes a single room._

_Helms' side is conspicuously ill kept and in disorder; Krakau's side is spick and span. On Helms' table there is a vase filled with flowers and near it a pair of gray woolen socks and a pair of heavy mittens. There is also a photograph of a boy in a polished nickel standing-frame._

_Helms, his spectacles on his nose, sits in his great arm chair at the table and reads a newspaper._

_Krakau sits next to him working out a problem on a chess board._

_There is a short pause after the curtain rises._]

KRAKAU. There, I've done it again.

HELMS [_without looking up from his paper_]. It's easy enough if one cheats.

KRAKAU. Who cheats?

HELMS. Well, year after year you work out the same problem. Anybody can do that.

KRAKAU [_rearranging the chessmen_]. You can't.

HELMS. Just try another problem once, then see how smart you are.

KRAKAU. I'm quite satisfied with this one. [_Moves a piece._] Going to have chocolate to-day?

HELMS [_contemptuously_]. Chocolate! What for?

KRAKAU. I thought on account of it being your birthday--

HELMS. Chocolate! That's a drink for women. On my birthday I serve wine.

KRAKAU. Hmmm! Wine, eh? Who's coming?

HELMS. Just one floor.

KRAKAU. Bolling too?

HELMS. I suppose Buffe will bring him along.

KRAKAU. And he won't have a word to say.

HELMS. He never has a word to say.

KRAKAU. No, never.

HELMS. Must you rattle those pieces like that?

KRAKAU. Can I help it if they are heavy? [_Moves them more carefully._] You are always complaining about noise. You only do it to remind me how well you can hear.

HELMS. Your hearing has gotten a good deal worse this year, hasn't it? Hansen says so, too.

KRAKAU. Hansen! A lot he knows! [_Moves a piece._] Is there anything about you in the paper?

HELMS. Nonsense! What should there be?

KRAKAU. Your eightieth birthday. They put all kinds of foolishness in the papers these days.

HELMS. Didn't you hear what I said? There is nothing.

KRAKAU. I heard you.

HELMS [_regards him distrustfully over his spectacles_]. Have you been reading this paper while I was out?

KRAKAU [_loftily_]. I always read the paper at night, you know. Newspaper ought to be read by lamplight.

HELMS. Boasting about your eyesight again.

KRAKAU. Yes, I have excellent eyes. [_Knocks solemnly on wood._]

HELMS. Did you read the "personal notes"?

KRAKAU [_indignantly_]. I told you I haven't touched your old paper.

HELMS. My son-in-law has been appointed postal inspector.

KRAKAU. Postal Inspector! That's not a very high office. I suppose that is why Knut hasn't turned up to-day.

HELMS [_resentfully_]. You haven't congratulated me.

KRAKAU. Because he's a postal inspector? Hump! Congratulations. [_Pushes aside the chessboard and rises._]

HELMS [_ironically_]. Thanks. Ah, if my daughter had lived, she would be proud.

KRAKAU [_over his shoulder_]. If Mary's gray cat had been a horse she could have gone riding in the park.

HELMS [_regarding him sharply over his glasses_]. Do you know what I have noticed, Krakau? [_Krakau does not answer._] I have noticed that whenever I mention my son-in-law you get mad.

KRAKAU. So?

HELMS [_querulously_]. Yes you do. I noticed it long ago. I don't see what you've got against him. His son Knut is your godson, too.

KRAKAU. We'll not talk about that, Helms.

HELMS. But I want to talk about it. We have been friends for sixty years, you and me, and--

KRAKAU [_suddenly_]. Why didn't Knut send regards to me in his birthday letter?

HELMS. Ha, you're jealous, that's what you are. After all, it's my birthday, not yours.

KRAKAU. He never forgot to send regards to _you_ on _my_ birthday.

HELMS [_beating his breast_]. Well, he's my grandson and he's only your godson.

KRAKAU [_incredulously_]. So--e?

HELMS. Well, isn't he your godson?

KRAKAU. Yes.

HELMS. Then why do you say so--e like that?

KRAKAU [_restraining himself_]. We'd better not talk about that. I told you so before.

HELMS. But, damn it, I insist upon talking about it. I want to know what you mean.

KRAKAU. That's all right.

HELMS. It isn't the first time you've made the same stupid remark.... Do you mean to insinuate that he isn't my grandson? Is that what you're driving at?

KRAKAU. For the third time, let's drop the subject. [_Down in the courtyard a hand organ begins to play._] There's the old organ grinder.... This is Thursday.

HELMS. You needn't tell me. I can hear for myself.

KRAKAU. It's your turn to give him something.

HELMS. I have no small change. Lay it out for me.

KRAKAU. Remember you owe me for the pack of matches.

HELMS. This will make seventeen.

KRAKAU. [_Wraps a coin in a bit of paper._] I just want to make sure you've got it right. You always argue about it afterwards.

HELMS. Hmm!

KRAKAU. [_Opens the window, throws out the coin. The music plays more vigorously, then suddenly stops._] The porter is chasing him away.... I suppose it's because Larsen is sick downstairs.

HELMS [_laughs angrily_]. Huh! You were in an awful hurry about throwing that money down, weren't you? Well, I won't pay you for that.

KRAKAU [_hastily closing the window_]. What kind of a way is that?

HELMS. You should have waited until he'd played a few tunes.

KRAKAU. How was I going to know the porter would chase him away?

HELMS. That's your lookout. You should have waited, then you would have seen, I won't pay you back.

KRAKAU. You're a damned old swindler, Helms, and you always were. [_Turns away and pulls out his pipe._]

HELMS [_sees the pipe_]. I can't bear tobacco smoke to-day; my throat's too bad.

KRAKAU. Let me tell you something; I take no orders from you.

HELMS. I'll complain to the superintendent. Smoke hurts my throat, and you know it.

KRAKAU. Huh! Won't you complain to your postal clerk son-in-law, too?

HELMS. No, but I'll tell Knut when he comes. I don't see why I let you be his godfather anyway. They wanted some one else, but I said: "No, let's ask Krakau; it will please him." I was a fool.

KRAKAU. You asked me because you knew I'd give him a handsome present. Old miser that you are!

HELMS. But you've always been jealous because I am his grandfather while you are only his godfather.

KRAKAU. So--!

HELMS [_furious_]. Don't you dare to smoke, do you hear!

KRAKAU. Who's smoking? [_Puts the pipe back in his pocket._]

HELMS. You needn't pretend you are not jealous. Why, when my daughter was alive and came to visit me here you used to crawl over to your own side and hide your envious face.

KRAKAU. She didn't come to see me.

HELMS. Well, you might at least have been polite.... But you were always a false friend. You never forgave me for having a wife and family while you were a lonely old bachelor.

KRAKAU. So--e!

HELMS. Don't make that nasty noise! It's true; you know it's true. To this day I remember how angry you were when Andrea was born. For two years you didn't set foot in my house. You said you couldn't bear children about.... But if she had been your own child--

KRAKAU. Can't you talk about anything else?

HELMS. And you wouldn't come to my wife's funeral either. I shall never forgive you that, Krakau,--the wife of your best friend--and now you want to smoke though you know I have a weak throat.

KRAKAU. Why will you talk like an idiot? Don't you see the pipe is in my pocket.

HELMS. Well, you were going to smoke, weren't you? And there's another thing: It never occurred to you to congratulate me when I told you my son-in-law had been made a postal clerk.

KRAKAU [_ironically_]. I do congratulate you. But you needn't be so stuck up about it. He's not the only postal inspector in the world.

HELMS. Who's stuck up? Not a bit of it! I was thinking of Knut. He'll be better provided for now his father has a good position. Isn't it natural for me to think of Knut's welfare? I am his grandfather.

KRAKAU. So--o?

HELMS. There you go again with your So--o! My daughter's son is my grandson. Any fool knows that.

KRAKAU. Many a fool has believed he was a daughter's father--and wasn't.

HELMS. What's that? My daughter...? You are an idiot.

KRAKAU. Do you remember what happened to Adam Harbee?

HELMS. That has nothing to do with the case. My wife was not that sort of a woman. You'll concede that.

KRAKAU. Ye-es.

HELMS. Well, then--but what can an innocent old bachelor like you know of such things.

KRAKAU. Are you going to talk stuck up again, Helms?

HELMS. Sure I will: I am too stuck up to let an ignorant bachelor like you teach me what's what about married life. What do you know about it? Virgin!

KRAKAU [_infuriated_]. I'll tell you what I know about it. You are not Andrea's father at all.

HELMS [_laughs incredulously_]. Ain't I? Well, if I may take the liberty to ask, who is her father?

KRAKAU. That's all right. We'll not talk about it any more.

HELMS. Oh yes, we will! Who is her father, if I am not?

KRAKAU. That's all right.

HELMS. Just empty talk, eh? I might have known it. You just say such things because I owe you seventeen pfennig.

KRAKAU. Twenty-seven! I laid out ten for cake last Friday.

HELMS. Twenty-seven, then. And that's why you make up these stories to annoy me.

KRAKAU.. Have it your way.

HELMS [_whimpering_]. Why don't you speak out, then? If I am not Andrea's father, who is? You can't leave it like this. Who is the man you accuse, eh? Was it Axel?

KRAKAU [_scornfully_]. No.

HELMS. Or Summensen?

KRAKAU. Do you suppose Caroline would mix up with a couple of swine like that?

HELMS. Of course I don't. It's you that's been putting such things in my head. You don't know what you are talking about.

KRAKAU. I know what I know.

HELMS [_pounds on the table_]. Who was he then? Speak up or admit that you are a filthy liar.

KRAKAU [_with sudden determination_]. I was her father. Now you know it.

HELMS [_derisively_]. You!... Ha, ha, ha!... You! God knows how you hit on that idea. Do tell us about it.

KRAKAU [_savagely; he is on his own side of the room now_]. Yes, I'll tell you about it.... With pleasure, my dear Helms!... I had made up my mind to carry the secret with me to the grave ... but I can't stand your overbearing ways any more.... Now it comes out.... And thank God for it.... You were a devil to your wife and you have been a devil to me, Helms, all the fifteen years we have lived in this room.

HELMS. Ha, ha! So I've been a devil, eh? The things one lives and learns!

KRAKAU. Yes, a devil--a devil on wheels. You whine and crow and fuss and scold ... nothing suits you ... no matter how hard I try ... and you are mean and niggardly.... Every pfennig must be pulled out of you like a tooth.

HELMS. I don't throw my money in the street.

KRAKAU. Nobody throws his money in the street, but you can't get along without spending money, can you?

HELMS. No.

KRAKAU. No, but you expected Caroline to. Instead of money you gave her compliments. Naturally she came to me for help. She had to have pin money and clothes.

HELMS. And you gave her money.

KRAKAU. Of course I did.

HELMS. Yes, what then?

KRAKAU. Of course it was humiliating to her. She was very unhappy. I did my best to console her.

HELMS. And then Andrea was born.

KRAKAU. Yes.

HELMS [_bitterly_]. That was ... that was powerful consolation, Krakau, I must say.... But tell me how you are so sure that Andrea was your daughter.

KRAKAU. Caroline told me herself. Besides, didn't I know that she had lived with you ten years before and never had a child.

HELMS [_pathetically_]. No. [_With a flash of anger._] Why didn't you tell me this before?

KRAKAU [_who is half sorry now_]. Why should I have told you?

HELMS [_without heeding him; mumbles half to himself, shaking his head_]. And if she was your daughter, then Knut is your grandson and you are also his godfather ... and to me he is nothing [_bows his head_]. I am eighty years old to-day, Krakau.... It is hard to be told such a thing when you are eighty....

KRAKAU [_has gone over to him, sympathetically touching his shoulder_]. I'm sorry, Helms. I wish I hadn't told you. But you made me so angry it just popped out.... But don't worry ... everything will be just the same as before--

HELMS [_shakes his head mournfully_]. No.

KRAKAU. But yes! I don't want him all for myself. We can share him, can't we?

HELMS. Share him?

KRAKAU. Of course. Instead of being your grandson Knut will be _our_ grandson, that's all.

HELMS [_sits up proudly_]. Knut is nothing to me.

KRAKAU. But nobody knows that.

HELMS. He is a perfect stranger.

KRAKAU. But nobody knows it except you and me--don't you see?

HELMS. You would throw it up to me every day.

KRAKAU. Never! We should be equal partners. And oh, the long talks we could have about him!... Before it was different ... you were so stuck up about your grandson, I couldn't bear it any longer.... But now we can both be stuck up.

HELMS [_hotly_]. No.... Go over on your own side. I don't want you here.... I want to be alone.

KRAKAU. Helms....

HELMS. Get out of here, I say.... And take your flowers with you. I accept no presents from the like of you.

KRAKAU. The flowers--?

HELMS. Yes, take them away. And take [_chokes over the word_] take Knut's picture, too, and the stockings his father sent.... I guess they're yours by right.

KRAKAU [_indignantly_]. I'll do nothing of the kind. My name's not Carl Helms.

HELMS. Well, take the flowers then.

KRAKAU [_takes the flowers_]. I can do that, all right.

HELMS. And see that you don't come on my side again without asking permission.

KRAKAU [_walks a few paces; turns around_]. Hadn't I better straighten up a bit before your guests come?

HELMS. You leave my things alone ... and mind your business.

[_Krakau goes with the flowers to his own side._]

HELMS. You've got the best of everything anyhow. The stove is on your side and the morning sun. Wouldn't you like to take my arm chair too, and my pictures? Don't mind me, you know.

[_Krakau does not answer. There is a pause. A clock outside strikes five._]

KRAKAU. The clock's striking five.

HELMS. Let it strike.

[_There is another pause. A knock on the door is heard. Neither answers it. There is a louder knock._]

KRAKAU. [_Impatiently._] Why don't you answer the door?

HELMS. I'm not in the humor for company.

KRAKAU. But some one is knocking.

HELMS. What's that to me? [_There is a third knock._]

KRAKAU. Obstinate old fool. [_Loudly._] Come in.

[_Hansen and Johnston enter. Behind them in the hallway Buffe can be seen with Bolling on his arm. Farther back Hammer is seen._

[_Krakau rises, goes to the window and stands there, looking gloomily out into the courtyard._]

HANSEN [_leaving the door open_]. The others are coming. Well, congratulations, Helms.

HELMS. Thank you.

JOHNSTON. Many happy returns. [_They shake hands._]

BUFFE [_entering with Bolling_]. I'll have to put him in your arm chair.

HELMS. Right over there.

BUFFE. [_Helping Bolling to the chair._] Our heartiest congratulations, eh, Bolling?

BOLLING. Hey?

BUFFE [_speaking close to his ear_]. I say we congratulate Helms on his birthday.

BOLLING. No. It's nothing to boast about.

HAMMER [_entering_]. Congratulations!

HANSEN. Now we're all here.

HELMS. Make yourselves comfortable. [_They all take seats._]

[_Bolling sits rigid in the arm chair absently twirling his fingers._

_Krakau, who has once or twice shown the impulse to go over to Helms, stirs uneasily but turns his back to his window._

_A silence falls._

_Suddenly Hansen begins to whistle, a tuneless mournful strain._]

JOHNSTON [_whispering confidentially_]. My dear Peter, one doesn't whistle at a birthday party.

HANSEN [_mocking him_]. My dear Henry, mind your own affairs.

JOHNSTON. You have the soul of a greengrocer.

HANSEN. You have the manners of a barber.

BUFFE [_laughing_]. Those boys are always fighting.

HAMMER. But they can't live without each other.

BUFFE [_to Hammer_]. Aren't you lonely since Kruger died?

HAMMER. It is lonesome sometimes, but I have more room now.

BUFFE. My wrists are so full of rheumatism I can hardly bend them any more.

HAMMER. There's something the matter with all of us. How is your throat, Helms?

HELMS. Pretty good. [_There is silence again._]

HANSEN. Fine weather to-day.

JOHNSTON. Regular birthday weather.

HAMMER. On my birthday it always rains.

HANSEN [_points to the window_]. You can see the sun from here.

BUFFE. I read in the papers about your son-in-law's appointment.

HELMS [_shortly_]. Yes?

JOHNSTON. Yes, we must congratulate you over again.

HANSEN. Helms is the luckiest man in the place.

HAMMER. Has your grandson been here yet?

HELMS. No.

BUFFE. Of course he's coming.

HELMS. I don't know.

JOHNSTON. Of course he'll come on your birthday. He's a fine young fellow.

HANSEN. Yes, indeed, Helms, you should be proud of him.

HAMMER [_sees Knut's portrait_]. There he is. [_All except Helms and Bolling look at the picture._]

HANSEN. Looks something like his grandfather.

JOHNSTON. Yes, it's a striking resemblance.

HAMMER. The nose.

JOHNSTON. And the eyes--look at the eyes.

HANSEN. Yes.

BUFFE. We are looking at his grandson's picture, Bolling.

[_Bolling stares indifferently. Helms casts apprehensive glances at Krakau._]

HAMMER. Look at the gifts.

HANSEN. He's a lucky man.

JOHNSTON [_with a sigh_]. Ah yes, when you have your family--

BUFFE [_showing the stockings_]. Helms got some wonderful birthday presents, Bolling.

BOLLING [_feeling them_]. Good wool.

HANSEN [_suddenly_]. What is Krakau doing over there?

HELMS [_angrily_]. Yes, why don't you stop skulking over there like a homeless dog.

BUFFE [_to Hammer_]. They have quarreled.

HAMMER. I guess so. [_To Hansen._] Have they had a fight?

HANSEN. I don't know.

JOHNSTON. That's right, be sociable, Krakau.

HELMS [_irritably_]. Why don't you get the wine, Krakau?

KRAKAU. How should I know--

HELMS [_interrupts_]. You know it is in the closet. [_Krakau takes bottle and glasses from the cupboard._]

HAMMER [_delighted_]. Did you say wine?

BUFFE. Wine! Did you hear?

HANSEN. You might think Helms was a postal inspector himself.

JOHNSTON. More than that! He's a millionaire in disguise. Krakau can tell you--he has stockings full of good red gold.

[_Krakau pours the wine. All watch with eager eyes. The sun now shines full in the room._]

KRAKAU. Hadn't we better push the tables together.

HELMS [_petulantly_]. No. It's my birthday. And we can do very well without your table.

HAMMER. There'd be more room with both tables.

BUFFE. We can't all sit around one table.

HELMS. All right--push them together. [_They do so._]

JOHNSTON. We must fix our tables this way, too, Peter.

HANSEN. All right.

BUFFE [_to Bolling_]. Come over to the table; we are going to have wine.

[_Bolling stands up. They move his chair to the table. He sits again._]

HANSEN. Why are you so quiet, Bolling?

BOLLING. Everything there is to say has been said.

JOHNSTON. He's a smart man. [_Nods admiringly._]

HANSEN. Ha, ha, ha!

BOLLING [_suddenly to Krakau_]. What's that you are pouring?

KRAKAU. Sherry.

BOLLING [_angrily_]. I can't stand port wine.

KRAKAU. Yes, but this is sherry.

BOLLING. Port wine is poison.

HAMMER. But this is sherry.

BOLLING. Port wine is poison.

BUFFE. Yes, Bolling; but this is sherry; it won't hurt you.

BOLLING. Poison--port wine is.

JOHNSTON [_raising his glass._] Many happy returns!

HAMMER. Many future birthdays!

HANSEN. Happy ones!

BUFFE. Bolling, we are drinking to Helms.

BOLLING. It isn't port wine, is it?

BUFFE. No, indeed,--sherry.

BOLLING. I da'sn't drink port.

BUFFE. It's a toast to Helms.

BOLLING. Why?

BUFFE. He's eighty years old to-day.

BOLLING. I am ninety-two. That's nothing to be glad about.

[_All except Bolling raise their glasses. They utter cheery exclamations and drink._]

HELMS. Thanks; thank you!

BOLLING [_raising his glass_]. Congratulations, Helms. I hope you never get as old as me.

HAMMER [_angrily_]. That's no way to talk, Bolling.

HANSEN. He's spoiling the whole party.

BUFFE [_apologetically_]. Bolling's tired of living.

JOHNSTON. You're joking.

BUFFE. No; really he is. He wants to die.

JOHNSTON. Nonsense! How can any one _want_ to die? It's against human nature.

KRAKAU [_who has taken cigars from the cupboard_]. Who wants to smoke?

HANSEN [_with delight._] Cigars too!

[_Krakau passes the cigars. Hansen, Hammer and Johnston each take one. The sun now shines on the table and men._]

BUFFE. The sun is as red as wine.

HANSEN [_with a sigh_]. Autumn is coming.

HANSEN. We've had Autumn weather for two weeks past.

HELMS. Unseasonable weather! I hate it. [_During the entire scene he has been ill at ease, casting frequent apprehensive glances at Krakau, who avoids his gaze._]

BUFFE. It isn't like it used to be.

HAMMER. No. When the calendar said _Summer_ we _had_ Summer.

BOLLING [_apropos of nothing_]. I am ninety-two.

BUFFE [_explaining apologetically_]. He always says that. It's on his mind.

KRAKAU. I hear that the nurse downstairs is engaged to be married.

HANSEN. Yes, with the doctor.

JOHNSTON. The hospital doctor?

KRAKAU. Yes; he's a sick man himself.

HAMMER. Then it's a good thing she's a nurse.

HELMS. Every young woman ought to be trained as a nurse.

BUFFE [_to Bolling_]. The nurse in the hospital is going to marry the doctor.

BOLLING. I was married, too.

HELMS. Fill the glasses, Krakau. [_Krakau does._]

BUFFE. How is Larsen's brain fever getting along?

HANSEN. He must be worse. The porter chased the organ grinder away.

HAMMER. I thought I heard the organ. Is this Thursday?

KRAKAU. Thursday, September twentieth.

HELMS [_testily_]. Don't show off, Krakau.

JOHNSTON [_raises his glass_]. Here's health. Splendid sherry.

KRAKAU [_to Buffe_]. Why aren't you drinking?

BUFFE. Thanks. I never take more than one glass. This sunshine warms you as much as wine.

HAMMER. I have the morning sun in my window.

HANSEN. So have I. It wakes me up every morning. It's supposed to be healthy.

HELMS. Krakau stole it from me.

KRAKAU. You know very well that--

HELMS. Yes you did. And the stove, too.

KRAKAU. The stove--

HELMS. Isn't the morning sun on your side?

KRAKAU. Yes, but--

HELMS. And the stove, too?

KRAKAU. Didn't you--

HELMS. Nothing of the kind. You live on the east side, and the morning sun is healthiest.

KRAKAU. We can change, for my part.

HELMS. Do you hear that? Now he wants to steal my view of the street, too?

HAMMER. What do you old friends want to quarrel for?

JOHNSTON. And on your birthday.

HELMS. Who is quarreling?

BUFFE. You may be well satisfied with the afternoon sun, Helms. See how beautifully it shines in the window. Look at the sun, Bolling.

BOLLING. I've seen it before.

BUFFE [_explaining with pride_]. Bolling used to be a carpenter, you know. He traveled all over the world.

BOLLING. I have seen everything.

[_There is a rap at the door. Silence. Krakau opens it, Knut enters._]

KNUT [_to Krakau_]. Hello, Grandpop! [_To Helms, shaking his hand._] Congratulations, grandfather. [_To the others._] Hello, everybody.

[_The old men nod their heads, delighted. Buffe whispers to Bolling._]

BUFFE. It's Knut. The son of Helms' daughter.

BOLLING. I had a son.

HELMS. I'm glad you came my--my son [_glares at Krakau defiantly._]

KNUT. I can only stay a minute. Have you heard about father's appointment?

JOHNSTON. He's been bragging to us about it, sonny.

HAMMER. And treated us to sherry.

BOLLING. Port wine is poison.

HANSEN. And cigars.

KNUT. Not really!

HELMS. Why don't you hang up your cap?

KNUT. I must be off in a minute. Back to school. I had only an hour's leave, and it takes half an hour to ride each way.

BUFFE. How old are you, my boy?

KNUT. Seventeen.

BUFFE. It's sixty-one years since I was that young. He's only seventeen, Bolling.

BOLLING. I was seventeen--once. Now I'm ninety-two.

HAMMER. I am seventy-three.

KNUT. Let's add up the number of years in this room.

HELMS. There's too many. It can't be done.

KNUT [_with a laugh_]. Let's try. [_Rapidly._] Mr. Bolling is 92 and grandfather is 80; that's 172.

HELMS. There's quick counting for you!

KNUT. How old are you, Mr. Buffe?

BUFFE. Seventy-eight.

KNUT. That's 250.

HAMMER [_in wonderment_]. Two hundred and fifty!

KNUT. And you, grandpop?

KRAKAU. Seventy.

KNUT. 320. And you, Mr. Hammer?

HAMMER. Seventy-three.

KNUT. 393.

JOHNSTON. Think of that!

KNUT. And Mr. Hansen?

[_All the old people except Bolling and Hansen, snigger. Hansen turns away, offended._]

KNUT. Don't you know how old you are, sir?

HANSEN. Of course, I know.

HELMS. He's ashamed to tell you. Ha, ha!

BUFFE. He's afraid. Ha, ha!

HANSEN. Who's afraid? [_Reluctantly._] I'm only sixty.

THE OLD PEOPLE. "Only a boy." "Not dry behind the ears." "He'll grow." "Poor child."

KNUT. That makes 453.

JOHNSTON [_beats his chest_]. I am seventy-five.

KNUT. That gives us 528 altogether.

HAMMER. Five hundred and twenty-eight! What a head the boy has on him.

BUFFE [_to Bolling_]. All together we are 528 years old.

BOLLING. What does it matter?

HELMS. We'd be older still if there weren't a boy among us.

JOHNSTON. Yes, Hansen spoils it by being so young.

KRAKAU. You'll have to hurry, Hansen.

HAMMER. Yes, so you will.

BUFFE. Why don't you take something to make you grow?

HANSEN. Oh, let me alone!

KNUT. Well, I must be going.

THE OLD PEOPLE. "What a pity." "Can't you be late for once?" "The teacher won't mind."

KNUT. I really must. Good-by, grandfather.... Hope you live eighty years more.... Good-by, grandpop.... Good-by, everybody. Good luck! [_He exits._]

HAMMER. You can see him go from here. [_Goes to the window._]

HANSEN. Can you? [_Joins him._]

[_All go to the window except Bolling, who sits stiff and abstracted in his chair._]

HELMS. Open it. [_He helps Johnston do so._]

JOHNSTON. There he goes.

KRAKAU. He is waving to us. [_All wave back._]

BUFFE. What a fine lad!

KRAKAU. Good-by. [_All shout good-by. Bolling does not stir._]

BUFFE [_turning away from the window, with a sigh_]. He's gone.

HANSEN [_low_]. Yes, he's gone.

JOHNSTON. It's nice to have young people around once in a while.

BUFFE [_nods sadly_]. Yes.

JOHNSTON. You have a fine young grandson, Helms.

HELMS [_with an uneasy glance at Krakau_]. Yes, I can't complain of him.

BUFFE. It's good to have a family that look after you.

HANSEN. It's good to have a family at all. Many people haven't.

HAMMER. No.

BOLLING. No. They die.

HELMS [_sharply_]. Close the window, Krakau. There's a draught. [_Krakau closes the window._]

HAMMER. Yes, the sun is down.

BUFFE. Yes.

HANSEN. Isn't it time we were going?

JOHNSTON. These _young_ people should be early to bed. [_Laughter._]

BUFFE. It really is time to go. Thank you, Helms. It was a nice party.

HELMS. Going already? [_Glances uneasily at Krakau._]

BUFFE. It's near supper time, you know. We are going, Bolling.

HAMMER. Then we'll go too.... We enjoyed your party, Helms.

HELMS. The pleasure was mine.

JOHNSTON. Good night, Helms. Next time it's my party.

HELMS. When?

JOHNSTON. October 23rd.

HANSEN. Good-by--and many thanks.

HELMS. Not at all, not at all.

BUFFE. Are you ready, Bolling?

BOLLING. Hum! [_He rises._]

BUFFE. Good-by, everybody. [_To Bolling._] Say good-by.

BOLLING. Good-by.

[_Krakau holds open the door. The guests file out talking gayly. He closes the door and their voices are faintly heard outside._]

[_Helms bustles about uneasily._]

KRAKAU [_on his own side_]. Well, it went off very nicely.

HELMS. Yes, very well--very well.

KRAKAU. Want me to help you straighten up?

HELMS. No--I can do it myself.

[_There is a pause. Krakau takes back his chairs._]

KRAKAU. We'll want to move my table back.

HELMS [_seizing one end of it_]. Well, come on! Where are you?

KRAKAU [_taking the other end hastily_]. Coming, coming!

[_The table moved, there is another pause. Each is on his own side. Helms potters helplessly with the bottles and glasses._]

KRAKAU. Need any help?

HELMS. You stand there doing nothing and you ask me-- [_The rest is a sullen growl._]

[_Krakau takes the glasses, puts them on a tray and carries them across to left._]

HELMS. Where are you going with my glasses?

KRAKAU [_stops_]. I was going to wash them.

HELMS. Well, don't forget whom they belong to.

KRAKAU. Don't worry. [_Puts the glasses on the wash stand._] Shall I light the lamp?

HELMS. You can't see in the dark, can you?

KRAKAU [_lighting the hanging lamp_]. Knut behaved very nicely, didn't he?

HELMS [_moodily_]. Yes.

KRAKAU. He made everybody happy with his high spirits.

HELMS. Not me.

KRAKAU [_hastily changing the subject_]. It's funny about old Bolling. How he's changed in the last year! He never talks any more.

HELMS. When you get to be ninety-two and not a relation in the world--[_His voice breaks in self-pity._]

KRAKAU [_finished with the lamp, makes a little solicitous gesture behind his friend's back, but immediately busies himself with putting things to right_]. Where do you want these things to go?

HELMS. On the chiffonier ... next to the other.... Bolling is so old he feels superfluous.... I am getting like that--

KRAKAU [_hastily_]. Where do these stockings and things go?

HELMS. Next to the last drawer.

KRAKAU. I guess you are all fixed now.... There's nothing else? [_Turns from the chiffonier, having closed the drawer, and starts for his own side of the room._]

HELMS [_suddenly_]. It's a terrible thing you've done to me, Krakau!

KRAKAU [_in surprise_]. What now?

HELMS [_his voice trembling_]. You have made my dead wife a strumpet and my dead daughter a bastard. [_Krakau bridles and turns to him with clenched fists. Helms continues pitifully._] And you have robbed me in my old age of a grandson ... all I have in the world. [_Querulously musing._] When men are young they see red and kill for that sort of thing ... yes ... they kill.... But when you are old it's different.... I can't even be very angry with you, Krakau.... Isn't it queer?... It's all so far back ... in the past ... impersonal ... and blurred like a half-remembered dream.

KRAKAU [_with contrition_]. I shouldn't have told you.

HELMS. You shouldn't have told me.... No ... but you did ... and I can't be angry with you.... I am an old fool.... After all ... honor ... fidelity ... marriage vows ... what do they matter when there is nothing to do but to sit and count the days until you die?

KRAKAU [_chokingly_]. Helms!

HELMS [_with a flash of anger_]. But Knut matters. He _is_ my grandson ... in spite of you.... You shan't take him away from me.

KRAKAU. I don't want to take him away from you.

HELMS. Your blood ... perhaps ... but _my grandson_--

KRAKAU [_eagerly_]. Of course, he is, Helms. We can share him between us. Don't you see? He need never know. No one need know ... just you and I.... We can have him together ... our own little secret.

HELMS [_looks at him_]. Nobody else will know?

KRAKAU [_solemnly_]. Not a soul. I swear it.

HELMS. Nobody?

KRAKAU. Nobody.

HELMS [_a faint smile dispels his frown_]. And when we talk about Knut you won't say "So-o" any more?

KRAKAU. Never ... for hereafter he'll be _our_ Knut ... just as if you were his father and I his mother.

HELMS [_the idea pleases him, considers it, then gives his assent like a child playing a game_]. No, I'll be the mother. And we can quarrel about him ... of course, in a friendly way.

KRAKAU. Always friendly.

HELMS. And just think--we shall have something to talk about all the time.

KRAKAU. Especially at night ... after supper ... under the lamp.

HELMS. And when we are in bed in the dark and cannot sleep.

KRAKAU. Always about our Knut.

HELMS. Ha, ha.... Do you know, Krakau, I think you should have told me long ago.

KRAKAU. I was afraid.

HELMS. Afraid! Absurd. What was there to be afraid about? You can see for yourself that we are better friends since you told me. [_Goes to the chiffonier and gets the photograph._] He does look something like you.

KRAKAU [_magnanimously_]. Oh, no! He's your wife's son all over.

HELMS [_with equal magnanimity_]. He looks a good deal like you just the same.... Don't you want to borrow this for a few days?

KRAKAU. Why, you only got it this morning.

HELMS. Never mind. Take it.... Saturday I'll get it back from you. Then in a few days I'll lend it to you again.

KRAKAU. Thanks. [_Takes the photograph_]. Can I borrow the paper, too?

HELMS. Sure, take it with you.... And lend me your chess men, will you?

KRAKAU [_with animation_]. I'll get it for you. [_Goes to his own chiffonier for it._]

HELMS. We might as well move the tables together. It's more comfortable that way.

KRAKAU. Certainly. [_Comes down with the chessboard and helps move the tables._]

HELMS. Now you take my arm chair and read your paper. I'll play over here.

KRAKAU. I wouldn't think of taking your chair.

HELMS. You do as you are told. [_Sits on an ordinary chair._] I can reach better from one of these anyway.

KRAKAU. Oh, well. [_Sits in the arm chair and unfolds the newspaper. There is a pause._]

HELMS. Why don't you light your pipe?

KRAKAU. Your throat--

HELMS. My throat is all right. Go on and smoke.

KRAKAU [_comfortably lights his pipe, relaxes_]. Well, now we'll see how good you are at working out problems.

HELMS. I don't think I can do it.

KRAKAU [_reading_]. Sure you can.

HELMS. Look here. Would you check with the bishop?

KRAKAU [_studies the board_]. No ... that loses you the queen.... Hum ... you've sort of mixed it up.... Back with that rook.

HELMS. How's that?

KRAKAU. Brilliant!

HELMS. Knut is back at school by this time.

KRAKAU. Yes, probably studying his lessons.

HELMS. He's a boy.

KRAKAU. None better.

HELMS. Isn't it nice to talk about him like this ... calm and friendly?... You have no cause to be jealous any more, ha, ha!

KRAKAU. And you needn't be stuck up any more, ha, ha!

HELMS. No, ha, ha! There, I've muddled it again.

KRAKAU. No, you haven't.... Just move here ... and here.

HELMS [_suddenly takes out his purse_]. By the way, I owe you twenty-seven pfennig.

KRAKAU. There's no hurry.

HELMS. Take it!

KRAKAU. All right. [_He rises._]

HELMS. Where are you going?

KRAKAU [_at the chiffonier_]. We forgot the flowers.

HELMS. Oh, yes!

KRAKAU. They smell so fragrant. [_Puts them on the table._]

HELMS [_takes a flower and puts it in Krakau's buttonhole_]. You must wear one.

KRAKAU [_overcome_]. Thank you, Helms, thank you. [_They bend over the chessboard again._]

HELMS [_rubs his hands with delight_]. Now white moves.

KRAKAU [_considering_]. White moves.... I should say ... there ... that pawn ... I'd sacrifice it.

HELMS [_picks it up with playful tenderness_]. Poor little white pawn! [_Places it on the board._]

[_They study the next move absorbedly as the curtain falls._]

[_Curtain._]

BROTHERS

A SARDONIC COMEDY

BY LEWIS BEACH

Copyright, 1920, by Frank Shay. All rights reserved.

CHARACTERS

SETH. LON. PA.

BROTHERS was first presented by the Provincetown Players, New York.

Applications for permission to produce BROTHERS should be addressed to Frank Shay, Four Christopher Street, New York City. No performance may take place without his consent.

BROTHERS

A SARDONIC COMEDY BY LEWIS BEACH

[SCENE: _A very small room in a tar-papered shanty, reeking poverty. The entrance is center-back,--a few boards nailed together for a door. A similar door, opening into the bedroom of the shack, upstage right. Downstage left, a broken window. Left center, a rusty cooking stove. Above it, a series of shelves holding a few dishes and cooking utensils. Rough board table in the center of the room. A kitchen chair at the right of the table. A large wooden rocker near the stove; rope and wire hold it together. An arm-chair, below the bedroom door is full of newspapers. Several heterogeneous colored prints culled from out-of-date newspapers and calendars are tacked on the rain-stained walls. When the entrance door is open we see a cleared, sandy spot with a background of scrub oaks and jack pines._

_The curtain rises on the late afternoon of a spring day._

_A man of forty enters, leaving the bedroom door open behind him. His small head and childish face, on a tall, thin, and extremely erect body, resemble those of a species of putty-like rubber doll whose head may be reshaped by the hand. He wears a winter cap, blue flannel shirt, well-worn trousers with suspenders, and sneakers that were once white. Outside shirt sleeves are rolled to the elbow; undershirt sleeves are not. His shoes make no noise; nevertheless, he comes on tiptoe, his eyes fixed on the shelves. For a moment he stops and glances into the room he has just quitted. Satisfied, he squats before the shelves. He hesitates, then quickly lifts from a lower shelf an inverted cooking vessel, and grasps a small tin box which was hidden under it. He inspects the box, trying to decide whether he can pry open its lock._]

[_The voice of an old, infirm man in the adjoining room_]: Seth?

SETH [_alarmed; starts to return the box to the shelf_]. Yes, Pa? [_His voice is pitched high._]

PA [_querulously_]. What yuh doin'?

SETH. Jest settin'.

PA. Don't yuh go near my tin box 'til I'm dead.

[_Seth makes no answer._]

PA. D'yuh hear?

SETH. I hear.

PA. I won't heve no one know nothin' 'bout my last will an' testament 'til I'm dead.

[_There is a pause. Seth is regarding the box intently._]

PA. Seth?

SETH [_peevishly_]. What d'yuh want?

PA. Bring me a drink.

SETH. There ain't no more water in the pail.

PA. There's lots in the well this spring.

[_A pause. Seth continues his scrutiny of the lock._]

PA. My throat's burnin' up.

SETH. Well, maybe I kin find a drop. [_Puts the box on the shelf and re-covers it; in doing so makes a slight noise._]

PA. What's that noise?

SETH. I'm gettin' yuh a drink!

[_Seth strolls to the stove, lifts the top from the kettle, and looks inside. He finds a tin cup and fills it with water. Looking into the kettle again, he sees there is little water left. Why make a trip to the pump necessary? Back into the kettle goes some of the water. Cup in hand, he moves toward the bedroom. He reaches the door when a sagging bellied man enters from the yard. It is Lon, the elder, shorter brother. His face has become molded into an expressionless stare, and his every movement seems to be made with an effort. An abused man, Lon, the most ill-treated fellow in the world. At least, so he is ever at pains to have all understand. He wears an old felt hat, cotton shirt, badly patched trousers, suspenders attached to the buttons of his trousers with string, and shoes that are almost soleless. His shirt, stained with sweat, is opened at the throat, revealing red flannel underwear. When Seth sees Lon he immediately closes the bedroom door, silently turns the key in the lock, and puts the key in his pocket. For a moment the men stand looking at each other, reminding one of two roosters. Then Seth strolls to the stove, pours the water into the kettle, and planks himself down in the rocker. Lon glances once or twice at the bedroom door, but moves not to it. He watches Seth suspiciously. Finally he speaks._]

LON [_in an expressionless drawl_]. I hear Pa's dyin'.

SETH. Yuh hear right.

LON [_with a motion of his head toward the bedroom_]. Is he in there?

SETH. Yes.

[_Lon hesitates, then moves slowly toward Pa's room. An idea strikes Seth suddenly and he interrupts Lon's progress._]

SETH. He's asleep.

[_Lon stops. Seth fills his pipe and lights it. Lon takes his corncob from his pocket and coughs meaningly. Seth looks at Lon, sees what he wants, but does not offer him tobacco. Lon puts his pipe back in his pocket, moves to the table, sits, and sighs. He crosses his right foot so Seth sees what was once the sole of his shoe._]

SETH. What did yuh come here fur?

LON. 'Cause Pa's dyin'.

SETH. Yuh never come when he was about.

LON. Wall, no one ever seed yuh a settin' here much.

SETH [_fleeringly_]. Suppose yuh want t' know what he's left yuh.

LON. Wall, ... it warn't comfortable comin' three miles an' a quarter on a day like this un.

SETH [_cackles_]. Sand's hot on yer bare naked feet, ain't it?

LON [_moves his feet_]. Yuh kin talk about my holey boots. If I didn't heve no mouths but my own t' feed I guess I could buy new ones too. So there, Seth Polland!

SETH. Jacobs offered yuh a job at the fisheries same as me.

LON. It's too fur t' hoof it twict a day.

SETH. Yuh could sleep at the fisheries.

LON. I got t' look after my kids.

SETH [_grins_]. 'Tain't my fault yuh've kids.

LON [_threateningly_]. Don't yuh talk 'bout that! [_Pause._] Yer woman had t' leave yuh. [_Laughs._] Yuh didn't give her 'nough t' eat.

SETH [_indifferently_]. She warn't no good.

LON. She had t' leave yuh same as Ma left Pa twenty years ago. Pa's dyin' fur sure?

SETH. Who told yuh?

LON. Ma.

SETH [_greatly surprised_]. Ma? [_suspiciously._] What you got t' do with her?

LON. I was passin' her place this mornin'. Furst time I spoke t' her in a year.

SETH. I ain't in two.

LON [_in despair_]. Seth, she's cut twenty cords o' wood t' sell.

SETH [_shaking his head_]. An' me without a roof o' my own.

LON. Me an' the kids wonder sometimes where our next meal's comin' from.

SETH [_as though there were something better in store for him_]. Oh, wall.

LON [_pricks up his ears; coughs_]. If I had this house I could work at the fisheries.

SETH. But yuh ain't a goin' t' git it.

LON [_alarmed_]. Pa ain't gone an' left it t' yuh?

SETH. Pa deeded this t' Doc last winter.

LON [_amazed and angered_]. He did?

SETH. Doc said he could live here 'till he died. But it's Doc's.

LON. It warn't right.

SETH. Wall, he had t' pay fur his physics some way. He told me yuh wouldn't help him out.

LON. And Pa told me yuh wouldn't. An' yuh ain't got two kids t' feed. [_Pause._] There's Pa's old shanty down the road. If I had that I could work at the fisheries.

[_Seth's smile is his only response._]

Pa still owns it, don't he?

SETH. There warn't no call fur him t' make his last will an' testament if he don't.

LON [_brightens_]. He's left his last will an' testament?

SETH. Yes. I'm figgerin' on sellin' the place t' Doc.

LON [_emphatically_]. Pa ain't a left it t' yuh!

SETH. Doc'll want it.

LON [_forcefully_]. Where's the will an' testament?

SETH [_with a gesture_]. In the tin box under that there kittle.

[_Lon hurries to the shelves, picks up the dish, and grasps the box._]

LON [_disappointed_]. It's locked.

SETH. An' the key's round Pa's neck.

LON. Let's git it.

SETH. Pa won't give it t' us.

LON. Yuh said he was sleepin'.

SETH. I mean--he might wake up.

[_Lon inspects the box further._]

LON. I think I could open it.

SETH. Pa might ask t' see it.

LON. Hell. [_Puts the box back on the shelf._]

SETH. Doc'll want the place seein' as how it's right next t' this un.

[_Lon is very nervous._]

Yuh might jest as wall go home.

LON. No, yuh don't! Yuh can't make me believe Pa's left it t' yuh. [_Takes off his hat and mops his brow with his sleeve. The top of his head is very bald._]

SETH. Then what yuh gettin' so excited 'bout?

LON. I ain't excited. [_Puts his hat on._] It jest makes me mad 'cause yuh say Pa's left it t' yuh, an' I know he ain't. See? There warn't no call fur him t' heve willed an' testamented it t' yuh. Yuh've only yerself t' look after an' I've two motherless kids.

SETH. Every one knows how much Pa thought o' them.

LON. It warn't my fault if they thumbed their noses at him.

SETH. Yuh could o' basted 'em.

LON. They's like their Ma. Bastin' never done her no good, God rest her soul. All the same, Pa knowd how hard it is fur me t' keep their bellies full. Why, when we heve bread Alexander never wants less than half the loaf! An' all the work I gits t' do is what the city folks who come t' the Beach in the summer gives me.

SETH. Huh! Jest as though I didn't know 'bout yuh. Mr. Breckenridge told me yuh wouldn't even contract t' chop his wood fur him. An' there yuh sits all winter long in that God-fursaken shanty o' yourn, with trees all round yuh, an' yuh won't put an ax t' one 'til yer own fires dies out.

LON. My back ain't never been strong. Choppin' puts the kinks in it. Yuh kin talk, yuh kin, Seth Polland, with a soft job at the fisheries an' three squares a day which yuh don't heve t' cook yourself. Nothin' t' do all winter but walk round them cottages an' see that no one broke in. An' I'm the one who knows how often yuh walk round them cottages. I wish I hed yer snap. [_Sits._] But I ain't never had no luck.

SETH [_defending himself_]. I walk round them cottages jest as often as I need t' walk round them cottages.

LON. Huh! I could tell a tale. Who was it set with his feet in the oven last winter, an' let Jack Tompkins break into them cottages--_with keys_? [_Seth does not answer._] I could tell, I could. But I ain't a goin' t' 'til they put me on the witness-stand. [_Pause._] But the furst initials o' his name is Seth Polland.

SETH [_rising instantly_]. Lon Polland, yuh ever tell an' I'll skin yuh alive.

LON. Huh!

SETH. Skin yuh like a pole-cat.

LON. Huh!

[_Seth turns, knocks the ashes from his pipe into the stove. Lon rises; takes Seth's chair and rocks vigorously._]

SETH. Yuh know what I got on yuh.

[_Lon's bravado is short-lived. He rocks less strenuously._]

SETH. Yuh thought I didn't see yuh, but I was right on the spot when yuh set fire t' Mr. Rogers' bath-house.

[_Lon stops rocking._]

SETH. Right behind a jack pine I was an' seed yuh do it. An' yuh done it 'cause Mr. Rogers leaved Jessup paint the house when yuh thought yuh ought t' had the job.

LON [_rises_]. I got t' be a gettin' home a fore dark an' tend t' my stock.

SETH. Stock? [_Cackles. Pulls out his tobacco-pouch and fills his pipe. Lon shows his pipe again._] A blind mare an' a rooster. [_Drops pouch on the table as he lights his pipe._]

LON. Rooster's dead. [_Moves stealthily toward the table._]

SETH. What of?

LON. Pip.

SETH. Starvation.

LON. I would a killed him this long time, but Victoria howled so when I threatened. The fowl used t' wake me in winter same as summer with his crowin'.

[_As Lon finishes his speech he reaches for the pouch. But Seth's hand is quicker. Seth moves to the rocker and sits, dangling the pouch temptingly by one finger. Lon puts his pipe in his pocket._]

SETH. Should think yuh'd want t' set round 'til Pa dies, bein' as yer so sure he's left yuh his property.

LON. He oughter a left it t' me.

SETH. Well, I'm a tellin' yuh it's mine.

LON. Yuh ain't got no right t' it. [_Mops his head again._] Pa begged yuh t' come an' live with him, offered yuh this fine roof over yer head, an' yuh was too cussed even t' do that fur him. An' now yuh expect he's made yuh his heir.

SETH. I've treated him righter 'an yuh.

LON. Yuh ain't.

[_Suddenly something seems to snap in Seth's brain. He looks as though he were in intense pain._]

SETH [_gasping_]. Maybe he's left it t' the two o' us!

LON. _What?_

SETH. Maybe he's divided the place a 'tween us.

LON [_shakes his head_]. Oh, he wouldn't be so unhuman as that.

SETH. He would. He was always settin' one agin' t' other.

LON. He used t' tell me I had t' figger how t' git the best o' yuh or he'd baste me.

SETH. He was all the time whettin' us on when we was kids.

LON. It was him showed me how t' shake my old clock so it'd run fur five minutes, an' then you'd swop that pail yuh found fur it.

SETH. Huh! He give me his gum t' stop up the hole in that pail. Yuh wouldn't know it leaked an' we could laugh at yuh when you had t' carry water in it.

LON [_pathetically_]. There warn't never more 'an a pint left when I got t' the house. An' Pa always hed such a thirst.

SETH. He'd like t' laugh at us in his grave.

LON. It jest tickled him t' raise hell a 'tween us.

SETH [_rises_]. I'll take my oath he's divided the old shanty an' the two acres a 'tween us. [_Drops into his chair like a condemned man._] An' I figgered I'd be sellin' them t' Doc t'morrow.

LON. Me an' the kids was a goin' t' heve a garden on the cleared spot.

SETH. A garden in that sand?

LON. Radishes an' rutabagas.

SETH [_persuasively; his manner becomes kind_]. Lon, what yuh need is the shanty.

LON [_droning_]. The shanty ain't no good t' me without I hes the ground fur it t' set on.

SETH. Yuh can tear it down an' use the lumber t' mend yer old leaky one.

LON. I want the shanty t' live in so I kin git a soft job at the fisheries. [_Sympathetically._] You ought t' have a shanty, Seth. Supposin' yuh was t' take sick. They wouldn't keep yuh at the fisheries then. Yuh take my place an' give me Pa's.

SETH [_flashing into anger_]. I want the two acres t' sell Doc. Yer old place leaks like a net! [_Then, fearing he has been too disparaging:_] But yuh could make it real comfortable with the lumber in--

LON [_cutting in_]. I'll make a bargain. I'll leave yuh a bed-stead an' a table if yuh'll take my place.

SETH. I don't want it! I want Pa's old place.

LON. An' I want it. I'm older 'an yuh.

SETH. I got the best claim t' it.

LON. Yuh ain't. We with three mouths t' feed. Yer a swindler, yuh are. Yuh always tried t' cheat me.

SETH. No one kin say that t' me. I'm an honest man. But I'm a goin' 't heve the two acres if I heve t' go t' law.

LON. Wall, yuh ain't a goin' t' wreck me.

SETH [_calmly; philosophically again_]. Maybe yer right, Lon, when yuh say I ought t' have a roof. I'll tell yuh what I'll do, seein' as how yer my brother. Yuh give me the ground an' the house on it, an' I'll make yuh a present o' twenty-five dollars.

LON. That's a lie! Yuh ain't got twenty-five dollars t' yer name.

SETH. Yuh think so.

LON. Every one in these parts knows yuh owes Hawkins forty-three dollars an twenty-nine cents he kin't collect. Give me the house an' ground, an' I'll give yuh my own house an' my note fur twenty-five dollars.

SETH. Yer note! I'm a goin' t' heve Pa's old place.

LON. An' I say that yuh or no swindler like yuh is a goin' t' cheat me out o' it.

SETH. I ain't a swindler, yuh wall-eyed son--

LON [_advancing_]. Take it back. Don't yuh call me dissipated names.

SETH. I'll never take it back!

[_Lon doubles his fists and strikes; but the blow lands in the air as Seth grabs Lon. They fight furiously and in dead earnest, though there is no ethics to the struggle. The rickety furniture trembles as they advance and retreat. Seth is quicker and lighter and less easily winded; but Lon's bulk is not readily moved, and, despite his "weak back," he can still wield his arms. It looks like a fight to the finish. Isn't their future at stake? And they are giving vent to a hatred bred by their father. But suddenly Pa's voice is heard, calling wildly to Seth. The men do not move: the voice seems to have paralyzed their muscles. For a moment they stand dazed. Then consciousness comes to them: they realize that the waiting is over. They tear to the bedroom. A silence follows. They must be fascinated by the ghost of the old man._]

SETH [_in the bedroom; quietly_]. He's gone, Lon.

LON [_in the bedroom_]. Yer right, Seth.

[_Then their voices rise in dispute._]

Don't yuh take it!

SETH. I've got it!

LON. It's mine!

SETH. It ain't!

LON. Yuh kin't--

SETH. Shut up!

[_They rush into the kitchen, Seth in advance, Lon close on his heels. The younger throws the cooking-dish to the floor, grabs the box, and hurries to the table. As though they were about to discover a world's secret, they unlock the box, each as near to it as possible, his arms tense, fingers itching, ready to ward off a blow or seize the treasure. From the box, Seth takes an old tobacco-pouch, a jack-knife, a bit of heavy cord, a couple of letters. These are contemptuously thrown on the table. The will lies at the bottom of the box. Lon snatches it. Seth would take it from him._]

LON. Hold off! I'm jest a goin' t' read it.

[_Seth curbs his impatience. Lon opens the document and reads, slowly and haltingly._]

"I, Nathaniel Polland, o' Sandy Point in the County o' Rhodes an' State o' Michigan, bein' o' sound mind an' memory, do make, publish, an' declare this t' be my last Will an' Testament in manner followin', viz--." What does "viz" mean?

[_Unable to bear the suspense longer, Seth seizes the paper. He scans it until his eyes catch the all-important paragraph._]

SETH. "--Bequeath all my earthly possessions to my wife, Jennie Polland."

[_Their thunderbolt has descended. They stand like two men suddenly deprived of thought and motion. Medusa's victims could not have been more pitiable. They have been hurled from their El Dorado, which, at the worst, was to have been their common property._

_Then Seth's voice comes to him, and sufficient strength to drop into a chair._]

SETH. The damned old critter.

LON. I'll be swaned.

SETH [_blazing out_]. That's gratitude.

LON. After all we done fur him.

SETH [_pathetically_]. An' me a plannin' these last five years on gettin' that house an' ground.

LON. My kids are packin' our furniture this afternoon, gettin' ready t' move in.

SETH [_with supreme disgust_]. Leavin' it t' Ma.

LON. Her who he ain't hardly spoke t' in twenty years.

SETH. Jest as though yuh an' me wasn't alive.

LON. We'd a given him our last pipeful.

SETH. His own flesh an' blood.

LON. Why, he told me more 'an a thousand times he hated Ma.

SETH. She don't need it.

LON. She's ready fur the grave-yard.

SETH. She's that stingy, cuttin' an' choppin' wood, sellin it t' the city folks. We might a knowd.

LON. An' me a comin' all the three miles an' a quarter t' see him a fore he died.

SETH. I been settin' here two days a waitin'.

LON. An' then t' treat us like that. [_Wipes his mouth._] Why, the hull place ain't worth a damn!

SETH. A cavin'-in shanty an' two acres yuh couldn't grow weeds on.

LON. A pile o' sand.

SETH [_rising; bursting into fire like an apparently dead rocket_]. She ain't a goin' t' heve it!

LON. What?

SETH. I won't let Ma heve it!

LON. But how yuh goin' t' stop her? 'Twon't do no good t' tear up the will an' testament. It's rec-ord-ed.

SETH. Don't make no difference. She ain't a goin' t' heve that place.

LON [_eagerly_]. But how yuh goin'--?

SETH. I don't know. But I'm a goin' t'.

LON. It ain't hers by rights.

SETH. Didn't she leave him twenty years ago?

LON. Why, she ain't even expectin' it!

SETH. She'll never miss it if she don't git it.

LON [_shaking his head_]. Me an' the kids packed up, ready t' move in.

[_There is a silence. Lon deep in his disappointment, Seth making his brain work as it has never worked before. And he is rewarded for his diligence. A suggestion of his sneering smile comes to his face._]

SETH. Lon?

LON. Yes?

SETH [_looks about, making sure that only his brother is listening_]. Yuh 'member what yuh done t' Rogers when he didn't leave yuh paint his bath-house?

LON [_his eyes open wide_]. Burn it?

SETH. Sh!

LON. Oh, no!

SETH. Yuh don't want Ma t' heve it, does yuh?

LON. When I burned that bath-house I didn't sleep good fur a couple o' nights. I dreamed o' the sheriff.

SETH. Nobody knows but me. An' nobody'll know yuh an' me set fire t' Pa's old place.

LON. Yuh swear yuh won't never tell?

SETH [_raising his right hand_]. I swear.

LON. Yuh won't never try an' make out I done it next time we run agin each other fur district school-inspector?

SETH [_raising his right hand_]. I swear. 'Cause if I kin't have Pa's old place, no one kin.

LON. Got matches?

SETH. Yes. An' Pa's kerosene-can's got 'bout a pint in it. [_Takes the can from the bottom shelf._]

LON. I may as wall take these papers along with me. [_Picks up the newspapers._]

[_Seth moves to the table. Begins to fill his pipe. Lon takes his corncob from his pocket and coughs. Seth looks at Lon, meditates, then speaks._]

SETH. Heve a smoke, Lon?

LON. Maybe I will.

[_Lon fills his pipe.--Seth strikes a match, lights his own pipe first, then hands the match to Lon._]

SETH. We're brothers.

LON. The same flesh an' blood has got t' treat each other right.

[_Lon starts to put Seth's tobacco-pouch in his pocket, but Seth stops him._]

SETH. An' we wouldn't be treatin' each other right if we let Pa's property come into Ma's hands.

[_Seth carries the kerosene, Lon the papers. They go out the back door and disappear. Thus, in disgust and rage, the brothers are united. Then Seth's voice is heard._]

SETH [_in the yard_]. Wait a minute, Lon.

[_Seth returns. He picks up Pa's tobacco-pouch, knife and scissors, glances toward the door to see that Lon isn't watching, and sticks them into his pocket._]

LON [_in the yard_]. What yuh doin', Seth? [_Appears at the door._]

SETH. I thought I left somethin' valuable. But I ain't. [_He leaves._]

[_Lon and Seth pass out of sight._]

[_Curtain._]

IN THE MORGUE

A PLAY

BY SADA COWAN

Copyright, 1920, by Stewart & Kidd Company. All rights reserved.

IN THE MORGUE is reprinted from "The Forum" by special permission of Miss Sada Cowan. Application for right of performing IN THE MORGUE must be made to Miss Sada Cowan, The Authors' League, New York City.

IN THE MORGUE

A PLAY BY SADA COWAN

[PLACE: _In the morgue of a foreign city_.]

[SCENE: _A small almost empty room with the rear wall of glass. Before this glass black curtains are drawn. An old man ... Caren ... sits at a low table, well forward, sorting and arranging papers, writing from time to time. A lamp upon the table, is so shaded as to concentrate the light and throws Caren's wicked face into sharp relief. The room conveys a feeling of unfriendliness, coldness and gloom. Caren is old, so old he is somewhat decrepit ... hard, shrill and tottering. His features are sharp, his fingers are as talons. He seems almost as a vulture ... perhaps for hovering too long among the unbeloved dead._]

CAREN [_calling to some one behind the black curtain_]. What was the number of that last one?

HELPER [_putting out his head_]. Thirteen. [_He disappears._]

CAREN [_writes and repeats_]. Thirteen....

VOICES [_are heard, rough and harsh, from in back of the curtains_]. Shove that stiff up! He's got more room than what's coming to him.

CAREN [_calling, without rising_]. Who is it you're moving?

VOICE. Thirteen. Any reason why he should sprawl?

CAREN. Not a bit. Shove him along.

[_The curtains part. There is a swift vision of brilliant light within, and bodies laid out upon tables of ice._]

KRAIG [_a man, scarcely more than a boy, over-wrought and hysterical, with his hands pressed close to his throbbing temples, bursts out_]. Oh.... Oh! Let me stay here just a moment away from that horror.

CAREN [_glancing up from his writing and smiles_]. You're all the same the first day.

KRAIG. Oh.... Oh!

CAREN. That last one got you ... eh?

KRAIG [_bitterly_]. So young ... so young!

CAREN. Must have been a good looker. Much as you can tell the way his face is banged up. I'll bet his own mother wouldn't know him.

KRAIG [_turning aside_]. Don't!

CAREN [_titters_]. He ... he ... he! Number thirteen...! I hope he ain't superstitious.

KRAIG. He has nothing more to fear.

CAREN [_with dread_]. There's no tellin'.

KRAIG. He's dead.... [_Enviously._] ... Dead!

CAREN [_angry_]. Fool!

KRAIG [_watching through the glass at the placid figure, enviously_]. Dead!

CAREN [_exasperated_]. Bah!

KRAIG [_suddenly has a hideous thought and turns swiftly to Caren_]. You think it was fair...? He went of his own free will?

CAREN. Eh...? What put that into your head?

KRAIG. No clothes ... naked!

CAREN. A lot of them do that when they take the plunge. It ain't so easy to identify them. It saves a lot of bother, too. We stick 'em on the slabs a while and then....

KRAIG [_shuddering_]. Don't! It makes me cold ... cold! [_Again he parts the curtains and looks through the glass._] He's so calm ... so still. I wonder if he suffered first! [_With a clutch of hatred in his voice._] I wonder if--he starved!

CAREN. That soft white kitten? Not much. Did you get a squint at his hands? He's never even tied his own tie.

KRAIG [_laughs_]. And he's here!

CAREN [_looking at Kraig_]. This is a funny job for a kid like you to pick.

KRAIG [_turning away_]. I'm not as young as I look. I've got three little ones already. [_With deep anguish._] And another on the way.

CAREN. It's a queer hang out for a kid like you, just the same.

KRAIG [_hysterically, almost beside himself_]. I tell you ... there's another on the way.

CAREN. What do you mean by that?

KRAIG. Nothing! [_A pause, then bitterly._] Oh there's one joy down here. You can burrow and hide like a rat from it all. The damn carriages don't roll by before your eyes. The women don't!... Oh, those women, how I hate them. Their silks, their jewels, their soft white skins. Fed! Clothed! Housed!... [_Clenching his fists._] While Martha starves! Oh, God! They drive by laughing and I could choke them! Listen what happened. [_He comes closer to Caren and speaks fanatically._] Yesterday in the park I stood there ... shivering ... wondering! And all at once the mad hate came into my heart and I felt that I could kill. [_Caren looks alarmed._] And then.... Ha ... ha ... ha! Then.... The King.... The King drove by. [_Laughing bitterly, and with a great flourish._] And off came my hat! [_Making fun of himself._] My hat came off my head, Old Man, and I bowed and cringed [_vehemently_] WITH THE HATE IN MY HEART. I could have torn the warm furs from his throat and wrapped my fingers in their place [_his hands clench spasmodically_]. Ugh!

CAREN [_thoroughly alarmed_]. Hush.... Hush! You mustn't talk so of our King. A nice young boy he is.

KRAIG. Oh the hate ... the hate. Perhaps it will leave me here in this hall of the dead. [_Glancing about._] It all seems so level here. So level.

CAREN [_with the first faint touch of sympathy_]. You're right. Here's the one spot on earth where you get fair play. That's what I like. There ain't no rich and there ain't no poor. And there ain't no class nor nothing. Every man gets a square deal here ... a square deal.

KRAIG. Perhaps that's worth dying for--a square deal.

CAREN. Dying ... bah! Wait until you've seen a few more of them slung on the slabs. You'll lose your longing for death. I'm an old man, but....

KRAIG. If only I can see more of it. If only I can bear it.

CAREN. The pay's not bad?

KRAIG. It would be bad at any price.

CAREN [_shaking his finger childishly_]. Tut ... tut! We're fair here ... fair. There ain't no flowers ... he ... he ... he ... and there ain't no song [_he chuckles_], but....

KRAIG [_with intense passion, pacing to and fro, and never pausing, while he speaks very rapidly_]. If only the living could have what is spent on the dead. All the waste ... the hateful waste. Flowers wilting in dead hands. Stones weighing down dead hearts. While living bodies famish and living eyes burn for the sight of beauty. Oh, I wonder the dead don't scream out at our madness. I wonder the graves don't burst with the pain of it all.

CAREN. Have they shut me up with a maniac? Have you gone stark out of your mind?

[_There is a loud knocking on the door, to the right._]

CAREN [_opens it a crack and peeps out cautiously_]. What do you want?

VOICE. Let me in.

CAREN. Get away.

VOICE [_piteously, clamoring_]. Let me look once ... just once.

CAREN [_harshly_]. Got a pass?

VOICE. No ... no. Oh, let me in.

CAREN [_bangs the door shut_]. Get away.

VOICE [_brokenly_]. Let me look once ... just once. [_Caren opens the door a crack._] Are there any ... women?

CAREN. Women? Of course, there's women ... always women. What is it you've craving? The sight of the beauties or the smell of their stinking flesh? Go on ... get out. This isn't a bawdy house. [_He slams the door to and walks away._]

KRAIG. What is it he wants?

CAREN. A peep at the stiffs. Probably looking for his girl. [_He passes out of sight, behind the black curtain._]

KRAIG. Oh! [_Cautiously he peeps after Caren, then opens the door a crack and calls in a whisper_]. Man!... You can see the new ones through the panel there. Lift up the curtain. There's two. A blond haired girl and a boy. [_He turns swiftly as the curtains part and Caren reenters. Softly he shuts the door, then stands watching into the hallway through a glass partition._] Poor soul!

CAREN [_mumbles as he returns_]. There's something queer about that last young stiff.

KRAIG. Number thirteen?

CAREN. Yes, number thirteen. You may have been right after all. Perhaps it wasn't fair play to put him in the river. There's some mystery ... something wrong. [_Tittering._] He ... he ... he! Not number thirteen for nothing.

KRAIG [_watching outside_]. How do you know there's anything wrong?

CAREN. That's telling, Sonny. [_With deep meaning._] But you get wise quick ... looking at the dead.

KRAIG. Ugh!

CAREN. People are telephoning and messengers are on the way. Pah ... things like this are a nuisance. They keep one late. What are you watching?

KRAIG. That man who was here at the door. He doesn't go away. I wonder what keeps him here.

CAREN. Conscience! Scared to death he'll find his girl. Afraid not to look for her.

KRAIG. You mean?...

CAREN. Oh, there's just two things drives people into the water. The men ... 'cause they've got too little inside 'em.... The women....

KRAIG [_furious_]. Stop!

CAREN [_alarmed, yet brazen ... scratching his head_]. He ... he ... he! Pretty clever little joke. He ... he!

[_Kraig begins to pace the room, his hands pressed to his temples._]

CAREN. I must tell that to the boys inside. [_He starts to go._] Pretty clever little joke!...

KRAIG [_watching, excitedly_]. There's something wrong with the fellow. I'd better see.

CAREN [_pausing_]. You'd better shut your eyes and see nothing.

KRAIG. He is staggering.

CAREN. Let him stagger.

KRAIG. He may be ill. He may be--starving.

CAREN. He's come to a good place to lose his appetite.

KRAIG. Oh, let me see what's wrong with him ... please.

CAREN. You go out that door and you don't come back. [_A pause._] I guess you'll stay.

KRAIG [_looks his hatred_]. Just as you say.

[_Outside the door there is a short, sharp scream._]

VOICE. Maria!

KRAIG. He's fallen.

CAREN. He'll get up.

KRAIG. I wonder what happened.

CAREN. Perhaps he got a peep at the new blonde. [_There is now a violent banging on the door._]

KRAIG. He's here.

[_Caren opens the door cautiously a crack._]

VOICE [_outside_]. My woman!... Maria!

CAREN. If you can identify her shut up your racket. Go to the first door at the right and make arrangements to take her away.

VOICE [_crushed and broken_]. Maria.

CAREN. Shut up! Bottle the tears until you get home. The first door to the right.

VOICE [_pleading_]. Cover her. For the love of the Lord ... cover her. Don't let her lie like that.

CAREN. Ain't she covered enough to suit you?

VOICE. Cover her ... cover her.

CAREN. Afraid she'll catch cold? Go on ... get out! [_He slams the door._]

KRAIG [_walks to the black curtains and parts them slightly_]. His woman ... his LOVE. [_Sighing and glancing towards the door_.] Poor devil!

CAREN. What's the matter with you, Softy?

KRAIG. Nothing. I was just thinking.

CAREN. Don't be a fool.

KRAIG [_again walking back and looking at the woman_]. Couldn't we cover her just a little? The sheet seems to have slipped.

CAREN. And no harm done. Meat's meat.

KRAIG [_dreamily_]. Her hair would cover her like a mantle. How soft and white she is. And how happy she seems. I wonder just when that look came into her face. It surely wasn't there when she plunged into the river.

CAREN [_annoyed_]. You ought to be nurse maid to a doll baby. What are you anyway?

KRAIG [_indifferently_]. A dreamer ... a creator ... a starver!

CAREN. Well, you're the wrong sort for in here. This is one place where you get down to facts; truth. No lies, no frills, no dreams. Dreams don't count [_banging his fist for emphasis_]. Money don't count. Power don't count ... beauty don't count. Nothing counts.

KRAIG [_hotly_]. Then it's not truth if beauty and dreams don't count. That's what we starved for, Martha and I.

CAREN [_softening a little_]. Well, you won't starve here. It's a fair place ... fair. The King himself wouldn't be treated no different than a beggar. The man with brains and the man without.... [_The curtains part and a helper enters._]

HELPER. Some one wants to blink at number thirteen. He's got two swell dames with him. Can they go in?

CAREN. If their permit's all right. Yes. Bring them in.

HELPER. They won't come in here. They want to go in the private way.

CAREN. I know there's some mystery about number thirteen....

HELPER. Yes, there is. He's a swell ... a big one. I shouldn't wonder if....

CAREN. Go on. Get out. [_The helper goes._]

KRAIG. Aren't you going to cover the boy before you let them enter?

CAREN. If they can't see him how are they going to know him? He ain't a tailor's dummy.

KRAIG. It all seems horrible.

CAREN. I guess you'll never see a second day at this.

KRAIG. Oh.... Oh, I don't know.

CAREN. You think I'm going to tuck on a few extras just because he's a swell. [_Yelling._] Don't I keep telling you 'til there's not a breath left in my body, that there ain't no class here? [_The helper reenters and hears the last words. He stands breathless._] Tramp or gentleman, they're all alike. Now get that into your head and let it grow.

HELPER [_has been stammering trying to speak_]. I oughtn't to tell. They'd kill me if they knew. It's to be kept a secret, but....

CAREN. What's the matter?

HELPER. Number thirteen.... [_Stammering._] He ... he....

CAREN. Well, what about him?

HELPER. He ain't a loafer. He ain't a tramp. He ain't even a gentleman. He....

CAREN. Who is he? Quick!

HELPER. Our.... [_Exultantly._] Our King!

CAREN [_open-mouthed, aghast_]. Our ... King!

KRAIG [_laughing triumphantly_]. Ha ... ha ... ha ... ha--HERE! [_He clasps his hands together._]

CAREN [_excited_]. Are you mad, Boy, mad? Our King! Oh!

[_Kraig laughs. Both men stare at him horrified._]

HELPER [_to Caren_]. Ain't you got a flag or something ... some little mark of respect to cover his nibs?

CAREN [_to Kraig_]. Run upstairs and get that big silk flag that.... [_as Kraig does not move_]. Go.

KRAIG [_immovable, abruptly ceasing to laugh_]. No.

CAREN [_threateningly_]. What do you mean? No?

KRAIG [_hysterically_]. This is one place in the world where all are treated fair. Dreams don't count. POWER don't count. There's no rich, no poor....

CAREN. Shut up and get that flag.

KRAIG. You're going to cover him ... but she.... Oh! [_Both men disappear behind the curtains, cringing and bowing to people within. Caren, with his back to the curtains, does not realize that he is alone._] Even death can't level. No ... not even death. [_For a second he stares ahead of him piercingly into space, standing taut and rigid. Then commences to laugh in pure hysteria as_

[_The Curtain Slowly Falls._]

A DEATH IN FEVER FLAT

A PLAY

BY GEORGE W. CRONYN

Copyright, 1919, by Shadowland. Copyright, 1920, by George W. Cronyn.

All rights reserved.

Reprinted from _Shadowland_, a magazine, by permission of the publishers and the author. The professional and amateur stage rights of this play are strictly reserved by the author. Applications for permission to produce this play should be made to Frank Shay, Care Stewart & Kidd Company, Cincinnati, Ohio.

SCENE: _In the great Far West, i. e., far from the "Movie" West_.

CHARACTERS

HANK [_proprietor of the Good Hope Roadhouse_]. LON PURDY [_about whom the play is concerned_]. MIZPAH [_his wife, called "Padie"_]. THE STAGE DRIVER. THE GHOST OF HARVEY MACE. THE GHOST OF THE OTHER MAN.

THE TIME _is the present, about 11 P. M._

This is not a Bret Harte play, nor is it designed for W. S. Hart. And it should be performed with none of that customary and specious braggadoccio of western plays.

A DEATH IN FEVER FLAT

A PLAY BY GEORGE W. CRONYN

[_THE SCENE is laid in the so-called dining-room of one of those forlorn hostelries of the great Plains, which goes by the name of Mace's Good Hope Roadhouse, a derisive title evidently intended to signify the traveler's hope of early escape from its desiccated hospitality._

_This room is sometimes reluctantly frequented by a rare guest, usually a passenger on his way via auto stage, to some place else, whom delays en route have reduced to this last extremity of lodging for the night. The room is a kind of lumber yard of disused cheap hotel furniture._

_Nothing can be drearier._

_Most of this junk is heaped along the left (stage) wall, and it has a settled look of confusion which the processes of gradual decay will, apparently, never disturb. Tables tip crazily against the plaster of the greasy wall. Chairs upturned on these, project thin legs, like the bones of desert places, toward a ceiling fantastically stained. One table smaller than the rest, sees occasional use, for it stands somewhat out of the debris and has about it three chairs reasonably intact. A pack of cards and several dirty glasses adorn the top._

_A stairway rises along the right wall, beginning at the rear, and attaining to a rickety landing, supported by a single post of doubtful strength, to which is affixed a glass lamp in a bracket. (Inasmuch as the stairway is turned away from the audience, those who ascend are completely hidden until their heads top the last riser.) At the right front, between the landing and the proscenium, a door (now shut) leads to the Bar, the one spot of brightness in this lump, the shining crack at its sill bespeaking the good cheer beyond. And that crack is the only illumination to this morgue of defunct appetites, for the moonlight, which enters by way of a small window at the right, is rather an obscuration, inasmuch as it heightens the barren mystery of the room's entombing shadows._

_Double doors center of rear wall lead to the outside. A window on either side of the door._

_So much for the melancholy set._

_From the Bar percolates the lubricated melodiousness of the few regular customers who constitute the population of Fever Flat, with the exception of three worn-out women folks, two haggard cows and three hundred or so variegated dogs. The female element are to home, the dogs, astray and astir, with lamentable choruses._

_Sounds from the Bar, samples only._]

A JOLLY SOUL [_hoarsely_]. Pitch into her, boys! Tune up your gullets! [_With quavering pathos._] "She was born in old Kentucky"--

ANOTHER SUCH [_with peeve_]. Aw, shet up, that's moldy! Giv's that Tennessee warble, Hank!

VOICE OF HANK [_rather rich and fine_].

"When your heart was mine, true love, And your head lay on my breast, You could make me believe By the falling of your arm That the sun rose up in the west--"

[_There is a momentary pause, filled in by--_

A VOICE. Y'oughter go courtin' with that throat o' yourn, Hank.

Mace [_as if misanthrope_]. Aw, women--

[_During the laugh that follows, an auto horn blares outside and a bright shaft is visible through the rear windows._]

VOICES. Stage's come! Stage's come!

[_There are sounds indicating the rapid evacuation of the Bar, and a moment later one of the rear doors is jerked open and the Stage Driver enters, dragging in two heavy suitcases which he deposits near the small table with appropriate grunts, meanwhile encouraging the passengers to enter._]

STAGE DRIVER. Uh! perty lumpy bags--come in, folks, come in! Seems like you might be carryin' all your b'longings.

[_The two passengers enter; the man, quickly, nervously, almost furtively; the woman, with that weariness which ignores everything except its own condition._]

STAGE DRIVER. Come in and set, lady; don't be skeered. Looks a little spooky, but Hank'll have a glim fer ye in two shakes. [_Places a chair for her._] Here, I know you're plumb tuckered. Make y'self t'home. [_Looking around at the drear surroundings._] 'S fer 's yer able.

THE MAN. I thought the stage went through to Hollow Eye to-night?

DRIVER. Well, sir, she do, but this time she don't. I've been havin' to run ten miles on low already and I jest don't _dast_ take her across that thirty miles of sand the way she is. She'll drink water like a thusty hoss and like as not lay down and die on us half way out. Then where'd we be? No sir; you folks'll just have to camp here at Fever Flat till I kin do a tinkerin' job to-morrow mornin'. So I'll step into the Bar and tell Hank you're here. [_At the door to the Bar._] Hank'll do the best he kin fer ye. He's a squ'ar man. Good-night to ye! [_Goes out, leaving the door half open._]

THE MAN [_briefly_]. Good-night. [_Looking about._] What a hole! Like somebody died here and they'd gone off and left it all stand just the way it was. [_He goes to the open door at the rear and stares at the naked moonlit buttes._] Them hills gits my goat. They're nothin' but blitherin skeletons, and this bunch of shacks they call Fever Flat looks like no more'n a damn bone yard to me. [_Shutting the door._] Ugh! it's cold in here. Feel like I was sittin' on my own grave's edge.

THE WOMAN [_scarcely raising her head, and speaking with no emotion, in a dead dry voice._] You didn't use to be so pernickety, when you was punchin' on the range, Lon.

LON [_waspishly_]. And you didn't use to look like a hag, neither, Padie.

PADIE [_with a momentary flash_]. Drink's poisoning your tongue, too.

LON [_viciously_]. Who's drinking? Cain't I take a thimbleful now'n then without all this jawin'?

PADIE. You ain't takin' thimblefuls. You're just soakin' it up. You'll be gettin' snakes if you keep on. 'n then, what'll _I_ do? [_Resuming her air of weary indifference._] Not that I care so much what you do with yourself--or what becomes of me. Nothing matters.

LON [_petulent and aggrieved_]. There you go, actin' abused. How 'bout _my_ rights 'n pleasures? Ain't got none, I s'pose.

PADIE. Oh, shut up, you make me sick.

[_Hank enters; a ruddy, vigorous, young man, strangely out of place among all this rubbish. He wears a barkeeper's apron and speaks cordially._]

HANK. Howdyedo, folks! Howdye do! Well, this is a kinda rough lay-out fer you-all. Y'see the Stage is due here at five, and stops fer grub, then makes Hollow Eye by about nine, but here 'tis ... [_pulls out watch_] half an hour of midnight an' I s'pose you ain't et, yet, eh? [_Lights the glass lamp._]

PADIE. Thanks. We've had sandwiches, but maybe my husband'd like something.

LON [_significantly_]. Wet.

[_Padie shrugs indifferently, and fixes her hair. As she turns toward Hank, the light for the first time falls full on his face. Padie stares fixedly at him, and half rises, with a little cry._]

LON [_with a quick, startled glance at Hank, speaks to her in a sharp, threatening voice_]. Padie! Sit down! Are you gittin' plumb loco drivin' out so late in autymobiles? [_To Hank, apologetically._] You kinda flustered us, mister, cause you have a little the look a friend of ourn that died suddint. Mournful case. Pardner o'mine. No, you're not much like. He was tall, heavy-built and lighter complected. Must a been consid'ble older, too.

PADIE [_almost in a whisper_]. No.

LON. Older, I say. My wife's kinda wrought up by this here little spell of travelin'.

HANK [_sympathetically_]. Oh, you're not used to it, eh?

PADIE [_slowly and deliberately_]. We've been at it--[_draws out the word into a burden_] years.

LON [_impatiently_]. That is, off'n on, m'dear. Only off'n on.

PADIE [_monotonously_]. All the time.

HANK [_trying to be a little jocose to break the oppressive atmosphere_]. Should think you might hanker after yer own nest, lady.

PADIE [_rising rudely_]. Well, just keep your thoughts!

HANK [_completely abashed_]. Yes, ma'am. Your room is just at the top of the landin'. I'll make ye a light. [_He hustles away upstairs to cover his embarrassment, taking the suitcases with him._]

LON [_irritably_]. You're always tryin' to belittle me in public. Is that any way fer a wife to act? I wanta know.

PADIE. What do you always lie so fer?

LON [_with rising voice_]. That's my business. I'll do as I damn please. And don't you go too fer, crossin' me. I won't stand it. Some day I'll up, an--

PADIE [_contemptuously_]. Beat me. That's all that's left to _you_, wife-beater.

[_Lon raises his hand as though to strike her, but lets it fall as Hank reappears on the landing._]

HANK. Excuse me, m'am. Have you your own towels by you? Ourn is pretty scaly. It's been so long since we've had in women folks, at least, ladies.

PADIE [_moving toward the stair_]. Thanks, we have some.

[_Lon to Padie as Hank, hidden from audience, descends._]

LON. You might as well be decent, Padie. You ain't got none other but me.

PADIE [_bitterly_]. Yes, you've took me from 'em. We've been trapsin and trapsin till I'm plumb sick. Yes, I'm--

[_Her voice breaks and she runs blindly toward the stair, almost into the arms of Hank, which further increases his consternation._]

HANK [_holding her off_]. Stidy, stidy. There's the ladder, m'am. Can't I fetch you somethin'? Toddy?

[_Padie shakes her head, runs up, and slams her door._]

HANK [_to Lon in friendly fashion_]. Women folks is cur'us, cur'us.

LON [_surlily_]. Take my advice and keep free from 'em.

HANK. It was a woman did fer my brother.

LON [_with increased interest_]. Oh, you've got a brother, eh?

HANK [_simply_]. Had.

LON. Where is he?

HANK. Down at Laguna Madre, Arizony.

LON [_leaning forward and gripping the edge of the table_]. Ranchin'?

HANK. Buried.

LON [_haltingly_]. How--what were you saying--about a woman?

HANK. A woman done fer him. That's what they said, I don't know. I didn't git there fer a long time. There was a mix-up.

LON. Well, well. That's strange.

HANK [_eagerly_]. I s'pose you heard of it? It was in all the papers. It even got as fer as Denver.

LON. No, I don't remember. But I've read of similar cases.

HANK. You've been to Arizony, I s'pose.

LON. No, not quite. I've been all around them parts, but never Arizony.

HANK. 'Tain't what you'd call a perty country, but it's mighty satisfyin'. Too blame cold up here.

LON. Why don't you move?

HANK. I'm agoin' to, but you see my brother had half interest in this here tavern and there was some litigation about it. Case's just finished. I been here three years, ever since he went. But I'm pullin' my stakes, you bet. I wouldn't be _buried_ here! Would you?

LON [_dryly_]. I'd rather not.

HANK. So she took me fer a friend that'd croaked, eh? That's cur'us.

LON. Eh? What's that? Who?

HANK. Your wife.

LON. Oh, yes. Well, he was a good ten years older. And dark-complected.

HANK. Thought you said he was light.

LON. Mebbe I did. Well, he mought have been a trifle lighten'n you, but then, size him up by the average, he was dark. Let's fergit him. Bring us a bottle of your best--and see that the glass is clean.

HANK. To be sure. [_Goes out._]

[_Lon sits with his head between his hands, brooding. The voice of Hank rises from the Bar, rendering the second verse of the Tennessee "warble."_]

HANK [_in the Bar_].

There's many a girl can go all round about And hear the small birds sing. And many a girl that stays at home alone, And rocks the cradle and spins.

[_As the song ends, the door at the rear opens soundlessly, revealing the vast expanse of moonlit plains and desolate buttes. Lon shivers and turns up his coat collar, finally facing about to discover the cause of the chill. Observing the open door, he goes to it, closes and locks it, the click of the key being distinctly audible. He then returns and sits as before, and again the song comes._]

HANK [_in the Bar_].

There's many a star shall jangle in the west; There's many a leaf below. There's many a damn that will light upon the man For treating a poor girl so.

[_Now both of the double doors swing open, without sound. Lon shivers, then, looking over his shoulder, suddenly gets up, glares about him and makes hastily for the door to the Bar, where he almost collides with Hank entering with bottle and glass._]

HANK. Here, mister, I was just comin'.

LON. What the devil's the matter with your doors?

HANK. Them? Oh, the lock's no good. When the wind's southwest they fly right open. Got to be wedged with a shingle.

[_He goes over to the doors, slams them shut, picks up a shingle from the floor and inserts firmly between them._]

LON [_relieved_]. H'm. Well, that's all right.

HANK. Now it's blame cur'us the way old places gits. You'll hear these floor boards creak at times like as if som'un was sneakin' over 'em b'ar-foot. Feller told me onct it was made by contrapshun and temper'ture. Mebbe so, but I reckon [_knowingly_] there's more goes on around than we give credit fer.

[_Hank dusts off the table and puts bottle and glass down. Lon seizes them eagerly and begins drinking._]

LON [_after a couple of glasses_]. You mean--spirits?

HANK. Well, I dunno as you'd call 'em that. But it's a fact, there's more liquor goes over the Bar than gits paid for. 'Tain't _stole_ either. It just _goes_.... As old Pete Gunderson used to say, "I'm a hell of a th'usty p'uson, and when I croak I'll be a hell of a th'usty spirit." I sometimes wonder--

[_Padie appears above, in a loose dressing sack, her hair hanging in a great wavy mass, and holding a pitcher._]

PADIE. Lon, please fetch some water.

LON [_not moving_]. I don't dast go out in the night. I've caught a kind of chill from to-day's drive.

HANK [_going up the stairs_]. I'll fetch it you, m'am.

[_She comes down to meet him and the two are momentarily hidden from the audience. Lon continues to drink steadily, pouring down one glass after another. Hank reappears, treading with a certain gayety, and goes out rear, whistling the Tennessee "warble."_]

PADIE [_leaning out of the shadow of the stairway toward her husband_]. Ain't you comin' up soon, Lon?

LON [_ignoring the query_]. Scarcely no resemblance whatever.

PADIE [_with sudden fierceness_]. You lie!

[_She ascends to the top of the landing. Outside a pump cranks dismally._]

PADIE [_relenting a little_]. You'll be seein' things, Lon, if you keep it up.

LON [_rising, perfectly steady_]. Mind your business. Wish to hell I had a newspaper.

[_He goes out through the door to the Bar, while Padie runs a comb reflectively through the exuberant tumult of her dark hair. Hank enters and stops a moment, half blinded by the light, then looks up, and shading his eyes, smiles._]

PADIE [_coyly_]. Is it the light in your eyes, mister?

HANK [_daringly_]. It's you, ma'am, are blinding them. [_He runs up the stairs with the pitcher._]

PADIE [_bending toward him as he comes near the top steps_]. You'd better reach it to me. Maybe the landing'll not hold the two of us.

HANK. It'll hold two that have such light hearts as we.

PADIE. Ah, you don't know mine, mister.

HANK [_reaching her the pitcher_]. There, the clumsy mut I am! Spillt the cold water on your pretty bare toes!

[_As she leans over to take the pitcher her hair falls suddenly about his head, almost covering his face._]

PADIE [_drawing it back, with a deft twirl_]. I've most smothered you!

HANK. I wouldn't want a sweeter death.

PADIE [_looking down into his eyes_]. Indeed, you're the picture of--an old lover of mine.

HANK. I'd rather be the picture of the new.

[_He makes as if to clasp her about the ankles, but she puts a hand on his shoulder and pushes him gently back._]

PADIE. You've been very kind to a wanderer--from Arizony. Don't spoil it. Good-night!

HANK [_turning about, mutters_]. Good-night.

[_He clatters loudly down the stairs as Lon reenters, studying a newspaper. Lon seats himself, still absorbed. Hank favors him with a glare of positive hatred._]

HANK [_with a sneer_]. All fixed fer the night, eh?

LON [_grunting_]. G'night.

HANK. Well, I hope you like this country better'n Arizony.

LON [_starting out of the news_]. The hell you say!

HANK. Your wife was wishing herself back there.

LON [_settling back to his paper and bottle_]. Well, that's where she come from. I don't. Women allus want what they ain't got.

HANK [_retiring_].

When your heart was mine, true love, And your head lay on my breast,

[_He goes out, closing the door._]

You could make me believe by the falling of your arm That the sun rose in the west.

[_During the singing of this last stanza, the double doors swing wide as before, revealing a Figure standing motionless outside, bathed in moonlight. At the same time the flame in the glass lamp begins to flicker and wane. Lon holds the paper closer to his face, finally almost buries his nose in it, as if conscious of the Presence, but stubbornly resolved to ignore it. The Figure moves, and as it crosses the threshold the feeble light expires. Lon, however, still sits, as if absorbed in the newspaper, pretending to sip from the glass. The Figure in a thin mocking voice, echoes the song of the other, standing just behind Lon's chair._]

THE FIGURE [_a thin echo_].

You could make me believe by the falling of your arm That the sun rose up in the west.--

[_Lon picks up the soiled pack of cards from the table and begins to shuffle them mechanically, nor does he once turn toward the apparition._]

LON [_in a hoarse whisper_]. And what'r _you_ doin' here?

[_The Figure sits down nonchalantly in a chair a little to one side of Lon's. He is dressed in the western style, that is, without style, corduroys, heavy boots, flannel shirt. In fact, he looks almost natural. But there is a curious dark mark in the center of his forehead--or is it a round, dark hole?_]

LON [_petulantly_]. Cain't you stay where you was put--with a heap o' rocks on top o' ye?

THE FIGURE [_thinly ironical_]. Can't seem to give up the old habits, y' know.

LON [_thickly, tossing the pack down_]. What's the hell's a corpse got to do with habits?

GHOST [_unmoved_]. You pore fool, you'll _learn_ when you come over.

LON [_huskily_]. Come over--wh'ar?

GHOST [_significantly_]. Where I am. [_Sings in a quavering voice._]

There's many a girl can go all round about And hear the small birds sing--

LON [_snarling_]. Dry up on them corpse tunes o' yourn, Harvey Mace.

GHOST [_leering_]. Oh, you recognize me, eh? You recognize your old friend and pardner, do you, Lon Purdy?

LON [_sullenly_]. I _knowed_ you'd come.

GHOST [_triumphantly_]. And you believe in me, eh? Well, that's good, too.

LON [_stubbornly_]. Believe? Well! I knowed I'd be seein' things soon, what with the booze. I knowed it'd be the snakes or you. Padie told me I'd be seein' things.

GHOST [_maliciously_]. So you believe in _her_, anyway. Well, how's Padie--and the children?

LON. You know damn well we ain't had none.

GHOST. What, no children! How unfortunate! The house of love not to be graced with fruit ... sterile, sterile.

LON [_belligerently_]. Er you referrin' to me?

GHOST. To your spiritual union only, my friend. Physically, I know, nothing was wanting for a perfect match,--female form divine to mate with big blond beast. A race of superpeople!

LON. What the hell 'r' you gabbin'? You allus had a lot of talky-talk. That's what made a hit with Padie, before, before--

GHOST. Before the Other Man came along and cut us both out. [_Sings._]

And many a girl that stays at home alone And rocks the cradle and spins.

GHOST [_reflectively_]. Yes, I'm afraid we both stood up pretty poorly alongside him. I had the words, the brain, the idea. I could charm her, tantalize her, quicken her mind, arouse her imagination. That's why I cut you out with her.

LON [_sneeringly_]. Gab!

GHOST. Yes, gab. It was one better to her than mere brute--guts! You personified strength. You didn't have nerves enough to be afraid of anything. You had endurance, cheek, deviltry, and a kind of raw good nature. These took with the gay, immature girl she was, until I came. You had--Guts; I had--Gab.

LON. And the Other Feller?

GHOST. He had the Gift.

LON. What you mean?

GHOST. He was a full man. His personality exuded from him like incense. It wrapped and enfolded you and warmed you, and yet it was not a grain feminine, but deeply, proudly masculine. You tolerated him, I--loved him. I had the fine passion for Padie, but when I first saw the two of them together I _knew_ she was his, or [_with a keen, stern look at Lon_] _ought_ to be ... and she _has_ been, always.

LON [_jumping to his feet, and knocking over his chair_]. You lie like hell! She's mine! She's been mine all these three years! I won her and I own her! What little of love she ever had fer you or him is buried down in Laguna Madre with the bones of both of ye! And all hell can't take her from me!

GHOST [_rising tall and pale_]. _He_ kin, and he's done it! You _thought_ you'd got her. But he's had her, or rather, she's had _him_ in her heart ever since they took the rope from his neck and pronounced him legally dead, and justice vindicated, and laid him away in the desert. All that time since, he's belonged to her. When you laid by her side nights, it was _his_ arm she felt about her waist, not yours; his breath was on her cheek, and his heart was beating against hers. Oh you poor, poor fool!

LON [_throwing his glass straight at the ghost_]. You lyin' pup!

GHOST [_bursting into a gale of eerie laughter_]. Ha! ha! ha! you _poor_ fool! _Now_ you believe in me!

[_Lon whips out his revolver and aims at the ghost, then slowly returns it to the holster, as he realizes the futility of the move._]

GHOST. Go on, my boy! Let's have another one here. [_He points to the dark hole in his forehead._]

[_Lon, wiping his own face with the back of his hand, and shuddering, slumps down into his seat and stares vacantly at the table._]

GHOST. Another one, just like the last--for your friend and pardner. [_He stresses the words with intense irony._] Do you remember the _last_ time you pulled that trick? What a foxy one it was! How astutely planned! _Planned_, my friend. I remember when we two went up the canyon together, just such a shining night as this, I asked you why you had borrowed--the Other Man's horse, and you said, yours was a little lame. Oh! excellent dissembler! Most crafty of liars! You _stole_ that horse. You stole that horse to put a rope around the Other Man's neck! You knew the pinto was shod different from any pony in those parts. You knew where they'd track him to, when they found the job you'd done. Then we sat down to smokes and cards. And I remember the curious glitter in your eyes. I was dealing. [_The Ghost shuffles the cards on the table, then lays down the pack in front of Lon._] Cut!

[_Lon mechanically obeys._]

GHOST [_dealing_]. And after several hands, you brought up the subject of Padie. And I told you I was out of the race--and that you'd better get out too, because the best man already had her. And then--and then I sensed you were going to draw, and when I had my gun out, it was empty. Clever boy! You had it fixed right. And so you plugged me square. And the moon and stars went out for me and I dropped into the black gulf.

[_Lon, throwing his hand down, buries his face in his hands, groaning._]

GHOST [_pitilessly_]. You left me with my face to the stars for the coyotes to find. Then, very coolly, you turned the Other Man's horse toward home and sent him off cracking. And you jumped to a pinon log that led off to a ledge of lava where your footprints wouldn't show. And you turned up in half an hour with the boys in town. Then you inquired casually where the Other Man was. You _knew_, you devil! You knew they'd never get an alibi from him for that night, 'cause--Padie was with him. Padie had her dear arms about his neck while you, clever dog! were out fixing to put a rope there. And you done it, too! _Won_ her? Yes, you did--like hell! After the trial was all over, and the dead buried, me and him, you passed a dirty whisper around town about her, and then married her, to save her good name. That's how you won her.

[_There is an immense silence, broken only by the heavy breathing of Lon, which comes in rattling gasps._]

GHOST [_sings_].

There's many a star shall jangle in the west, There's many a leaf below, There's many a damn that will light upon the man For treating a poor girl so.

GHOST. But I ain't forgot all you done for me. Neither has the Other Man, [_with deep solemnity_] and he's come--to settle too--

LON [_staggering up_]. No! I don't believe in you! You're nothin' at all! There ain't no--

[_Lon sways and catches at the table; as he swings around, the figure of Another stands outside the door, a tall figure with something white twisted about its neck. Lon with a cry of horror puts out his arms as if to ward off the apparition and backs slowly toward the left wall._]

FIRST GHOST [_coming toward him_]. Murderer! betrayer! We've come to settle!

LON [_screaming_]. No! no! no! I don't believe--

[_He falls, and the pile of rubbishy furniture topples over on to him with a crash. The two apparitions vanish. The door to the bar is flung open and Hank leaps in, at the same moment that Padie appears above, whitely clad._]

PADIE. Lon! Lon! What's the matter?

HANK [_going toward the pile of stuff_]. Go back! It's something terrible.

[_He heaves the heavy pieces from the body and drags it out, as Padie, with a long cry, flies down the stairs. He feels the breast quickly and rises before Padie reaches the table._]

HANK. I'm afraid he's done for.

PADIE [_drawing a deep quivering breath_]. Oh.

HANK. He must 'a' fell.

PADIE. I knew--drink'd do fer him.

HANK. Did you--love him--so much?

PADIE [_very low_]. Once--a little. [_With sudden, fierce joy._] I don't care! Now--I kin--live!

HANK [_looking out over the desert where the dawn begins to show_]. Both of us.

[_Curtain._]

THE SLAVE WITH TWO FACES

AN ALLEGORY

BY MARY CAROLYN DAVIES

Copyright, 1918, by Egmont Arens. All rights reserved.

Reprinted from No. 6, of the "Flying Stag Plays," published by Egmont Arens, by special permission of Miss Davies. The professional and amateur stage rights on this play are strictly reserved by the author. Applications for permission to produce this play should be made to Egmont Arens, 17 West 8th Street, New York.

THE SLAVE WITH TWO FACES was first produced in New York City by the Provincetown Players, on January 25th, 1918, with the following cast:

LIFE, THE SLAVE _Ida Rauh._ FIRST GIRL _Blanche Hays._ SECOND GIRL _Dorothy Upjohn._ A WOMAN _Alice MacDougal._ A MAN _O. K. Liveright._ A YOUNG MAN _Hutchinson Collins._ A WORKMAN _O. K. Liveright._ _And Others._

## Scene designed by Norman Jacobsen. Produced under the direction of

Nina Moise. Incidental music written by Alfred Kreymborg.

THE SLAVE WITH TWO FACES

AN ALLEGORY BY MARY CAROLYN DAVIES

[_THE SCENE is a wood through which runs a path. Wild rose bushes and other wood-things border it. On opposite sides of the path stand two girls waiting. They have not looked at each other. The girls wear that useful sort of gown which, with the addition of a crown, makes a queen--without, makes a peasant. The first girl wears a crown. The second carries one carelessly in her hand._]

FIRST GIRL [_looking across at the other_]. For whom are you waiting?

SECOND GIRL. I am waiting for Life.

FIRST GIRL. I am waiting for Life also.

SECOND GIRL. They said that he would pass this way. Do you believe that he will pass this way?

FIRST GIRL. He passes all ways.

SECOND GIRL [_still breathing quickly_]. I ran to meet Life.

FIRST GIRL. Are you not afraid of him?

SECOND GIRL. Yes. That is why I ran to meet him.

FIRST GIRL [_to herself_]. I, too, ran to meet him.

SECOND GIRL. Ah! he is coming!

FIRST GIRL. No. It is only the little quarreling words of the leaves, and the winds that are always urging them to go away.

SECOND GIRL. The leaves do not go.

FIRST GIRL. Some day they will go. And that the wind knows.

FIRST GIRL. Why are you not wearing your crown?

SECOND GIRL. Why should we wear crowns? [_She places the crown upon her head._]

FIRST GIRL. Do you not know?

SECOND GIRL. No.

FIRST GIRL. That is all of wisdom--the wearing of crowns before the eyes of Life.

SECOND GIRL. I do not understand you.

FIRST GIRL. Few understand wisdom--even those who need it most--

SECOND GIRL. He is coming! I heard a sound.

FIRST GIRL. It was only the sound of a petal dreaming that it had fallen from the rose-tree.

SECOND GIRL. I have waited--

FIRST GIRL. We all long for him. We cry out to him. When he comes, he hurts us, he tortures us. He kills us, unless we know the secret.

SECOND GIRL. What is the secret?

FIRST GIRL. That he is a slave. He pretends! He pretends! But always he knows in his heart that he is a slave. Only of those who have learned his secret is he afraid.

SECOND GIRL. Tell me more!

FIRST GIRL. Over those who are afraid of him he is a tyrant. He obeys--Kings and Queens!

SECOND GIRL. Then that--

FIRST GIRL. --Is why we must never let him see us without our crowns!

SECOND GIRL. How do you know these things?

FIRST GIRL. They were told me by an old wise man, who sits outside the gate of our town.

SECOND GIRL. How did he know? Because he was one of those who are kings?

FIRST GIRL. No. Because he was one of those who are afraid.

SECOND GIRL [_dreamily_]. I have heard that Life is very beautiful. Is he so? I have heard also that he is supremely ugly; that his mouth is wide and grinning, that his eyes slant, and his nostrils are thick. Is he so?--or is he--very beautiful?

FIRST GIRL. Perhaps you will see--for yourself--Ah!

SECOND GIRL.

[_As Life saunters into view at the farthest bend of the path. He walks like a conqueror. But there is something ugly in his appearance. Life sees the girls just as a sudden sun-ray catches the jewels of their crowns. He cringes and walks like a hunchback slave. He is beautiful now._]

FIRST GIRL. He has seen our crowns!

SECOND GIRL. Ah!

FIRST GIRL. Remember! You are only safe--as long as you remain his master. Never forget that he is a slave, and that you are a queen.

SECOND GIRL [_to herself_]. I must never let him see me without my crown.

FIRST GIRL. Hush! He is coming!

SECOND GIRL. He is very beautiful--

FIRST GIRL. While he is a slave.

SECOND GIRL [_not hearing_]. He is--very beautiful--

FIRST GIRL. Life!

[_Life bows to the ground at her feet._]

SECOND GIRL [_in delight_]. Ah!

FIRST GIRL. Life, I would have opals on a platter.

[_Life bows in assent._]

SECOND GIRL. Oh-h!

FIRST GIRL. And pearls!

[_Life bows._]

SECOND GIRL. Ah!

FIRST GIRL. And a little castle set within a hedge.

[_Life bows._]

SECOND GIRL. Yes--

FIRST GIRL. I would have a fair prince to think tinkling words about me. And I would have a strawberry tart, with little flutings in the crust. Go, see that these things are made ready for me.

[_Life bows in assent and turns to go._]

SECOND GIRL. Ah!

FIRST GIRL. See? It is so that one must act. It is thus one must manage him. So and not otherwise it is done. Now--do you try. [_She plucks a rose from a bush beside her, and twirls it in her fingers._]

SECOND GIRL. Life! [_Life kneels._] I have a wish for a gown of gold. [_Life bows._]

FIRST GIRL. Yes!

[_And over his bowed head, the two laugh gayly at the ease of his subjection._]

SECOND GIRL. And a little garden where I may walk and think of trumpets blowing.

[_Life bows._]

SECOND GIRL. It is a good rule.

FIRST GIRL [_calling slave back as he is leaving_]. I have a wish for a gray steed. [_Life bows._] Bring me a little page, too. With golden hair. And with a dimple.

[_Life acquiesces, and starts to leave._]

FIRST GIRL [_calling him back with a gesture_]. Life! [_An important afterthought._] With two dimples!

SECOND GIRL. And an amber necklace! Bring me an amber necklace!

FIRST GIRL [_tossing away the rose she has just plucked_]. And a fresh rose.

[_Life bows; turns to obey. The two are convulsed with mirth at the adventure and its success._]

FIRST GIRL. Life!

[_Life halts._]

SECOND GIRL. What are you going to do?

FIRST GIRL. Come here!

[_Life comes to her. With a quick movement she snatches one of the gold chains from about his neck._]

SECOND GIRL [_frightened_]. How can you dare?

FIRST GIRL. What you see you must take. [_She seizes his wrist and pulls from it a bracelet._]

SECOND GIRL [_frightened_]. Ah!

FIRST GIRL. Go!

[_Exit Life._]

SECOND GIRL. But why--

FIRST GIRL. He does not like beggars, Life. You see, he is a slave himself.

SECOND GIRL. He is so beautiful.

FIRST GIRL. Do not forget that he is your slave.... This rosebush [_touches it_] is a queen who forgot.

SECOND GIRL. Ah!

FIRST GIRL [_pointing to bones that seemed part of bushes along roadside_]. Those are the bones of others who forgot.

SECOND GIRL. But he is beautiful!

FIRST GIRL. Only so long as you are his master.

SECOND GIRL. But he is kind!

FIRST GIRL. Only so long as you are not afraid of him.

SECOND GIRL. But you snatched--

FIRST GIRL. Life is the only person to whom one should be rude.

[_They hear sounds of moaning and cries and a harsh voice menacing some unseen crowd._]

SECOND GIRL. What is that?

FIRST GIRL. Come! We must not be seen! [_Pulls her companion behind bush at side of stage._]

SECOND GIRL. What will be done to us?

FIRST GIRL. Hush! If he should see you! He is always watching for the first sign of fear.

SECOND GIRL. What is the first sign of fear?

FIRST GIRL. It is a thought--

SECOND GIRL. But can he see one's thoughts--

FIRST GIRL. Only thoughts of fear.

SECOND GIRL. If one hides them well even from oneself?

FIRST GIRL. Even then. But words are more dangerous still. If we say we are afraid we will be more afraid, because whatever we make into words makes itself into our bodies.

VOICES OFF STAGE. Oh, master! Mercy, master!

FIRST GIRL. It spoils him, this cringing. It spoils a good servant. As long as he is kept in his place--

[_A man enters and kneels, looking at Life off stage, in fear._]

FIRST GIRL [_steals to man and says_]. But he is only a slave. Do you not see that he is a slave?

MAN. How can you say that? Look at his terrible face. Who that has seen his face can doubt that he is a master, and a cruel one?

FIRST GIRL. He cannot be a master unless you make him so.

MAN. What is this that you are saying? Is it true?

FIRST GIRL. Yes, it is true. Even though it can be put into words it is true.

MAN [_starts to rise, sinks to knees again_]. Yes. I see that it is true. But go away.

FIRST GIRL [_crouching behind bush again_]. Ah!

[_Life crosses the stage, with a whip of many thongs driving a huddled throng of half crouching men and women. They kneel and kiss his robe. His mouth is wide and grinning, his eyes slant, his nostrils are thick. He is hideous._]

LIFE. You! Give me your ideals. Three ideals! Is that all you have?

YOUNG MAN. Life has robbed me of my ideals.

WORKMAN. He robbed me too.

YOUNG MAN. But I had so few.

WORKMAN. When you have toiled to possess more, he will take those from you also.

LIFE [_to an old woman_]. For twelve hours you shall toil at what you hate. For an hour you shall work at what you love, to keep the wound fresh, to make the torture keener.

OLD MAN. Ah, pity! Do not be so cruel! Let me forget the work I love!

LIFE. Dog! Take what I give you! It is not by begging that you may win anything from me!

A VOICE. Give me a dream! A dream to strengthen my hands!

ANOTHER VOICE. A little love to make the day less terrible!

THIRD VOICE. Only rest, a little rest! Time to think of the sea, and of grasses blowing in the wind.

A WOMAN. Master!

[_Life lashes her with his whip. The woman screams. Life draws back from them, and dances a mocking dance, dancing himself into greater fury, laughing terribly, he lashes out at them. Several fall dead. He chokes a cripple with his hands. Finally he drives them off the stage before him, several furtively dragging the bodies with them._]

SECOND GIRL [_as the two emerge from their hiding place_]. Oh! I wish never to see his face as they saw it!

FIRST GIRL. You will not, unless you kneel--never kneel, little queen.

SECOND GIRL. I shall never kneel to Life. I shall stand upright, as you have taught me, and I shall say, "Bring me another necklace, Life--"

FIRST GIRL. I must go now for a little while. I shall come back. Do not forget. [_She goes out._]

SECOND GIRL. I shall say--

[_Life's voice is heard off stage. Second Girl cowers. Life enters._]

SECOND GIRL. Slave! I would have the chain with the red stone! [_As Life submissively approaches, she snatches it from his neck._] And this!

[_Snatching at his hand and pulling the ring from a finger. The slave bows. She happens to look toward the spot where the bodies were, and shivers._]

LIFE [_raising his head in time to see the look of horror. From this moment his aspect gradually changes until from the slave he becomes a tyrant_]. Are you afraid of me?

SECOND GIRL. No.

LIFE. There are many who are afraid of me.

SECOND GIRL. You are a slave.

LIFE. There are many who are afraid.

SECOND GIRL. You are only a slave.

LIFE. A slave may become a master.

SECOND GIRL. No.

LIFE. I may become--

SECOND GIRL. You are my slave.

LIFE. If I were your master--

SECOND GIRL. You are a slave.

LIFE. If I were your master, I would be kind to you. You are beautiful.

SECOND GIRL. Ah!

LIFE. You are very beautiful.

SECOND GIRL. It is my crown that makes me beautiful.

LIFE. If you should take your crown from your head, you would still be beautiful.

SECOND GIRL. That I will not do.

LIFE. You are beautiful as the slight burning of the apple-petal's cheek when the sun glances at the great flowers near it. You are beautiful as the little pool far in the forest which holds lily-buds in its hands. You are beautiful--

SECOND GIRL [_aside_]. I think he wants me to be afraid, so I will say it. I have heard that men are like that. I am not afraid, but I will say it to please him.

LIFE. Are you afraid of me?

SECOND GIRL. Yes.

LIFE. Are you afraid?

SECOND GIRL. Yes, I am afraid.

LIFE. Ah, that pleases me.

SECOND GIRL [_aside_]. I knew that I would be able to please him! Whatever I make into words makes itself into my body, she said, like fear--but she does not know everything! It is impossible that she should know everything! And it is so pleasant to please him--And so easy! I am not afraid of him. I have only _said_ that I am afraid.

LIFE. Will you not take your crown from your head?

SECOND GIRL. No.

LIFE. There is nothing so beautiful as a woman's hair flying in the wind. I can see your hair beneath your crown. Your hair would be beautiful flying in the wind.

SECOND GIRL [_removes crown_]. It is only for a moment.

LIFE. Yes, you are beautiful.

SECOND GIRL [_to herself_]. It may be that I was not wise--

LIFE. You are like a new flower opening, and dazzling a passing bird with sudden color.

SECOND GIRL. She said that I must not--

LIFE. You are like the bird that passes. Your hair lifts like winks in the sun.

SECOND GIRL. He has not harmed me.

LIFE. Your crown is like jewels gathered from old galleons beneath the sea. May I see your crown?

SECOND GIRL [_holds it out cautiously toward him, then changes her mind_]. No--

LIFE. Let me hold it in my fingers. I shall give it back to you.

SECOND GIRL. No.

LIFE. I shall give it back.

SECOND GIRL. If you will surely give it back to me--

LIFE [_takes crown_]. But your hair is lovelier without a crown. [_Flings it from him._]

SECOND GIRL. What have you done?

LIFE. It was only in jest.

SECOND GIRL. But you promised--

LIFE. In jest.

SECOND GIRL. But--

LIFE. Ho-ho! Laugh with me. What a jest!

SECOND GIRL [_laughs, then shivers_].

LIFE [_in high good humor with himself_]. Dance for me. You are young. You are happy. Dance!

SECOND GIRL. What shall my dance say?

LIFE. That it is Spring, and that there are brooks flowing, newly awakened and mad to be with the sea. That there is a white bud widening under the moon, and in a curtained room a young girl sleeping. That the sun has wakened her--

SECOND GIRL [_dances these things. At first she is afraid of him, then she forgets and dances with abandon_]. And now give me back my crown.

LIFE. You do not need a crown, pretty one.

SECOND GIRL. I am afraid of you!

LIFE. Afraid of me! What have I done?

SECOND GIRL. I do not know.

LIFE. Do not be afraid.

SECOND GIRL. I am afraid.

LIFE. I shall be a kind master to you.

SECOND GIRL. Master?

LIFE. A kind master.

SECOND GIRL. You are my slave.

LIFE. I shall never be your slave again.

SECOND GIRL. And if she were right? If it is true?

LIFE. What are you saying?

SECOND GIRL. Nothing--

LIFE. You must call me master.

SECOND GIRL. No. That I will not do.

LIFE [_leering at her_]. Call me master. Then I shall be kind to you.

SECOND GIRL. No. I can not.

LIFE [_picks up his whip from the path, toying with the whip but laughing at her_]. Then I shall be kind.

SECOND GIRL. Master--

LIFE. It has a good sound.

SECOND GIRL. You will give me--

LIFE. Greedy one! Be grateful that I do not punish you.

SECOND GIRL. You would not strike me?

LIFE. If you do not obey--

SECOND GIRL [_whispering_]. You would not strike--

LIFE. You must kneel.

SECOND GIRL [_repeating_]. Never kneel, little queen--

LIFE. You must kneel to me.

SECOND GIRL. No.

LIFE [_raising the whip as if to strike_]. On your knees! Slave!

SECOND GIRL. You were kind! Life, you were kind! You said beautiful words to me.

LIFE. Kneel.

SECOND GIRL. You would be always kind, you said--

LIFE. Will you obey?

SECOND GIRL. I shall never--

[_Life curls his whip around her shoulders._]

SECOND GIRL [_screams_]. Do not flog me. I will kneel. [_Kneels_.]

LIFE. So? In that way I can win obedience.

SECOND GIRL. Master!

LIFE. It has a good sound.

SECOND GIRL. Pity! Have pity!

LIFE. Do not whine. [_Kicks her._]

SECOND GIRL [_rises staggering_]. Spare me!

LIFE. I shall beat you, for the cries of those who fear me are sweet in my ears. [_Beats her._]

SECOND GIRL. Master!

LIFE [_flinging aside whip_]. But sweeter yet are stilled cries--[_He seizes her, they struggle._]

SECOND GIRL. He is too strong--I can struggle no longer!

[_They struggle. Life chokes her to death and flings her body from him. Then laughing horribly he goes off the stage._]

FIRST GIRL [_enters skipping merrily. Singing_].

Heigho, in April, Heigho, heigho, All the town in April Is gay, is gay!

[_She plucks rose from bush._]

Heigho, in April, In merry, merry April, Love came a-riding And of a sunny day I met him on the way! Heigho, in April, Heigho, heigho--

[_Suddenly seeing the body, she breaks the song, and stares without moving. Then she goes very slowly toward it, smooths down the dead girl's dress, and kneels beside the body. Whispers._]

She was young ... he was cruel.... [_Touches the body._] She also was a queen. She snatched his trinkets. See, there on her dead neck is his chain with the red fire caught in gold. And on her finger his ring. But he was too strong ... too strong.... [_She stands, trembles, cowering in terror._] Life has broken her.... Life has broken them all.... Some day.... I am afraid....

[_Life enters, still the ugly tyrant. She remains cowering. His eyes rove slowly over the stage, but she sees him a second before he discovers her. She straightens up just in time to be her scornful self before his eyes light upon her. As she speaks Life becomes the slave again._]

FIRST GIRL [_carelessly flings rose down without seeing that it has fallen upon the body_]. Life! Bring me a fresh rose!

[_The slave bows abjectly and goes to do her bidding._]

[_Curtain._]

THE SLUMP

A PLAY

BY FREDERIC L. DAY

Copyright, 1920, by Frederic L. Day. All rights reserved.

The Slump was first produced February 5, 1920, by "The 47 Workshop" with the following cast:

FLORENCE MADDEN _Miss Ruth Chorpenning_. JAMES MADDEN _Mr. Walton Butterfield_. EDWARD MIX _Mr. W. B. Leach, Jr_.

Permission to reprint, or for amateur or professional performances of any kind must first be obtained from "The 47 Workshop," Harvard College, Cambridge, Mass. Moving picture rights reserved.

TIME: _The Present. About four o'clock on a Saturday afternoon in December._

THE SLUMP

A PLAY BY FREDERIC L. DAY

[SCENE: _A dingy room showing the very worst of contemporary lower middle-class American taste. The dining table in the center is of "golden oak"; and a sideboard at the left, a morris chair at the right and front, and three dining-room chairs (one of which is in the left rear corner, the others at the table) are all of this same finish. The paper on the walls is at once tawdry and faded. A tarnished imitation brass gas jet is suspended from the right wall, just over the morris chair. In the back wall and to the left is a door leading outside. Another door, in the left wall, leads to the rest of the house. A low, rather dirty window in the back wall, to the right of the center, looks out on a muddy river with the dispiriting houses of a small, grimy manufacturing city beyond. On the back wall are one or two old-fashioned engravings with sentimental subjects, and several highly-colored photographs of moving picture stars, each of them somewhat askew. A few pictures on the other walls are mostly cheap prints cut out of the rotogravure section of the Sunday paper. In the right-hand rear corner is an air-tight stove. The whole room has an appearance of hopeless untidiness and slovenliness. Close by the morris chair, at its right, is a phonograph on a stand. Outside it is a dull gray day. The afternoon light is already beginning to wane._

_As the curtain rises, James Madden is sitting behind the table in the center of the room. He is a rather small man of thirty-five, his hair just beginning to turn gray at the temples. Spectacles, a peering manner, and the sallow pallor of his face all suggest the man of a sedentary mode of life. His clothes are faded and of a poor cut, but brushed and neat. There is something ineffectual but distinctly appealing about the little man. Madden is working on a pile of bills which are strewn over the top of the table. He picks up a bill, looks at it, and draws in his under lip with an expression of dismay. He writes down the amount of the bill on a piece of paper, below six or seven other rows of figures. He looks at another bill, and his expression becomes even more distracted._]

MADDEN [_with exasperation_]. Oh!

[_He brings his fist down on the table with a limp whack, then turns and looks helplessly toward the door at the left. After a moment this door starts to open. Madden turns quickly to the front, trying to compose his face and busying himself with the bills. The door continues to open, and Mrs. Madden now issues from it lazily. She is thirty-two years old, and a good half head taller than her husband. Where he is thin and bony, she has already begun to lose her figure. Her yellow hair, the color of molasses kisses, is at once greasy and untidy, and seems ready to come to pieces. Her face is beginning to lose its contour--the uninspired face of a lower middle-class woman who has once been pretty in a rather cheap way. She is sloppily dressed in showy purple silk. Her skirt is short, and she wears brand new, high, shiny, mahogany-colored boots. She has powdered her nose._]

MRS. MADDEN [_uninterestedly, in a slow, flat, nasal voice_]. How long y' been home? Yer pretty late f'r Sat'rdy.

MADDEN [_still looking down and trying to control his feelings_]. The head bookkeeper kept me, checkin' up the mill pay roll. I been here [_consulting his watch_] just seven minutes.

MRS. MADDEN [_yawning_]. Thanks. Yer s' darn acc'rate, Jim. I didn' really wanta know.

[_He looks at another bill and writes down the amount on the same piece of paper as before, keeping his head averted so that she may not see his face._]

MRS. MADDEN. Jim. [_With lazy self-satisfaction._] Look up an' glimpse yer wifey in 'r new boots. [_She draws up her skirts sufficiently to show the boots._]

[_He looks up unwillingly and makes a movement of exasperation._]

MADDEN. Oh, Florrie!

MRS. MADDEN. W'at's a matter? Don'choo like 'em?

MADDEN. You didn't need another pair, Florrie.

MRS. MADDEN [_on the defensive_]. Y' wouldn' have me look worse 'n one o' these furriners, would y'? There's Mrs. Montanio nex' door; she's jus' got a pair o' mahogany ones an' a pair o' lemon colored ones. An' _her_ husban's on'y a "slasher."

MADDEN. Slashers get a big sight more pay than under bookkeepers these days, Florrie.

MRS. MADDEN [_persuasively_]. Got 'em at a bargain, anyways. Jus' think, Jim. On'y twelve, an' they _was_ sixteen. [_Madden groans audibly. She changes the subject hastily._] W'at's a news down town?

MADDEN [_seriously_]. Florrie-- [_He hesitates and then seems to change his mind. He relaxes and speaks wearily, trying to affect an off-hand manner._] Nothin' much. [_Struck by an unpleasant recollection._] Comin' home by Market Wharf I saw 'em pull a woman out o' the river.

MRS. MADDEN [_interested_]. Y' don' say, Jim. Was she dead?

MADDEN [_nervously_]. I ... I don't know. I didn't stop. [_He passes his hand across his face with a sudden gesture of horror._] You know, Florrie, I hate things like that!

MRS. MADDEN. Well--y' poor boob! Not t' find out if she was dead!

[_She gives an impatient shrug of the shoulders and passes behind him, going over to the back window and looking out aimlessly. Madden picks up another bill, regarding it malevolently. After a moment she turns carelessly toward him._]

MRS. MADDEN. Jim. [_He does not look up._] Say, Jim. I'm awful tired o' cookin'. There ain't a thing t' eat in th' house. Le's go down t' Horseman's f'r a lobster supper t'night, an' then take in a real show. Mrs. Montanio's tol' me--

MADDEN [_interrupting very gravely_]. Florrie. [_He rises to his feet._]

MRS. MADDEN [_continuing without a pause_]. There's an awful comical show down t' th' Hyperion. Regal'r scream, they say. Mrs. Montanio--

MADDEN [_breaking in_]. Florrie, there's somethin' I got to say to you.

MRS. MADDEN [_a little sulky_]. I got lots I'd like t' say t' _you_. On'y I ain't sayin' it.

MADDEN [_more quietly_]. I wasn't goin' to say it now ... not 'till I finished goin' through these. [_He makes a gesture toward the bills._] But when I saw your new shoes, an' specially when you spoke o' goin' out to-night....

MRS. MADDEN. Well, why shouldn' I? I got t' have _some_ fun.

MADDEN [_keeping his self-control_]. Look here, Florrie. D'you know what I was doin' when you came in?

MRS. MADDEN. I didn't notice. Figgerin' somethin', I s'pose. Y' always are.

MADDEN. This mornin' at the office I got called to the phone. The Excelsior Shoe Comp'ny said you cashed a check there yesterday for fifteen dollars. Said you bought a pair o' shoes ... those, I suppose [_He looks at her feet. She turns away sulkily._] ... an' had some money left over. Check came back to 'em this mornin' from the bank.--"No funds."

MRS. MADDEN [_with righteous but lazy indignation_]. How'd I know there wasn't no money in th' bank?

MADDEN. If you kept your check book up to date you'd know.

MRS. MADDEN. W'at right they got not t' cash my check?

MADDEN [_still controlling himself_]. The bank don't let you overdraw any more. [_He glances back at the bills._] D'you know, I'm wonderin' why you didn't charge those boots.

MRS. MADDEN. I ain't got any account at th' Excelsior.

MADDEN. I guess it's the only place in town you haven't got one.--You don't seem to remember what salary I get.

MRS. MADDEN. Sure--I know. Ninety-five a month. Y' know mighty well I'm ashamed o' you f'r not gettin' more. Mrs. Montanio's husban'--

MADDEN [_breaking in_]. Hang the Montanios! [_More quietly._] Don't you see what I'm gettin' at? Here it is the twelfth o' December; you know my pay don't come in till the end o' the month; an' here you go an' draw all our money out o' the bank ... an' more. [_Turning toward the table._] An' _look_ at these bills!

MRS. MADDEN. James Madden, I like t' know w'at right you got t' talk t' me like that.

MADDEN [_thoughtfully_]. I've always argued it's the woman's job to run the house. [_He walks around the table from front to rear, passing to its left, and looking down at the bills. With conviction._] It's no use!--I don't just see how we're goin' to get out of this mess; but I do know one thing. [_Advancing toward her from the rear of the table._] After this _I'm_ goin' to spend our money, even if I have to buy your dresses.

MRS. MADDEN [_with rising anger_]. If you say I've been extrav'gant, James Madden, yer a plain liar!

MADDEN [_biting his lip and stepping back a pace_]. Easy, Florrie!--I know you don't mean that, or--

MRS. MADDEN [_interrupting viciously_]. I do!

MADDEN [_persuasively_]. Look here, Florrie. We got to work this out together. There's no use gettin' mad. Prob'ly you aren't extravagant--really. Just considerin' the size o' my salary.

MRS. MADDEN. A pig couldn' live decent on _your_ salary!

MADDEN. Other folks seem to get on, even in these times. What would you do if we had kids?

MRS. MADDEN. Thank the Lord we ain't got _them_ t' think about.

MADDEN [_shocked_]. Florence!

MRS. MADDEN. Well, I guess anybody'd be glad not t' have kids with _you_ f'r a husban'. Y' don't earn enough money t' keep a cat--let alone kids! An' jus' t' think they'd be like you!

MADDEN [_more surprised than angry_]. Florence--you're talking like a street woman.

MRS. MADDEN. Oh, I am, am I? Well, I guess you treat me like a street woman. Y' don' deserve t' have a wife.

MADDEN. Well, I don't guess I do. Not one like you!

MRS. MADDEN. That's right! That's right! You don' know how t' treat a lady.

MADDEN [_controlling himself_]. Look here, Florrie. Don't let's get all het up over this.

MRS. MADDEN. Who's gettin' het up? [_Bursting past him toward the door at the left._] I wish t' God you was a gen'leman!

MADDEN. Florrie--_don't_!

MRS. MADDEN [_turning on him from the other side of the table_]. W'y don't y' go out an' dig in th' ditch? Y'd earn a damn sight more money th'n--

MADDEN [_with angry impatience_]. You _know_ I'm not strong enough.

MRS. MADDEN. Bony little shrimp! Not even pep enough t' have kids!

MADDEN [_beside himself_]. Florence! [_Going toward her._] I'm goin' to tell you some things I never thought I would. You're just a plain, common, selfish, vulgar woman! You don't care one penny for anybody except yourself. You an' your clothes an' your movies an' your sodas an' your candy! [_Mrs. Madden is glowering at him across the table. She is beginning to weep with rage.--Two or three times she opens her mouth as if to speak, but each time he cuts her short._] Look at the way you been leavin' this house lately. [_He makes an inclusive gesture toward the room._] The four years I've lived with you would drive a saint to Hell! [_Mrs. Madden marches furiously by him and over to her hat and coat, which are hanging from pegs at the right, just in front of the stove._] I wish I'd never seen you!

MRS. MADDEN [_getting her coat and hat_]. D' y' think I'm goin' t' stay in this house t' be talked to like that? [_Putting on her hat viciously._] D' y' think I'm goin' t' stand that kind of a thing? [_Putting on her coat.--Sobbing angrily._] I guess ... you'll be ... pretty sorry when I've ... gone. [_Coming closer to him on her way to the outside door._] If ... if I _did_ somethin' ... if somethin' ... _happened_ t' me ... I guess you ... you wouldn't never ... f'give yerself! [_She is at the door._]

MADDEN. I don't worry about you. [_She turns on him at the door._] You wouldn't do anything like that. You're too _yellow_!

MRS. MADDEN [_at the door. Sobbing, in a fury_]. You'll ... see!

[_With one last glare at him, she turns, opens the door and goes outside, slamming the door behind her. Madden stares after her, almost beside himself. He takes several steps across the room, then crosses and recrosses it, trying to regain control of himself. Little by little his anger fades; the energy goes out of his pacing, and finally he approaches the table and sits down in his old place with a hopeless droop of the shoulders. He takes up another bill and looks at its amount helplessly, finally writing it down on the same piece of paper as before. He starts to add up the total of the bills he has already set down on the piece of paper. His hand moves mechanically. Suddenly a shadow crosses his face, as an idea begins to form itself in his mind. He looks straight ahead, his eyes opening wide with horror. With a sudden movement he springs up from the table and goes quickly to the window, where he looks out anxiously at the river. He turns back into the room, and passes his hand across his face with the same gesture of horror he used earlier in speaking to Mrs. Madden of the woman who had fallen into the river._]

MADDEN. Ugh!

[_He returns to the table, his face dark with the fear that has seized him. At the table, he stands a moment, thinking. Once again he passes his hand across his forehead with the same gesture of horrified fear. He drops into the chair behind the table, still thoughtful. After a moment his face clears, and he shakes his head with an expression of disbelief. He bends again over the bills, and once more takes up his work of going over them. From outside comes the faint sound of some one whistling "Tell Me." Gradually the whistle grows louder and louder, as if the whistler were coming nearer up the street. There is a sharp rap at the door. Madden starts violently, and, jumping up, he goes quickly to the door. He opens it eagerly and slumps with obvious disappointment as Edgar Mix enters breezily. Mix is about twenty-five; a loosely put together, thin faced youth in a new suit of readymade clothes which are of too blatant a pattern and much too extreme a cut to be in really good taste. He is whistling the refrain of "Tell Me."_]

MIX [_as he passes_]. H'llo, James. [_Without stopping for an answer, he crosses the room and starts to remove his hat and coat._] Where's the sister?

MADDEN [_he has closed the door. Dully._] She's gone out.

[_As if struck by an idea, Madden reopens the door and goes outside. He can be seen, looking first to the left, then to the right, and finally down at the river before him. Mix finishes taking off his outer garments, which he hangs with a flourish on pegs near the stove. He is still whistling the same refrain._]

MIX. W'at's a matter with you? Tryin' t' freeze me out? [_His voice has the same flat quality as his sister's, but it is full of energy._]

[_Madden does not appear to hear him. He now comes back into the house, shutting the door behind him. His face is anxious, a fact he tries to hide._]

MADDEN. Did you want to see Florence? [_Mix pauses in his whistling._]

MIX. Sure. Nothin' important, though. Just about a little party she said you an' she was goin' t' take me on t'night. [_He commences whistling cheerily the opening bars of his refrain._]

MADDEN [_dully_]. Sorry. I don't know anythin' about it.

[_Mix stops whistling suddenly and looks down with dismay. Then, with his hands in his pockets, he slowly whistles the four descending notes at the end of the third bar and the beginning of the fourth. He stops and shakes his head, then slowly whistles a few more bars of the refrain, starting where he just left off, and letting himself drop into the morris chair on the descending note in the fifth bar. After another brief silence he finishes the refrain, but with a sudden return of the same quick, light mood in which he entered. The refrain over, he begins again at the beginning and whistles two or three more bars. Madden has meanwhile sat down at the table and is again going over the bills._]

MIX. Jim--ever get a piece runnin' in yer head so y' can't get it out? [_Madden is looking vacantly down at the bills._] I s'pose I been w'istlin' that tune steady f'r three whole weeks. [_He whistles three or four more bars of the same refrain._] Like it? [_Madden does not appear to have heard him._] P'raps Florrie's got th' record f'r that on th' phornograph. Has she, Jim? It ain't been out long.

MADDEN [_impatiently_]. Oh, I don't know, Ed.

MIX [_after whistling very softly a bar or two more_]. I see some girl fell in the river.

MADDEN [_startled_]. What?

MIX. Yep. They was tryin' t' make her come to. No use. She was a goner all right.

MADDEN [_rising from his chair. Trying to control himself._] Where was this?

MIX. Oh, not s' far below here. Saw her m'self, I did.

MADDEN [_with increasing fear. Taking a step or two toward Mix._] Did you see her face?

MIX. Nope. Somethin' 'd struck her face. Y'd hardly know she was a woman, 'cept f'r her clothes.

MADDEN [_wildly. Coming closer_]. How long ago?

MIX. W'at y' gettin' s' het up about? [_Madden is almost frantic._] Oh ... 'bout 'n hour.

[_Madden relaxes suddenly. The reaction is almost too much for him. He slowly goes back to the table._]

MADDEN [_nervously_]. Oh ... down by Market Wharf?

MIX. Sure. Did y' see her? [_Madden sits down heavily._]

MADDEN. Uhuh.

[_For a second or two there is silence. Madden rearranges the bills in front of him. Mix lolls in the armchair, whistling very softly._]

MADDEN. Ed.

MIX. Uhuh.

MADDEN. Would you call Florrie a ... a ... well one o' them high-strung girls?

MIX. Gosh, no!

MADDEN. You don't think she'd be the sort to fly off the handle an' do ... well, somethin' desp'rate?

MIX. Come off. You know's well's I do, Florrie's nothin' but a big jelly fish.

MADDEN. Ed--I don't want you to talk that way about Florrie. You don't 'preciate her.

MIX. Well, w'at's bitin' _you_? W'at y' askin' all these questions f'r, anyways?

MADDEN [_dully_]. Oh, nothin'.

[_Madden looks down uneasily at the bills, but without giving them any real attention. Mix yawns and lazily shifts his position in the armchair._]

MADDEN. Ed--I do want to ask you somethin'.

MIX [_indifferently_]. Shoot.

MADDEN. I want you to tell the truth about this, Ed. Even if you think it will hurt my feelings. It won't.

MIX. Spit it out.

MADDEN. Just what sort of a chap do you think I am?

MIX [_considering_]. Huh! That's easy. D' y' really wanta know w'at I think?

MADDEN [_gravely_]. I cert'nly do.

MIX. Well--if you really wanta know, I think yer a damn good kid [_Madden looks suddenly grateful_] ... but a bit weak on th' pep.

MADDEN [_a trifle dubiously_]. Thanks. [_Thoughtfully._] You don't think I'm unfair?

MIX. Unfair? Why, no. How d' y' mean?

MADDEN. Well ... here in the house, f'r instance.

MIX. Lord, no, Jim! Yer s' easy goin' it'd be a holy shame f'r any one t' slip anythin' over on y'. [_After a short pause. Suspiciously._] W'at y' askin' all these questions f'r, anyways?

MADDEN. Oh--nothin'.

MIX [_struck with an idea.--Starting up from his chair_]. _I_ know w'at's bitin' you. You an' Florrie's had a row. [_He walks up to Madden and taps his arm familiarly with the back of his hand._] Come on. Own up! [_He passes around behind Madden until he stands behind the chair at the left of the table._]

MADDEN. Well ... we did have a ... a sort of a ... disagreement.

MIX. I bet y' did. Look here, Jim. W'at's a use o' takin' it s' hard?

MADDEN [_gravely_]. The trouble is----[_He breaks off_] I guess I was mostly in the wrong.

MIX [_sitting down vehemently_]. Tell that to a poodle! I know you an' I know Florrie. I guess I know who'd be in the wrong, all right. She was bad enough w'en y' firs' got sweet on 'r--jus' a lazy fool, ev'n if she did have a pretty face. Gee, how you did fall f'r her face! Moonin' round an' sayin' how _wonderful_ she was! [_He chuckles._] An' Florrie twenty-eight years old ... an' jus' waitin' t' fall into yer arms.

MADDEN. Ed--don't say things like that, even in fun.

MIX. Hell! It's the truth.... But lately Florrie's jus' plain slumped. She's nothin' now but a selfish, lazy pig.

MADDEN [_angrily_]. I won't have you talk that way about Florrie. She's made me a good wife ... on the whole. She don't go trapesin' off like some o' your fly by nights. She's affection'te ... an' good tempered ... an'----[_Mix is grinning incredulously._]

MIX. Rats! Yer havin' a damn hard time t' say anythin' real nice about 'r. I wouldn' stretch th' truth s' far 's _that_ [_snapping his fingers._] f'r her, ev'n if she is m' sister.

MADDEN [_vehemently_]. Ed--if you can't talk decently about a nice girl like Florrie, I guess you better get out.

MIX [_slowly rising from his chair_]. Well I'll be damned! All right, I _will_ go.... Yer crazy, Jim!

MADDEN [_rising and putting a restraining arm on Mix's shoulder. Nervously_]. Don't mind me, Ed. I didn't really mean what I said. I'm all upset.

MIX. Sh'd think y' were. [_After a slight hesitation, he sits down again._] W'at y' quarrelin' 'bout? Money?

MADDEN [_sitting down again_]. Uhuh.

MIX. Huh! Thought as much.... As I was sayin', I know Florrie.

MADDEN. It really wasn't her fault.

MIX [_slowly and emphatically_]. Well, you are sappy. Ever'body knows Florrie spends more money th'n you an' all my family put t'gether.

MADDEN. You wouldn't have me deny her _ev'rythin'_?... She's got to have _some_ fun.

MIX. But, Lord, man, y' don't earn th' income of a John D. Rockefeller.

MADDEN [_somberly_]. I know.... I ought to do much better. But that isn't _her_ fault. Besides, she's learned her lesson.

MIX. Well, I'll be damned! T' hear you talk this way. O' course, y' kep' yer mouth pretty well shut. But we all figgered you was havin' th' devil's own time with Florrie!

MADDEN [_rising from his seat. With deep feeling_]. Ed----[_He turns and goes over to the window, looks out and then faces around_]. I never knew ... till just now ... how fond I was of her.

[_Mix regards him with a puzzled expression. Madden begins to walk up and down the floor, at first slowly and thoughtfully, then more and more nervously. The light outside begins to fade._]

MIX [_after a pause. Looking up at Madden_]. Jim. Y' never c'n tell w'at these women 're goin' t' do--can yer?

MADDEN [_stopping abruptly. Intensely_]. I s'pose not, Ed. [_He goes on a few steps and then stops again._] Even ... even when they're not ... high strung.

[_Madden continues his nervous pacing of the floor. Mix watches him with increasing annoyance._]

MADDEN [_suddenly_]. Was that a footstep?

[_Mix shakes his head. Madden goes quickly to the window and looks out. From there he rushes to the door and peers out, first to one side and then to the other. He shuts the door, and with a hopeless look on his face comes back into the room. Outside the light is steadily fading._]

MIX [_slowly rising from his chair, a look of still greater annoyance on his face_]. I guess Florrie ain't comin' f'r some time. I'll be goin'. [_He goes over toward his coat and hat._]

MADDEN [_nervously_]. Why don't you drop into Smith's soda parlor? That's where she always is, this time o' the afternoon.

MIX. She ain't there, I don't guess.... I jus' come from there m'self.

MADDEN [_intensely_]. You did?

MIX. Sure.

MADDEN [_wildly_]. Ed--I can't stand this waitin' f'r her any more. [_He goes quickly and gets his hat and coat from a peg near the stove._] I'm goin' out.

[_Madden goes swiftly across the room to the door at the back and goes out. He is seen to pass outside in front of the back window. Mix takes a few involuntary steps after him toward the door, then stops and gives a low whistle of astonishment. After a moment he turns and starts back toward his hat and coat._]

MIX [_half aloud_]. Poor ol' Jim.

[_He gets his hat and coat, and puts them on. In the course of a few seconds the reflective look has gone from his face; he begins to whistle softly the same refrain as before. From his pocket he produces a cigarette, which he places in his mouth. He is preparing to light it when a thought strikes him. He goes quickly over to the phonograph and, bending down, takes a record and examines it. It has become so dark that he is unable to read the title; so he lights the neighboring gas jet. He then examines two or three records in quick succession, finally producing one which causes a smile to spread over his face._]

MIX. Ah!

[_He places his find on the phonograph, winds the machine, and starts his record playing. The tune is the same one he has been whistling the whole afternoon. With an expression of great pleasure he hears the record start, at the same time producing a huge nickel watch from his pocket and glancing at it casually. As he sees the time, his whole expression changes._]

MIX [_throwing his cigarette impatiently on the floor_]. Hell!

[_He stops the phonograph and tilts back the playing arm. He buttons up his overcoat, turns up his collar and adjusts his hat. Then, his whistle suddenly breaking out again loudly into his favorite refrain, he marches quickly across the room to the door at the back, and goes out. He is seen to pass by the window, and his whistling is heard to die away gradually down the street._

_Stillness has hardly fallen when the door at the back opens, and Mrs. Madden enters. She appears a trifle chilly, but seems otherwise to have recovered her composure. Closing the door behind her, she comes forward lazily to the table. She looks down at the piles of bills before her with a perfectly vacant stare, and taking from her pocket a pound box of candy she tosses it down on the papers. She opens the cover and extracts a large chocolate cream, which she eats indolently and with evident pleasure. Next, she removes her hat and coat, throwing them carelessly on the table beside the candy. She walks, with a lazy, flat-footed step, over to the gas jet at the right, and turns up the gas sufficiently for reading. Looking down, she notices the record left on the phonograph._]

MRS. MADDEN [_with slow pleasure_]. Hm!

[_Without bothering to find out whether or not the phonograph is wound up, she starts it going and places the playing arm with apparent carelessness so that the record begins playing about a third of the way through. She listens to the music for three or four seconds with an expression of indolent appreciation, then she crosses the floor to the door at the left, always moving with the same flat-footed walk. Opening the door, she peers through it._]

MRS. MADDEN [_calling, her flat voice rising above the sound of the phonograph_]. Oh Ji--im!

[_She listens a moment for an answer; but as there is none, she closes the door and turns around. Once again the music catches and holds her attention. She listens for an instant and then goes back to the table, making a heavy attempt at a dance step or two. From the pocket of her overcoat she extracts a new cheap novel, whose content is well advertised by a lurid colored cover. This she takes over to the morris chair. Another thought strikes her; she tosses the novel into the chair and goes back to the table, where she gets five or six chocolate creams from the candy box, depositing them in a row on the right arm of the morris chair. Then she takes up her book and sits down. For a moment she tries to read, but all is not comfortable yet. She changes her position two or three times in the chair. At last she rises, heaving a disgusted sigh. Dropping her book into the chair she walks with flat, heavy steps across the room and out of the door at the left, leaving it open. She returns almost instantly, dragging two greasy looking sofa pillows after her. She kicks the door to, and crosses to the morris chair. Here she places one of the pillows on the ground for her feet, the other at the back of the chair. Picking up her book once more, she settles back into the chair with an expression of perfect animal contentment. She puts another chocolate cream in her mouth, and finds her place in the book. Then the music again engages her attention; she leans back with a foolish smile on her face as she listens. Constantly chewing the piece of candy, she hums a bar or two of the tune which is still being played by the phonograph. Then she settles down to her reading, eating candy as she feels inclined. The phonograph reaches the end of the record and makes that annoying clicking noise which shows it should be shut off. For two or three seconds Mrs. Madden pays no attention to it. Finally she raises herself in the chair, and without getting up she reaches over and switches off the phonograph, then settles back again to her reading._

_Some one goes swiftly by the window outside. After a moment the door at the back opens, and Madden stands in the doorway._]

MADDEN [_in the doorway, catching sight of Mrs. Madden. With pathetic eagerness_]. _Florrie!_ [_He closes the door._]

MRS. MADDEN [_without looking up. In lazy, matter of fact tones_]. 'Lo, Jim.

MADDEN [_coming forward toward his wife_]. Are you _really_ safe, Florrie?

[_She looks up with a glance of feeble annoyance._]

MRS. MADDEN. Sure. I'm all right. [_She looks down again._]

MADDEN [_coming still closer_]. Oh, I'm so _thankful_!... I ... I been lookin' for you, Florrie.--Where you been?

MRS. MADDEN [_without looking up_]. Wat d' y' say?

MADDEN. Where you been, Florrie? [_With even greater anxiety._] You didn't go down by the river?

MRS. MADDEN [_looking up_]. Lord no! W'atev'r made y' think that? [_She takes up a chocolate cream and bites off half of it._] I jus' took Mrs. Montanio over t' Brailey's new place f'r a couple o' ice cream sodas. [_She looks down again._]

MADDEN [_softly_]. Oh. [_A shadow passes over his face and vanishes._] Florrie. [_He sits down on the left arm of the morris chair and puts his arm affectionately about her shoulders._] I didn't know what I was sayin'.

MRS. MADDEN [_puzzled. Without looking up_]. W'at y' talkin' 'bout?

MADDEN [_pathetically_]. I guess I ought not to ask you to forgive me.

MRS. MADDEN [_looking up_]. F'give y'? [_Remembering._] Oh, yes--y' _did_ call me some darn hard names.

MADDEN. I know. [_Slowly. Looking into her face._] D' you think you _could_ forgive me?

MRS. MADDEN [_lazily_]. Sure. I guess so. Glad t' see y' got over yer pet.

[_He smiles a pathetic, eager smile, and takes her left hand, which is lying in her lap. With an impatient movement, she stretches her left arm out and back, carrying his left hand with it and forcing him off the arm of the chair._]

MRS. MADDEN. Say, Jim--look w'at's on th' table.

[_Madden sighs softly and takes a few steps toward the table. He sees the candy box; a darker shadow appears on his face for a second or two, and is gone._]

MRS. MADDEN. Have a chocklick, Jim.

[_She herself picks one up from the arm of the chair; then she looks down again at her book, eating the candy as she reads._]

MADDEN [_unheeding.--Taking a step or two back toward her from the table. With deep feeling_]. Florrie. I got somethin' I want to tell you. [_She does not look up. He takes another step toward her._] After you'd gone out, I kept thinkin' ... thinkin' what mighta happened to you.

MRS. MADDEN [_with a short chuckle_]. Y' poor boob!

MADDEN. Florrie--look at me. [_She looks up with an expression of lazy annoyance._] Out there--[_He gestures toward the door_] the river looked so cold an' black--An' I couldn't find you-- ... I knew all of a sudden I ... I hadn't really meant what I said to you.

MRS. MADDEN [_impatiently_]. That's all right. [_She looks down again at her book._]

MADDEN [_with increasing emotion. Going to the arm chair and looking down at her tenderly from behind it_]. I kept thinkin' ... thinkin' how pretty an' how ... how good natured you are. [_With some embarrassment._] I thought how we used to walk ... down by the river. Four years ago ... you know--just before we was married.

MRS. MADDEN [_with growing annoyance_]. Don' choo want 'nuther choclick, Jim?

MADDEN [_unheeding_]. Florrie--d'you remember that time ... the first time you let me hold your hand?

MRS. MADDEN [_looking up impatiently_]. W'at's bitin' you? Don't y' see I'm readin'? [_He steps back and to the left a pace or two. She looks down again._]

MADDEN [_humbly_]. Scuse me, Florrie. I just wanted to tell you. [_With great earnestness._] You know, I'd forgotten.... I mean I didn't realize ... till just now--[_Awkwardly._] how fond ... how much I ... I love you.

MRS. MADDEN [_thickly, through a chocolate cream which she is eating. Without looking up._] Tha's ... nice.

[_He looks at her pathetically, waiting, hoping that she will look up. His face is intense with longing. After a short interval he gives it up. He turns sadly and goes toward the door at the left, passing in back of the table._]

MRS. MADDEN [_taking another chocolate and looking after him. He has almost reached the door_]. Jim. [_He stops and turns eagerly._] You ain't such a bad ol' boy. [_His face is suddenly radiant. He takes several steps back toward her, bringing him behind the table. She has looked down at her book again. Coaxingly._] Goin' t' take me t' Horseman's t'night f'r lobster?

[_All the eagerness, the radiance, vanishes from his face.--He sits down heavily in the chair behind the table. He looks at her, uncomprehending, hurt, disillusionized._]

MRS. MADDEN [_without looking up_]. An' say--[_She puts another chocolate in her mouth. Speaking through it thickly._] I'm jus' _dyin'_ t' see a real ... comical ... show.

[_Madden's head droops. He looks at his wife dumbly, then back at the table. His left hand goes out toward the bills; then he drops both elbows limply on the table, resting his weight on them. Mrs. Madden does not look up, but continues to read and munch a chocolate cream. Madden stares in front of him miserably, hopelessly as_

_The Curtain Falls._]

MANSIONS

A PLAY

BY HILDEGARDE FLANNER

Copyright, 1920, by Hildegarde Flanner. All rights reserved.

CHARACTERS

HARRIET WILDE. LYDIA WILDE [_her niece_]. JOE WILDE [_her nephew_].

TIME: _Yesterday_.

MANSIONS is an original play. The editors are indebted to Mr. Sam Hume for permission to include it in this volume. Applications for permission to produce this play must be made to Frank Shay, care Stewart & Kidd Company, Cincinnati, Ohio.

MANSIONS

A PLAY BY HILDEGARDE FLANNER

[_In a small town on the southern border of a Middle-Western state, stands an old brick house. The town is sufficiently near the Mason and Dixon line to gather about its ankles the rustle of ancient petticoats of family pride and to step softly lest the delicate sounds should be lost in a too noisy world. Even this old brick house seems reticent of the present, and gazing aloofly from its arched windows, barely suffers the main street to run past its gate. Many of the blinds are drawn, as if the dwelling and its inhabitants preferred to hug to themselves the old strength of the past rather than to admit the untried things of the present._

_The scene of the play is laid in the living-room. At the back is a wide door leading into the hallway beyond. At the left are French doors opening upon steps which might descend into the garden. At the right side of the room, and opposite the French doors, is a marble fireplace, while on either side of the fireplace and a little distant from it, is a tall window. To the left of the main door is a lounge upholstered in dark flowered tapestry, and to the right of the door is a mahogany secretary. Before the secretary and away from the hearth, an old-fashioned grand piano is placed diagonally, so that any one seated at the instrument would be partially facing the audience. To the left of the French doors is a lyre table, on which stands a bowl of flowers. Above the rear door hangs the portrait of a man._

_When the curtain rises Harriet Wilde is discovered standing precisely in the middle of her great-grandfather's carpet which is precisely in the middle of the floor. To Harriet, ancestors are a passion, the future an imposition. Added to this, she is in her way, intelligent. Therefore even before she speaks, you who are observant know that she is a formidable person. Her voice is low, even, and--what is the adjective? Christian. Yes, Harriet is a good woman. But don't let that mislead you._]

HARRIET [_calling_]. Lydia!

[_Lydia comes into the room from the garden. In fact, she has been coming and going for more than fifteen years at the word of her aunt, although she is now twenty-seven. Her hands appear sensitive and in some way, deprived and restless. She is dressed in a slim black gown which could be worn gracefully by no one else, although Lydia is not aware of this fact. In one hand she carries a pair of garden shears with handles painted scarlet; in the other, a bright spray of portulaca; while over her wrist is slung a garden hat. During their conversation Lydia moves fitfully about the room. Her manner changes from bitter drollery to a lonely timidness and from timidness to something akin to sulkiness. Harriet, whether seated or standing, gives the impression of having been for a long hour with dignity in the same position. She has no sympathy for Lydia nor any understanding of her. There is a wall of mistrust between the two. Both stoop to pick up stones, not to throw, but to build the wall even higher. Lydia employs by turns an attitude of cheerful cynicism and one of indifference, both planned to annoy her aunt, though without real malice. But this has become a habit._]

HARRIET. What are you doing, Lydia?

LYDIA. I had been trimming the rose hedge along the south garden, Aunt Harriet.

HARRIET. But surely you can find something better to do than that, my dear. [_She cannot help calling people "my dear." It is because she is so superior._] Some one might see in if you trim it too much. We want a bit of privacy in these inquisitive times.

LYDIA. The young plants on the edge of the walk needed sun.

HARRIET. Move the young plants. Don't sacrifice the rose hedge. [_Pausing as she straightens the candle in an old brass candlestick on the mantel._] I--it seems to me that the furniture has been disarranged.

LYDIA. I was changing it a little this morning.

HARRIET. May I ask why?

LYDIA [_eagerly_]. Oh, just--just to be changing. Don't you think it is an improvement?

HARRIET [_coldly_]. It does very well. But I prefer it as it was. You know yourself that this room has never been changed since your grandfather died. [_Piously._] And as long as I am mistress in this house, it shall remain exactly as he liked it.

[_Lydia looks spitefully at the portrait over the rear door._]

HARRIET [_stepping to the window to the left of the fire-place and lowering the curtain to the middle of the frame._] The court house will be done before your brother is well enough to come downstairs, Lydia. How astonished he will be to see it completed.

LYDIA. Yes. But he would much rather watch while it is being done.

HARRIET. Well naturally. But from upstairs you can't see through the leaves of the maple tree. Why, Lydia, there isn't another tree for miles around with such marvelous foliage. Great-grandfather Wilde did not know, when he set out a sapling, that the county court house was to be built--almost in its very shadow.

LYDIA. You always did admire any kind of a family tree.

HARRIET [_as if speaking to an unruly child_]. If Great-grandfather Wilde heard you say that--

LYDIA [_with a sudden flash of spirit which dies almost before she ceases to speak_]. If Great-grandfather Wilde heard me say that. It may be he would have the excellent sense to come back and chop off a limb or two, so that Joe could have sunlight in that little dark room up there, and see out.

HARRIET [_lifting her left hand and letting it sink upon her knee with the air of one who has suffered much, but can suffer more_]. Lydia, my dear child, I am not responsible for your disposition this lovely morning. Moreover, this is a fruitless--

LYDIA. Fruitless, fruitless! _Why_ couldn't he have planted an apple tree? [_Throwing her head back slightly._] With blossoms in the spring and fruit in the summer--

HARRIET. I beg your pardon?

LYDIA [_wearily_]. With blossoms in the spring and fruit in the summer. [_Slowly and gazing toward the window._] Sounds rather pretty, doesn't it?

HARRIET [_unsympathetically_]. I do not understand what you are talking about.

LYDIA [_shortly_]. No.

HARRIET. It is always a source of sorrow to me, Lydia, that you show so little pride in any of the really noble men in the Wilde family.

LYDIA. I never knew them.

HARRIET. But you could at least reverence what I tell you.

LYDIA [_cheerfully_]. Well, I do think great-great-grandfather must have been a gay old person.

HARRIET. Gay old person!

LYDIA. Yes. The portulaca blooms so brightly on his grave. It's really not bad, having your family buried in the front yard, if its dust inspires a flower like this.

HARRIET. I don't see why you insist upon picking those. They wilt immediately.

LYDIA [_looking appealingly at her aunt_]. Oh, but they're so bright and gay! I can't keep my hands from them.

HARRIET [_scornfully smoothing her lace cuff_]. Really?

LYDIA [_for the moment a trifle lonely_]. Aunt Harriet, tell me why these dead old men mean so much to you?

HARRIET [_breathlessly_]. Dead--old--men--? Why, Lydia? The Wildes came up from Virginia and were among the very first pioneers, in this section. They practically made this town and there is no better known name here in the southern part of the state than ours. We--

LYDIA. Oh, yes. Of course, I've heard all that ever since I can remember. [_Assuming an attitude of pride._] We have the oldest and most aristocratic-looking house for miles around; the rose-hedge has bloomed for fifty years--it's very nearly dead, too; General Someone drank out of our well, or General Some-One-Else drowned in it, I always forget which.

HARRIET. Lydia!

LYDIA [_soothingly_]. Oh, it doesn't make much difference which. That doesn't worry me. But what does, is how you manage to put a halo around all your fathers and grandfathers and--

HARRIET [_piously_]. Because they represent the noble traditions of a noble past.

LYDIA. What about the noble present?

HARRIET [_looking vaguely about the room_]. I have not seen it.

LYDIA [_bitterly_]. No, you have not seen it. [_Turning to go._]

HARRIET. Just one moment, Lydia. I want to speak to you about your brother.

LYDIA [_quickly_]. Did the doctor say that Joe is worse?

HARRIET. No. In fact, the doctor won't tell me anything. He and Joe seem to have a secret. I can get nothing definite from the doctor at all. But what I feel it my duty to ask you, Lydia, is this: Tell me truthfully. Have you been speaking to Joe about--Heaven?

LYDIA. No. What a dreadful thing to even mention to a sick boy.

HARRIET. My dear, you are quite wrong. But some one has been misinforming him.

LYDIA. Really?

HARRIET. Lydia, I am very distressed. [_Slowly._] Your young brother holds the most unusual and sacrilegious ideas of immortality.

LYDIA [_indifferently_]. So?

HARRIET. No member of the Wilde family has ever held such ideas. It is quite irregular.

LYDIA. What does he think?

HARRIET. I don't know that I can tell you clearly. It is all so distasteful to me. But he declares--even in contradiction to my explanation--that after death we continue our earthly occupations,--that is, our studies, our ambitions--

LYDIA. That is a wonderful idea.

HARRIET [_not noticing_]. That if we die before accomplishing anything on earth, we have a chance in the after-life to work. Work! Imagine! In fact he pictures Heaven as a place where people are--doing things.

LYDIA [_lifting her head and smiling_]. Oh, that is beautiful--I mean, what did you tell him?

HARRIET [_reverently_]. I explained very carefully that Heaven is peace, peace. That the first thing we do when a dear one dies, is to pray for the eternal rest of his soul.

LYDIA [_dully_]. Oh.

HARRIET. Yes, Lydia, I am glad to see that you share my distress. Why--he desecrates the conception of Heaven with workmen, artists, inventors, musicians--anything but angels.

LYDIA. Anything but angels. [_Smiles._] That is quite new, is it not? At least in this little town. Does Joe see himself building houses in Heaven?

HARRIET. That is the worst of it. Why, Lydia, even after I told him patiently that there were no such things as architects in Heaven, he still insists that if he dies, he is going to be one.

LYDIA [_startled_]. If he should die?

HARRIET [_decidedly_]. That is simply another foolish fancy. He has been confined so long, that he gets restless and imagines these strange things.

LYDIA. Poor Joe.

HARRIET. Don't sympathize with him, please. I can't possibly allow him to become an architect.

LYDIA. Why not?

HARRIET. When the men in our family have been clergymen for four generations?

LYDIA. Yes, but they're dead now.

HARRIET. All the more reason for continuing the tradition.

LYDIA. There isn't one bit of money in it.

HARRIET [_proudly_]. When was a Wilde ever slave to money?

LYDIA [_sulkily_]. Certainly not since my day, and for a very, very good reason.

HARRIET. Well, at least we have sufficient to send Joe to college--and as a divinity student. And some day we will hear him preach in the house of the Lord.

LYDIA. He would rather build houses himself.

HARRIET. Simply a boyish whim. He's too young to really have a mind of his own. [_Confidently._] He will do what I tell him to.

LYDIA. He is very nearly nineteen, Aunt Harriet. Didn't you have a mind of your own when you were nineteen?

HARRIET. Certainly not. Yes, of course.

[_Lydia laughs._]

HARRIET [_the hem of her skirt bellowing with dignity._] This is entirely different. If you can't be polite, Lydia, you might at least stop laughing.

LYDIA [_still laughing_]. Oh, no--oh, no--I take after my great-great-grandfather. I've just discovered it. At last I'm interested in the noble men of the Wilde family. I know he liked to laugh. Look at the pertness of that! [_Holding up the portulaca._]

HARRIET [_ignoring the flower_]. Please give me your sun-hat, Lydia.

LYDIA [_demurely_]. Oh, are you going to look at the portulaca?

HARRIET. No. I am going to see what you have done to the rose-hedge. [_Going out through the French door._]

LYDIA [_suddenly furious_]. Go look at your decrepit old rose-hedge! Go look at it! And I hope you get hurt on a thorn and bleed, yes, bleed--the way you make me bleed. I did cut a hole in it. I don't care who sees in--I want to see out! [_Looking toward the portrait and throwing the flowers on the floor._] Take your stupid flowers--take them. They don't do me any good. They're withering, they're withering!

[_She goes to lean against the window and look toward the court house. As she stands there, the door opens slowly and Joe, with blankets wrapped about him and trailing from his shoulders, comes unsteadily into the room. He carries paper and drawing materials. He is an eager boy, who seems always afraid of being overtaken. Lydia turns suddenly and starts toward the door. She stops in surprise as she sees her brother._]

LYDIA. Joe! My goodness! Whatever made you come downstairs? Aunt Harriet will be angry. Why this might be awfully dangerous for you, Joe. How did you come to do such a thing?

[_She helps him toward the lounge and arranges a cushion for him._]

JOE [_sinking back, but facing the window_]. I wanted to see how the court house was getting on. I can't see out of my window, you know.

LYDIA. Well, you see [_Raising the blind._] they will soon have it done.

JOE [_delightedly_]. Yes, won't they, though. Look at those white pillars! That's worth something, I tell you. I'm glad I saw it.

LYDIA. What do you mean?

JOE. Just what I said.

LYDIA. Yes, but, Joe--coming down stairs this way, when you have been really ill--

JOE. Oh, don't argue, Lydia. I have just been arguing with Aunt Harriet.

LYDIA. You'd better rest then. You will have to, anyway, before you go back to your room. I see you plan to draw.

JOE. Yes, I've been lazy for so long. It's driving me crazy, never doing anything. I thought I'd copy some Greek columns this morning. Could you give me a large book to work on?

LYDIA. I'll look for one. [_Hunting._] Joe, what were you and Aunt Harriet arguing about?

JOE. Oh, nothing.

LYDIA. Yes, I've heard her do that before. But won't you tell me?

JOE. It wasn't anything, Lydia.

LYDIA. Here is what you want.

[_She brings a large bound volume from the piano and places it upon his knees._]

JOE. Thank you. [_Settling himself to draw._] Where is she, by the way?

LYDIA. Out looking at the rose-hedge, where I cut a hole in it.

JOE. A hole in the sacred rose-hedge! Where did you suddenly get the courage? I've heard you talk about doing such things before, but you never really did them.

LYDIA [_timidly_]. I don't know, Joe, where I got my courage. I think it's leaving me, too.

[_She puts out her hand as if trying to detain some one._]

JOE [_cheerfully_]. Come stand by me. I have--I have a great deal of courage this morning.

[_Lydia stands behind Joe and looks over his shoulder._]

JOE [_turning to her affectionately_]. It's good I have you, Lydia. Aunt Harriet has a fit every time she sees me doing this.

LYDIA. Having them is part of her religion.

JOE. Well, this is mine. What is yours, Lydia? I don't believe I ever heard you say.

LYDIA [_shortly_]. I haven't any.

JOE. Sure enough?

LYDIA [_nodding, then speaking quite slowly_]. I never did anything for any one out of love, and I was never allowed to do anything I wanted to for joy. So I know that I have no religion.

JOE [_embarrassed_]. Never mind. Perhaps that will all come to you some day. [_Joe suddenly sits erect and looks first toward the French door and then toward the window._] I wonder what you will do when I go?

LYDIA [_following the direction of his gaze_]. Where?

JOE. Oh--to college.

LYDIA. Perhaps when you go to college I'll do something Aunt Harriet doesn't think is regular.

JOE. What will it be?

LYDIA. How can I know now? How should I want to know?

[_Joe looks over his shoulder toward the rear door of the room._]

LYDIA [_nervously_]. What do you see?

JOE. Nothing--nothing.

LYDIA. Then please stop looking at it.

JOE [_meeting her eyes for the fraction of a moment and then holding up the sheet of paper._] I am actually getting some form into this column. If I could only learn to design beautiful buildings--

[_He puts his hand to his side in sudden pain._]

LYDIA [_not noting his action_]. Why, of course you will some day.

JOE. I don't know. Sometimes I'm afraid I won't get the chance.

LYDIA. Oh, you'll be a man. You can ride over Aunt Harriet.

[_Joe looks at his copy and crumples it savagely. Suddenly he holds up his hand and listens._]

JOE. What was that bell?

LYDIA. I did not hear any.

JOE. I did.

LYDIA. It must have been the side door. Some one will answer it.

JOE. Do people often come by the side door?

LYDIA. Why, Joe, you know very well that the delivery boy always comes there.

JOE. Delivery?--I wonder--will it be delivery?

LYDIA. Joe, you're even odder than I am. Stop it. It doesn't do to have two in the family.

JOE [_laughing_]. Oh, just as you say. [_Looking at the book on his knee_.] What is this big book?

LYDIA. Music.

JOE [_opening the book_]. Why, it has your name in it.

LYDIA. It is my book.

JOE [_in surprise_]. Did you ever play the piano?

LYDIA [_turning aside_]. Yes.

JOE [_his face lighting up_]. Play something now, please.

LYDIA. That piano has been locked for fifteen years.

JOE. Ever since mother died and you and I came here to live?

LYDIA. Yes. Haven't you ever wondered why it was never open?

JOE. I certainly have. But Aunt Harriet always avoided the subject and I could never get you to say anything about it.

LYDIA. By the time I had tried it for two years, I knew better.

JOE. But why is it locked?

LYDIA. Because I neglected my duties. I played the piano when I should have been studying, and I played when I should have been hemming linen, and I played when I should have been learning psalms.

JOE. But surely when you grew older--when you were through school--

LYDIA. No. I lied to her once about it. She made me promise not to touch the piano, and left it open on purpose to see what I would do. And I played and she heard me. So when I denied it--[_Shrugging her shoulders._] You see, after that, to have let me go on, playing and undisciplined--why, it would have meant the loss of my soul. [_Very pleasantly._] It would have meant hell, at least, Joe dear, and I don't know what else. Aunt Harriet has always been so careful about what I learned.

JOE [_angrily_]. But surely you are old enough now to do what you want to! I'll ask her myself if--

LYDIA [_alarmed_]. Oh, no, Joe! Please, please don't do that. I should be frightened, really. It is a matter of religion with her.

JOE. And don't you know how to play any longer?

LYDIA. Yes, some. I sneak into the church when no one is there and play on that piano. [_She walks to the instrument, and sitting down before it, rubs her palms lovingly across the closed lid._] When you were away six months ago, this was opened to be tuned for those young cousins of hers who visited. They were lively young girls, and the first thing they did every morning was to go to the piano. They would have asked questions if it had been locked, and Aunt Harriet hates inquisitiveness like poison.

JOE. Where is the key?

LYDIA. I don't know where it is now. She has probably thrown it away. It would be just like her to do it. [_Changing her manner suddenly and rising._] Joe, wouldn't you like a cup of tea?

JOE [_earnestly_]. No, I wouldn't. Sit down, Lydia.

[_Lydia sits down again. Joe starts to speak, but stops to look about the room._]

LYDIA. Joe, what are you looking for?

JOE [_slowly and reluctantly_]. I can't get over the feeling that I am expecting some one.

LYDIA. Who is it?

JOE [_evasively_]. I don't know. Some one I never saw before.

LYDIA [_laughing_]. An unknown visitor knocks before he comes in the door.

JOE. I'm not sure that this one will.

[_He closes his eyes wearily and puts his palms before them._]

LYDIA [_gently_]. Joe, you're tired. Please go upstairs.

JOE. Not quite yet. [_Eagerly._] Lydia, you know what Aunt Harriet and I were arguing about. I saw it in your eyes.

LYDIA. Of course. It's a beautiful idea.

JOE [_excitedly_]. Then you think I'm right.

LYDIA [_looking at the piano_]. I hope to Heaven you are.

JOE [_pleading_]. Then do something for me, Lydia, please.

LYDIA. What?

JOE. I've been so worried lately to think--how awful it is if a person dies without accomplishing anything.

LYDIA. I wish you wouldn't talk like that.

JOE [_hastily_]. I wasn't speaking for myself. I meant, just generally, you know. But what I have been figuring out, is this--so long as you believe that you can go on working after you leave here, it's all right, isn't it?

LYDIA [_hesitant_]. Yes.

JOE [_thoughtfully and as though on unaccustomed ground_]. But when you first go over, you are rather weak--

LYDIA. You mean your soul?

JOE [_speaking hurriedly_]. Yes, that's it. And you mustn't be worried by grief or any force working against you from the people you've left behind.

LYDIA. Yes, I follow you. Where did you learn all this?

JOE. In a book at the library.

LYDIA [_uncertainly_]. I think I have heard of some theory--

JOE [_impatiently_]. I'm not bothering about theories. I haven't got time for them. In fact, I'd almost forgotten about the whole idea until the other day. Something the doctor told me set me thinking. He is really a splendid man, Lydia.

LYDIA [_indifferently_]. Yes, I've always thought so. But what is it you want me to do for you, Joe? Aunt Harriet may come in any moment.

JOE [_looking at Lydia very fixedly and speaking slowly_]. Just this. When I die, don't let Aunt Harriet pray for my soul.

LYDIA. Joe!

JOE. Yes, I mean it. She has a powerful mind. And she would pray for my eternal rest and I might not be strong enough to stand against her.

LYDIA [_starting toward the rear door_]. I won't listen to you any longer. It is wrong to talk and think about death.

JOE. Lydia, please! It means so much to me. Listen just one second. I know I'm not very good, but Aunt Harriet would be sure to try to make an angel out of me. And if I thought I had to sit on those everlasting gold steps and twang an everlasting gold harp forever and forever--Lydia, I'd go crazy, I'd go crazy!

[_His voice rises to a scream and he sinks back gasping._]

LYDIA [_rushing to his side_]. I promise anything. Only don't excite yourself this way. For Heaven's sake, Joe, be quiet.

JOE [_insisting_]. But don't let her pray. And make her give you the key to the piano, and you play something so I can go out in harmony.--Harmony--do you understand that, Lydia? Harmony. That's the word they used so often in the book. Do you promise surely?

LYDIA [_tearfully_]. Yes, but, Joe, you're not going to die. You're not! The doctor would have told us something about it.

JOE. Of course, I'm not going to. Not until I get good and ready. Don't be silly. But remember, when it does happen, you must not cry. That is very hard on souls that are just starting out.

LYDIA. I--I can see how it might be.

JOE. You won't forget to smile?

LYDIA. No.

JOE. But smile now, for practice.

LYDIA [_trying to smile, but failing_]. Oh, I can smile for you easily enough; but don't frighten me like that again.

JOE. I'll try not to.

LYDIA [_suddenly facing him_]. Do you expect Aunt Harriet to live as long as you do?

JOE [_with a second's hesitation_]. Yes, I'm quite sure she will. The Wildes have the habit of living long, you know.

LYDIA. But why shouldn't you live longer than she, since you are younger?

JOE. Oh, I don't know. I'd rather like to get ahead of her in something, though.

LYDIA. Well, you do believe in preparation. I can't see why you are being so beforehanded, but if it gives you any pleasure to scare me to death----

JOE. It certainly does, Lydia. And just one thing more, I want of you.

LYDIA. What?

JOE [_rather shyly_]. Take the Bible and read something to bind the promise. Just any verse.

LYDIA. This is becoming too solemn. I don't care for it.

[_She approaches the lyre table, upon which, of course, is a Bible, and opens the book._]

JOE. Then I'll be ready to go.

LYDIA [_looking at him sharply_]. Go?

JOE. Upstairs.

[_Lydia turns the leaves of the Bible._]

JOE. This will be our secret, Lydia. [_He leans forward and looks out the French door, then turns to her impatiently._] What are you waiting for?

LYDIA. Yes, Joe, our secret. Let me see. Mother was always very fond of John. [_Joe makes a movement of pain, which Lydia does not see._] Oh, I have the very thing to read you. How strange! It sounds like a prophecy for you.

JOE. Read it. [_Steps are heard in the garden. Joe looks up in alarm._] Who is that coming?

LYDIA. Only Aunt Harriet.

[_Harriet Wilde comes in through the French door._]

HARRIET. I managed, Lydia, to some extent, to repair the damage which you----[_Seeing Joe, she stops in surprise._] Actually, Joe downstairs! But I felt certain this morning, my dear, when you were arguing in that unheard-of fashion, that you must be better.

LYDIA [_hastily_]. I don't think it has hurt him to come down, Aunt Harriet.

HARRIET. On the contrary, I think it has done him good.

JOE. I should say it did, Aunt Harriet,--you don't know how much. [_Again he looks toward the rear door._]

HARRIET. What is it, Joe dear? Is the doctor coming again?

JOE. No, I hardly think the doctor will need to come again.

HARRIET. Why, how gratifying. I am so glad.

[_Joe closes his eyes wearily._]

LYDIA. Aunt Harriet, Joe was just about to go up to his room, but he asked me to read something to him from the Bible first. I opened to this passage. Won't you read it to him?

HARRIET. Yes, I will indeed. It gives me great happiness, Joe, to see you really showing a desire for the holy word of the Scripture.

[_Harriet takes the Bible from Lydia and stands in the light by the French door. She faces slightly away from Joe. Lydia walks to the rear door and stands directly beneath the portrait. She conceals a smile and looks expectantly toward her aunt._]

[_Reading_]: Let not your heart be troubled: ye believe in God, believe also in me. In my Father's house are many mansions: if it were not so, I would have told you. I----

JOE [_sitting erect and interrupting_]. Many mansions--many mansions--Lydia, Aunt Harriet--who said I couldn't build hou--houses--in----

[_He sinks back. Harriet does not look at him, but shuts the Bible with displeasure and moves forward to place it on the table._]

HARRIET [_coldly_]. That is positive sacrilege, Joe.

[_Lydia laughs triumphantly and steps to Joe's side, walking on her tip-toes and pretending to dance, pleased at her aunt's discomfiture._]

LYDIA [_stopping by Joe and bending over him_]. Didn't I say it was a prophecy?

[_Joe does not answer nor open his eyes. Lydia takes his hand and then drops it in fear._]

LYDIA. Aunt Harriet, come here quickly!

[_Harriet comes swiftly and stoops over Joe. She feels of his pulse and lays her hand against his heart._]

HARRIET. Joe, Joe!

LYDIA [_moving distractedly toward the door_]. I'll call the doctor.

HARRIET [_standing very straight and twisting her handkerchief_]. It will do no good, Lydia. Joe has gone. This is the way your father went and your grandfather--all the men in the Wilde family. But this is irregular. They never died so young.

[_Lydia covers her face with her hands._]

HARRIET. And he seems so well. Why didn't the doctor--Lydia! This was their secret--this is what they wouldn't tell me!

LYDIA. Secret? Which secret?

[_She looks at Joe and clasps her hands in anguish. Harriet kneels by the lounge and begins to pray._]

HARRIET. Dear Lord, I do beseech thee to grant peace and eternal rest to thy child come home to thee. Grant that he may forever sit in thy presence----

[_Lydia, slowly realizing what her aunt is saying, runs to her side and makes her rise._]

LYDIA. Stop that! Stop it, I say! You worried him enough when he was alive. Now that he's dead, let him do what he wants to.

HARRIET. Lydia! You have lost your senses. Be calm, be calm. [_Harriet crosses to the table and picks up the Bible._] Come. We will read a few verses and have faith that--

LYDIA [_snatching the Bible from her aunt_]. No you shan't! Let him alone. Oh, Joe, Joe, I'm trying. Be brave! You knew, all along. You were watching, you were expecting. Why didn't you tell me? [_Lydia looks from Joe to the piano and back to Joe. She composes herself and puts her hands on her aunt's shoulders._] Where is the key to the piano?

HARRIET [_horrified_]. You wouldn't touch the piano in the presence of death!

LYDIA. Where is the key?

HARRIET [_unable to fathom Lydia's strange demand_]. It is gone. I don't know where it is.

LYDIA. Don't you? Don't you? [_Sliding her hands toward her aunt's throat and turning toward Joe._] Be brave, Joe. [_Speaking to her aunt._] Then if the key is gone, I shall have to take the fire-tongs.

[_Lydia steps toward the fire-place._]

HARRIET. Lydia! Don't touch them! What are you about?

LYDIA [_coming again to her aunt and placing her hands on her shoulders_]. I want--that--key. And I want it quickly.

[_They look squarely into one another's eyes._]

HARRIET [_uncertainly_]. I can't give it to you now. I will never give it to you.

LYDIA. No? [_Almost breaking down._] Joe, why didn't you tell me? [_Walking toward the hearth._] Very well, Aunt Harriet.

HARRIET [_passing her hand over her eyes in terror_]. Wait! Look in that old vase on the mantel. No--the one that we never use--with the crack in it--

[_Lydia takes down the vase and tilts it. A key falls on the hearth with a ringing sound. She picks it up and quickly opens the piano._]

HARRIET. To think that this should happen in my house. Lord, what have I done to deserve it?

LYDIA [_seating herself at the piano_]. Joe, this sounds like wind blowing through willow trees. [_She plays softly._] Good-by, Joe, good-by, dear. Good luck!

HARRIET [_pulling down the blinds on either side of the fire-place_]. Lydia, have you no religion?

LYDIA [_controlling her agitation_]. Yes--I have.

HARRIET [_looking from Lydia to Joe_]. I can't understand. Joe, poor Joe.

LYDIA. Let not your heart be troubled.... [_Continuing to play._] I'm smiling, Joe. I'm laughing, Joe! Be strong....

[_Harriet is stupefied. She starts toward Lydia, but stops. She lifts the Bible from the table, but replaces it hastily, as Lydia looks across at her._]

LYDIA [_dreamily_]. In my Father's house are many mansions.

[_Harriet looks to the portrait above the door, as if for help._]

LYDIA. If it were not so--I would have told you--

[_And Lydia looks mystically out into space and continues to play while_

_The Curtain Falls._]

TRIFLES

A PLAY

BY SUSAN GLASPELL

Copyright, 1920, by Small, Maynard & Company. All rights reserved.

TRIFLES was first produced by the Provincetown Players, at the Wharf Theatre, Provincetown, Mass., on August 8th, 1916, with the following cast:

GEORGE HENDERSON _Robert Rogers_. HENRY PETERS _Robert Conville_. LEWIS HALE _George Cram Cook_. MRS. PETERS _Alice Hall_. MRS. HALE _Susan Glaspell_.

It was later produced by the Washington Square Players at the Comedy Theatre, New York City, on the night of November 15th, 1916, with the following cast:

GEORGE HENDERSON _T. W. Gibson_. HENRY PETERS _Arthur E. Hohl_. LEWIS HALE _John King_. MRS. PETERS _Marjorie Vonnegut_. MRS. HALE _Elinor M. Cox_.

Reprinted from "Plays" by Susan Glaspell, published by Small, Maynard & Company, by permission of Miss Susan Glaspell and Messrs. Small, Maynard & Company. The professional and amateur stage rights on this play are strictly reserved by the author. Applications for permission to produce this play must be made to Miss Susan Glaspell, care of Small, Maynard & Company, 41 Mt. Vernon Street, Boston, Mass.

TRIFLES

A PLAY BY SUSAN GLASPELL

[SCENE: _The kitchen in the now abandoned farm-house of John Wright, a gloomy kitchen, and left without having been put in order--unwashed pans under the sink, a loaf of bread outside the bread-box, a dish-towel on the table--other signs of incompleted work. At the rear the outer door opens and the Sheriff comes in followed by the County Attorney and Hale. The Sheriff and Hale are men in middle life, the County Attorney is a young man; all are much bundled up and go at once to the stove. They are followed by the two women--the Sheriff's wife first; she is a slight wiry woman, a thin nervous face. Mrs. Hale is larger and would ordinarily be called more comfortable looking, but she is disturbed now and looks fearfully about as she enters. The women have come in slowly, and stand close together near the door._]

COUNTY ATTORNEY [_rubbing his hands_]. This feels good. Come up to the fire, ladies.

MRS. PETERS [_after taking a step forward_]. I'm not--cold.

SHERIFF [_unbuttoning his overcoat and stepping away from the stove as if to mark the beginning of official business_]. Now, Mr. Hale, before we move things about, you explain to Mr. Henderson just what you saw when you came here yesterday morning.

COUNTY ATTORNEY. By the way, has anything been moved? Are things just as you left them yesterday?

SHERIFF [_looking about_]. It's just the same. When it dropped below zero last night I thought I'd better send Frank out this morning to make a fire for us--no use getting pneumonia with a big case on, but I told him not to touch anything except the stove--and you know Frank.

COUNTY ATTORNEY. Somebody should have been left here yesterday.

SHERIFF. Oh--yesterday. When I had to send Frank to Morris Center for that man who went crazy--I want you to know I had my hands full yesterday. I knew you could get back from Omaha by to-day and as long as I went over everything here myself--

COUNTY ATTORNEY. Well, Mr. Hale, tell just what happened when you came here yesterday morning.

HALE. Harry and I had started to town with a load of potatoes. We came along the road from my place and as I got here I said, "I'm going to see if I can't get John Wright to go in with me on a party telephone." I spoke to Wright about it once before and he put me off, saying folks talked too much anyway, and all he asked was peace and quiet--I guess you know about how much he talked himself; but I thought maybe if I went to the house and talked about it before his wife, though I said to Harry that I didn't know as what his wife wanted made much difference to John--

COUNTY ATTORNEY. Let's talk about that later, Mr. Hale. I do want to talk about that, but tell now just what happened when you got to the house.

HALE. I didn't hear or see anything; I knocked at the door, and still it was all quiet inside. I knew they must be up, it was past eight o'clock. So I knocked again, and I thought I heard somebody say "Come in." I wasn't sure, I'm not sure yet, but I opened the door--this door [_indicating the door by which the two women are still standing_] and there in that rocker--[_pointing to it_] sat Mrs. Wright.

[_They all look at the rocker._]

COUNTY ATTORNEY. What--was she doing?

HALE. She was rockin' back and forth. She had her apron in her hand and was kind of--pleating it.

COUNTY ATTORNEY. And how did she--look?

HALE. Well, she looked queer.

COUNTY ATTORNEY. How do you mean--queer?

HALE. Well, as if she didn't know what she was going to do next. And kind of done up.

COUNTY ATTORNEY. How did she seem to feel about your coming?

HALE. Why, I don't think she minded--one way or other. She didn't pay much attention. I said, "How do, Mrs. Wright, it's cold, ain't it?" And she said "Is it?"--and went on kind of pleating at her apron. Well, I was surprised; she didn't ask me to come up to the stove, or to set down, but just sat there, not even looking at me, so I said, "I want to see John." And then she--laughed. I guess you would call it a laugh. I thought of Harry and the team outside, so I said a little sharp: "Can't I see John?" "No," she says, kind o' dull like. "Ain't he home?" says I. "Yes," says she, "he's home." "Then why can't I see him?" I asked her, out of patience. "'Cause he's dead," says she. "_Dead_?" says I. She just nodded her head, not getting a bit excited, but rockin' back and forth. "Why--where is he?" says I, not knowing what to say. She just pointed upstairs--like that [_himself pointing to the room above_]. I got up, with the idea of going up there. I walked from there to here--then I says, "Why, what did he die of?" "He died of a rope round his neck," says she, and just went on pleatin' at her apron. Well, I went out and called Harry. I thought I might--need help. We went upstairs and there he was lyin'----

COUNTY ATTORNEY. I think I'd rather have you go into that upstairs, where you can point it all out. Just go on now with the rest of the story.

HALE. Well, my first thought was to get that rope off. It looked.... [_Stops, his face twitches._] ... but Harry, he went up to him, and he said, "No, he's dead all right, and we'd better not touch anything." So we went back down stairs. She was still sitting that same way. "Has anybody been notified?" I asked. "No," says he, unconcerned. "Who did this, Mrs. Wright?" said Harry. He said it business-like--and she stopped pleatin' of her apron. "I don't know," she says. "You don't _know_?" says Harry. "No," says she. "Weren't you sleepin' in the bed with him?" says Harry. "Yes," says she, "but I was on the inside." "Somebody slipped a rope round his neck and strangled him and you didn't wake up?" says Harry. "I didn't wake up," she said after him. We must 'a looked as if we didn't see how that could be, for after a minute she said, "I sleep sound." Harry was going to ask her more questions, but I said maybe we ought to let her tell her story first to the coroner, or the sheriff, so Harry went fast as he could to Rivers' place, where there's a telephone.

COUNTY ATTORNEY. And what did Mrs. Wright do when she knew that you had gone for the coroner?

HALE. She moved from that chair to this over here.... [_Pointing to a small chair in the corner._] ... and just sat there with her hands held together and looking down. I got a feeling that I ought to make some conversation, so I said I had come in to see if John wanted to put in a telephone, and at that she started to laugh, and then she stopped and looked at me--scared. [_The County Attorney, who has had his notebook out, makes a note._] I dunno, maybe it wasn't scared. I wouldn't like to say it was. Soon Harry got back, and then Dr. Lloyd came, and you, Mr. Peters, and so I guess that's all I know that you don't.

COUNTY ATTORNEY [_looking around_]. I guess we'll go upstairs first--and then out to the barn and around there. [_To the Sheriff._] You're convinced that there was nothing important here--nothing that would point to any motive?

SHERIFF. Nothing here but kitchen things.

[_The County Attorney, after again looking around the kitchen, opens the door of a cupboard closet. He gets up on a chair and looks on a shelf. Pulls his hand away, sticky._]

COUNTY ATTORNEY. Here's a nice mess.

[_The women draw nearer._]

MRS. PETERS [_to the other woman_]. Oh, her fruit; it did freeze. [_To the Lawyer._] She worried about that when it turned so cold. She said the fire'd go out and her jars would break.

SHERIFF. Well, can you beat the women! Held for murder and worryin' about her preserves.

COUNTY ATTORNEY. I guess before we're through she may have something more serious than preserves to worry about.

HALE. Well, women are used to worrying over trifles.

[_The two women move a little closer together._]

COUNTY ATTORNEY [_with the gallantry of a young politician_]. And yet, for all their worries, what would we do without the ladies? [_The women do not unbend. He goes to the sink, takes a dipperful of water from the pail and pouring it into a basin, washes his hands. Starts to wipe them on the roller-towel, turns it for a cleaner place._] Dirty towels! [_Kicks his foot against the pans under the sink._] Not much of a housekeeper, would you say, ladies?

MRS. HALE [_stiffly_]. There's a great deal of work to be done on a farm.

COUNTY ATTORNEY. To be sure. And yet.... [_With a little bow to her._] ... I know there are some Dickson county farmhouses which do not have such roller towels.

[_He gives it a pull to expose its full length again._]

MRS. HALE. Those towels get dirty awful quick. Men's hands aren't always as clean as they might be.

COUNTY ATTORNEY. Ah, loyal to your sex, I see. But you and Mrs. Wright were neighbors. I suppose you were friends, too.

MRS. HALE [_shaking her head_]. I've not seen much of her of late years. I've not been in this house--it's more than a year.

COUNTY ATTORNEY. And why was that? You didn't like her?

MRS. HALE. I liked her all well enough. Farmers' wives have their hands full, Mr. Henderson. And then--

COUNTY ATTORNEY. Yes--?

MRS. HALE [_looking about_]. It never seemed a very cheerful place.

COUNTY ATTORNEY. No--it's not cheerful. I shouldn't say she had the homemaking instinct.

MRS. HALE. Well, I don't know as Wright had, either.

COUNTY ATTORNEY. You mean that they didn't get on very well?

MRS. HALE. No, I don't mean anything. But I don't think a place'd be any cheerful for John Wright's being in it.

COUNTY ATTORNEY. I'd like to talk more of that a little later. I want to get the lay of things upstairs now.

[_He goes to the left, where three steps lead to a stair door._]

SHERIFF. I suppose anything Mrs. Peters does'll be all right. She was to take in some clothes for her, you know, and a few little things. We left in such a hurry yesterday.

COUNTY ATTORNEY. Yes, but I would like to see what you take, Mrs. Peters, and keep an eye out for anything that might be of use to us.

MRS. PETERS. Yes, Mr. Henderson.

[_The women listen to the men's steps on the stairs, then look about the kitchen._]

MRS. HALE. I'd hate to have men coming into my kitchen, snooping around and criticizing.

[_She arranges the pans under sink which the Lawyer had shoved out of place._]

MRS. PETERS. Of course it's no more than their duty.

MRS. HALE. Duty's all right, but I guess that deputy sheriff that came out to make the fire might have got a little of this on. [_Gives the roller towel a pull._] Wish I'd thought of that sooner. Seems mean to talk about her for not having things slicked up when she had to come away in such a hurry.

MRS. PETERS [_who has gone to a small table in the left rear corner of the room, and lifted one end of a towel that covers a pan_]. She had bread set. [_Stands still._]

MRS. HALE [_eyes fixed on a loaf of bread beside the bread-box, which is on a low shelf at the other side of the room. Moves slowly toward it._] She was going to put this in there. [_Picks up loaf, then abruptly drops it. In a manner of returning to familiar things._] It's a shame about her fruit. I wonder if it's all gone. [_Gets up on the chair and looks._] I think there's some here that's all right, Mrs. Peters. Yes--here; [_Holding it toward the window._] this is cherries, too. [_Looking again._] I declare I believe that's the only one. [_Gets down, bottle in her hand. Goes to the sink and wipes it off on the outside._] She'll feel awful bad after all her hard work in the hot weather. I remember the afternoon I put up my cherries last summer.

[_She puts the bottle on the big kitchen table, center of the room, front table. With a sigh, is about to sit down in the rocking-chair. Before she is seated realizes what chair it is; with a slow look at it, steps back. The chair which she has touched rocks back and forth._]

MRS. PETERS. Well, I must get those things from the front room closet. [_She goes to the door at the right, but after looking into the other room, steps back._] You coming with me, Mrs. Hale? You could help me carry them.

[_They go in the other room; reappear, Mrs. Peters carrying a dress and skirt, Mrs. Hale following with a pair of shoes._]

MRS. PETERS. My, it's cold in there.

[_She puts the cloth on the big table, and hurries to the stove._]

MRS. HALE [_examining the skirt_]. Wright was close. I think maybe that's why she kept so much to herself. She didn't even belong to the Ladies' Aid. I suppose she felt she couldn't do her part, and then you don't enjoy things when you feel shabby. She used to wear pretty clothes and be lively, when she was Minnie Foster, one of the town girls singing in the choir. But that--oh, that was thirty years ago. This all you was to take in?

MRS. PETERS. She said she wanted an apron. Funny thing to want, for there isn't much to get you dirty in jail, goodness knows. But I suppose just to make her feel more natural. She said they was in the top drawer in this cupboard. Yes, here. And then her little shawl that always hung behind the door. [_Opens stair door and looks._] Yes, here it is.

[_Quickly shuts door leading upstairs._]

MRS. HALE [_abruptly moving toward her_]. Mrs. Peters?

MRS. PETERS. Yes, Mrs. Hale?

MRS. HALE. Do you think she did it?

MRS. PETERS [_in a frightened voice_]. Oh, I don't know.

MRS. HALE. Well, I don't think she did. Asking for an apron and her little shawl. Worrying about her fruit.

MRS. PETERS [_starts to speak, glances up, where footsteps are heard in the room above. In a low voice_]. Mr. Peters says it looks bad for her. Mr. Henderson is awful sarcastic in a speech and he'll make fun of her sayin' she didn't wake up.

MRS. HALE. Well, I guess John Wright didn't wake when they was slipping that rope under his neck.

MRS. PETERS. No, it's strange. It must have been done awful crafty and still. They say it was such a--funny way to kill a man, rigging it all up like that.

MRS. HALE. That's just what Mr. Hale said. There was a gun in the house. He says that's what he can't understand.

MRS. PETERS. Mr. Henderson said coming out that what was needed for the case was a motive; something to show anger, or--sudden feeling.

MRS. HALE [_who is standing by the table_]. Well, I don't see any signs of anger around here. [_She puts her hand on the dish towel which lies on the table, stands looking down at table, one half of which is clean, the other half messy._] It's wiped here. [_Makes a move as if to finish work, then turns and looks at loaf of bread outside the bread-box. Drops towel. In that voice of coming back to familiar things._] Wonder how they are finding things upstairs? I hope she had it a little more red-up up there. You know, it seems kind of _sneaking_. Locking her up in town and then coming out here and trying to get her own house to turn against her!

MRS. PETERS. But, Mrs. Hale, the law is the law.

MRS. HALE. I s'pose 'tis. [_Unbuttoning her coat._] Better loosen up your things, Mrs. Peters. You won't feel them when you go out.

[_Mrs. Peters takes off her fur tippet, goes to hang it on hook at back of room, stands looking at the under part of the small corner table._]

MRS. PETERS. She was piecing a quilt.

[_She brings the large sewing basket and they look at the bright pieces._]

MRS. HALE. It's log cabin pattern. Pretty, isn't it? I wonder if she was goin' to quilt it or just knot it?

[_Footsteps have been heard coming down the stairs. The Sheriff enters, followed by Hale and the County Attorney._]

SHERIFF. They wonder if she was going to quilt it or just knot it.

[_The men laugh, the women look abashed._]

COUNTY ATTORNEY [_rubbing his hands over the stove_]. Frank's fire didn't do much up there, did it? Well, let's go out to the barn and get that cleared up.

[_The men go outside._]

MRS. HALE [_resentfully_]. I don't know as there's anything so strange, our takin' up our time with little things while we're waiting for them to get the evidence. [_She sits down at the big table smoothing out a block of decision._] I don't see as it's anything to laugh about.

MRS. PETERS [_apologetically_]. Of course they've got awful important things on their minds.

[_Pulls up a chair and joins Mrs. Hale at the table._]

MRS. HALE [_examining another block_]. Mrs. Peters, look at this one. Here, this is the one she was working on, and look at the sewing! All the rest of it has been so nice and even. And look at this! It's all over the place! Why, it looks as if she didn't know what she was about!

[_After she has said this they look at each other, then start to glance back at the door. After an instant Mrs. Hale has pulled at a knot and ripped the sewing._]

MRS. PETERS. Oh, what are you doing, Mrs. Hale?

MRS. HALE [_mildly_]. Just pulling out a stitch or two that's not sewed very good. [_Threading a needle._] Bad sewing always made me fidgety.

MRS. PETERS [_nervously_]. I don't think we ought to touch things.

MRS. HALE. I'll just finish up this end. [_Suddenly stopping and leaning forward._] Mrs. Peters?

MRS. PETERS. Yes, Mrs. Hale?

MRS. HALE. What do you suppose she was so nervous about?

MRS. PETERS. Oh--I don't know. I don't know as she was nervous. I sometimes sew awful queer when I'm just tired. [_Mrs. Hale starts to say something, looks at Mrs. Peters, then goes on sewing._] Well, I must get these things wrapped up. They may be through sooner than we think. [_Putting apron and other things together._] I wonder where I can find a piece of paper, and string.

MRS. HALE. In that cupboard, maybe.

MRS. PETERS [_looking in cupboard_]. Why, here's a bird-cage. [_Holds it up._] Did she have a bird, Mrs. Hale?

MRS. HALE. Why, I don't know whether she did or not--I've not been here for so long. There was a man around last year selling canaries cheap, but I don't know as she took one; maybe she did. She used to sing real pretty herself.

MRS. PETERS [_glancing around_]. Seems funny to think of a bird here. But she must have had one, or why should she have a cage? I wonder what happened to it?

MRS. HALE. I s'pose maybe the cat got it.

MRS. PETERS. No, she didn't have a cat. She's got that feeling some people have about cats--being afraid of them. My cat got in her room and she was real upset and asked me to take it out.

MRS. HALE. My sister Bessie was like that. Queer, ain't it?

MRS. PETERS [_examining the cage_]. Why, look at this door. It's broke. One hinge is pulled apart.

MRS. HALE [_looking too_]. Looks as if some one must have been rough with it.

MRS. PETERS. Why, yes.

[_She brings the cage forward and puts it on the table._]

MRS. HALE. I wish if they're going to find any evidence they'd be about it. I don't like this place.

MRS. PETERS. But I'm awful glad you came with me, Mrs. Hale. It would be lonesome for me sitting here alone.

MRS. HALE. It would, wouldn't it? [_Dropping her sewing._] But I tell you what I do wish, Mrs. Peters. I wish I had come over some times when _she_ was here. I--[_Looking around the room._]--wish I had.

MRS. PETERS. But of course you were awful busy, Mrs. Hale--your house and your children.

MRS. HALE. I could've come. I stayed away because it weren't cheerful--and that's why I ought to have come. I--I've never liked this place. Maybe because it's down in a hollow and you don't see the road. I dunno what it is, but it's a lonesome place and always was. I wish I had come over to see Minnie Foster sometimes. I can see now--

[_Shakes her head._]

MRS. PETERS. Well, you mustn't reproach yourself, Mrs. Hale. Somehow we just don't see how it is with other folks until--something comes up.

MRS. HALE. Not having children makes less work--but it makes a quiet house, and Wright out to work all day, and no company when he did come in. Did you know John Wright, Mrs. Peters?

MRS. PETERS. Not to know him; I've seen him in town. They say he was a good man.

MRS. HALE. Yes--good; he didn't drink, and kept his word as well as most, I guess, and paid his debts. But he was a hard man, Mrs. Peters. Just to pass the time of day with him. [_Shivers._] Like a raw wind that gets to the bone. [_Pauses, her eye falling on the cage._] I should think she would 'a wanted a bird. But what do you suppose went with it?

MRS. PETERS. I don't know, unless it got sick and died.

[_She reaches over and swings the broken door, swings it again, both women watch it._]

MRS. HALE. You weren't raised round here, were you? [_Mrs. Peters shakes her head._] You didn't know--her?

MRS. PETERS. Not till they brought her yesterday.

MRS. HALE. She--come to think of it, she was kind of like a bird herself--real sweet and pretty, but kind of timid and--fluttery. How--she--did--change. [_Silence; then as if struck by a happy thought and relieved to get back to every day things._] Tell you what, Mrs. Peters, why don't you take the quilt in with you? It might take up her mind.

MRS. PETERS. Why, I think that's a real nice idea, Mrs. Hale. There couldn't possibly be any objection to it, could there? Now, just what would I take? I wonder if her patches are in here--and her things.

[_They look in the sewing basket._]

MRS. HALE. Here's some red. I expect this has got sewing things in it. [_Brings out a fancy box._] What a pretty box. Looks like something somebody would give you. Maybe her scissors are in here. [_Opens box. Suddenly puts her hand to her nose._] Why--[_Mrs. Peters bends nearer, then turns her face away._] There's something wrapped up in this piece of silk.

MRS. PETERS. Why, this isn't her scissors.

MRS. HALE [_lifting the silk_]. Oh, Mrs. Peters--it's--

[_Mrs. Peters bends closer._]

MRS. PETERS. It's the bird.

MRS. HALE [_jumping up_]. But, Mrs. Peters--look at it. Its neck! Look at its neck! It's all--other side _to_.

MRS. PETERS. Somebody--wrung--its neck.

[_Their eyes met. A look of growing comprehension of horror. Steps are heard outside. Mrs. Hale slips box under quilt pieces, and sinks into her chair. Enter Sheriff and County Attorney. Mrs. Peters rises._]

COUNTY ATTORNEY [_as one turning from serious things to little pleasantries_]. Well, ladies, have you decided whether she was going to quilt it or knot it?

MRS. PETERS. We think she was going to--knot it.

COUNTY ATTORNEY. Well, that's interesting, I'm sure. [_Seeing the bird-cage._] Has the bird flown?

MRS. HALE [_putting more quilt pieces over the box_]. We think the--cat got it.

COUNTY ATTORNEY [_preoccupied_]. Is there a cat?

[_Mrs. Hale glances in a quick covert way at Mrs. Peters._]

MRS. PETERS. Well, not now. They're superstitious, you know. They leave.

COUNTY ATTORNEY [_to Sheriff Peters, continuing an interrupted conversation_]. No sign at all of any one having come from the outside. Their own rope. Now let's go up again and go over it piece by piece. [_They start upstairs._] It would have to have been some one who knew just the----

[_Mrs. Peters sits down. The two women sit there not looking at one another, but as if peering into something and at the same time holding back. When they talk now it is in the manner of feeling their way over strange ground, as if afraid of what they are saying, but as if they can not help saying it._]

MRS. HALE. She liked the bird. She was going to bury it in that pretty box.

MRS. PETERS [_in a whisper_]. When I was a girl--my kitten--there was a boy took a hatchet, and before my eyes--and before I could get there----[_Covers her face an instant._] If they hadn't held me back I would have--[_Catches herself, looks upstairs where steps are heard, falters weakly_]--hurt him.

MRS. HALE [_with a slow look around her_]. I wonder how it would seem never to have had any children around. [_Pause._] No, Wright wouldn't like the bird--a thing that sang. She used to sing. He killed that, too.

MRS. PETERS [_moving uneasily_]. We don't know who killed the bird.

MRS. HALE. I knew John Wright.

MRS. PETERS. It was an awful thing was done in this house that night, Mrs. Hale. Killing a man while he slept, slipping a rope around his neck that choked the life out of him.

MRS. HALE. His neck. Choked the life out of him.

[_Her hand goes out and rests on the bird-cage._]

MRS. PETERS [_with rising voice_]. We don't know who killed him. We don't _know_.

MRS. HALE [_her own feeling not interrupted_]. If there'd been years and years of nothing, then a bird to sing to you, it would be awful--still, after the bird was still.

MRS. PETERS [_something within her speaking_]. I know what stillness is. When we homesteaded in Dakota, and my first baby died--after he was two years old, and me with no other then----

MRS. HALE [_moving_]. How soon do you suppose they'll be through, looking for the evidence?

MRS. PETERS. I know what stillness is. [_Pulling herself back._] The law has got to punish crime, Mrs. Hale.

MRS. HALE [_not as if answering that_]. I wish you'd seen Minnie Foster when she wore a white dress with blue ribbons and stood up there in the choir and sang. [_A look around the room._] Oh, I _wish_ I'd come over here once in a while? That was a crime! That was a crime! Who's going to punish that?

MRS. PETERS [_looking upstairs_]. We mustn't--take on.

MRS. HALE. I might have known she needed help! I know how things can be--for women. I tell you, it's queer, Mrs. Peters. We live close together and we live far apart. We all go through the same things--it's all just a different kind of the same thing. [_Brushes her eyes, noticing the bottle of fruit, reaches out for it._] If I was you I wouldn't tell her her fruit was gone. Tell her it _ain't_. Tell her it's all right. Take this in to prove it to her. She--she may never know whether it was broke or not.

MRS. PETERS [_takes the bottle, looks about for something to wrap it in; takes petticoat from the clothes brought from the other room, very nervously begins winding this around the bottle. In a false voice_]. My, it's a good thing the men couldn't hear us. Wouldn't they just laugh! Getting all stirred up over a little thing like a--dead canary. As if that could have anything to do with--with--wouldn't they _laugh_!

[_The men are heard coming down stairs._]

MRS. HALE [_under her breath_]. Maybe they would--maybe they wouldn't.

COUNTY ATTORNEY. No, Peters, it's all perfectly clear except a reason for doing it. But you know juries when it comes to women. If there was some definite thing. Something to show--something to make a story about--a thing that would connect up with this strange way of doing it.

[_The women's eyes meet for an instant. Enter Hale from outer door._]

HALE. Well, I've got the team around. Pretty cold out there.

COUNTY ATTORNEY. I'm going to stay here a while by myself. [_To the Sheriff._] You can send Frank out for me, can't you? I want to go over everything. I'm not satisfied that we can't do better.

SHERIFF. Do you want to see what Mrs. Peters is going to take in?

[_The Lawyer goes to the table, picks up the apron, laughs._]

COUNTY ATTORNEY. Oh, I guess they're not very dangerous things the ladies have picked out. [_Moves a few things about, disturbing the quilt pieces which cover the box. Steps back._] No, Mrs. Peters doesn't need supervising. For that matter, a sheriff's wife is married to the law. Ever think of it that way, Mrs. Peters?

MRS. PETERS. Not--just that way.

SHERIFF [_chuckling_]. Married to the law. [_Moves toward the other room._] I just want you to come in here a minute, George. We ought to take a look at these windows.

COUNTY ATTORNEY [_scoffingly_]. Oh, windows!

SHERIFF. We'll be right out, Mr. Hale.

[_Hale goes outside. The Sheriff follows the County Attorney into the other room. Then Mrs. Hale rises, hands tight together, looking intensely at Mrs. Peters, whose eyes make a slow turn, finally meeting Mrs. Hale's. A moment Mrs. Hale holds her, then her own eyes point the way to where the box is concealed. Suddenly Mrs. Peters throws back quilt pieces and tries to put the box in the bag she is wearing. It is too big. She opens box, starts to take bird out, cannot touch it, goes to pieces, stands there helpless. Sound of a knob turning in the other room. Mrs. Hale snatches the box and puts it in the pocket of her big coat. Enter County Attorney and Sheriff._

COUNTY ATTORNEY [_facetiously_]. Well, Henry, at least we found out that she was not going to quilt it. She was going to--what is it you call it, ladies?

MRS. HALE [_her hand against her pocket_]. We call it--knot it, Mr. Henderson.

[_Curtain._]

THE POT BOILER

A SATIRE

BY ALICE GERSTENBERG

Copyright, 1916, by Alice Gerstenberg. All rights reserved.

THE POT BOILER was first produced by the Players' Workshop, Chicago, Ill., on the night of November 20th, 1916, with the following cast:

THOMAS PINIKLES SUD [_the playwright_] _William Ziegler Nourse_. WOULDBY [_the novice_] _Morton Howard, Jr_. MR. IVORY [_the financier_] _Henry Ryan_. MR. RULER [_the hero_] _Donovan Yeuell_. MISS IVORY [_the heroine_] _Caroline Kohl_. MR. INKWELL [_the villain_] _H. C. Swartz_. MRS. PENCIL [_the woman_] _Anna Buxton_.

THE POT BOILER is published for the first time. The editors are indebted to Miss Gerstenberg for permission to include it in this volume. The professional and amateur stage rights on this play are strictly reserved by the author. Applications from amateurs to produce the play should be addressed to Norman Lee Swartout, 24 Blackburn Road, Summit, N. J. Professionals should address Miss Alice Gerstenberg, 539 Deming Place, Chicago, Ill.

THE POT BOILER

A SATIRE BY ALICE GERSTENBERG

[SCENE: _A stage only half set for a morning rehearsal and dimly lighted. Sud, a successful playwright, enters in a hurry carrying a leather bag of manuscripts._]

STAGE HAND. Good morning, Mr. Sud.

SUD. Good morning, Gus. Just set two doors; that'll be all I'll need this morning. We're rehearsing for lines. [_Steps down stage and calls front._] Joe, I'm expecting a young man, it's all right, let him in.

WOULDBY [_from auditorium back_]. I'm here now, Mr. Sud.

SUD. Come up, Mr. Wouldby. Some more border lights, please.

WOULDBY. It's very good of you to let me in.

SUD. I was fond of your father. I am glad to see his son.

WOULDBY. I have written a play, too.

SUD. Too bad, too bad, you make the price of paper go up.

WOULDBY. It must be wonderful to be the master playwright of our day. Everybody knows Mr. Thomas Pinikles Sud.

SUD [_setting stage_]. Yes, it is a privilege to be a friend of mine!

WOULDBY [_pursuing Sud_]. Will you read my manuscript, sir?

SUD. Never roll a manuscript. I see very well you don't even know the first principles.

WOULDBY. How can I learn the first principles? No one will tell me.

SUD. Wait, I will do a great thing for you, let you stay and see a dress rehearsal of my latest play, "The Pot Boiler." In it I have used all dramatic principles.

WOULDBY. What are they?

SUD. Well, for instance, this pencil is the woman in the case.

WOULDBY. Pencil!

SUD. This inkwell is the villain, although that's really too dark for him. Deep-eyed villains are out of fashion.

WOULDBY. Inkwell!

SUD. The heroine is Miss Ivory paper cutter.

WOULDBY. Ivory!

SUD. Mr. Ruler is the hero.

WOULDBY. Ruler!

[_Other characters enter from stage door._]

SUD. I haven't finished writing it, but we're going through it this morning as far as I have written, then I shall see how to go on. Here are the players now. Line up, please, and let me see your costumes. [_He studies them._] Now to work--[_Rubbing his hands._] to work--clear the stage!

[_Mrs. Pencil and Ruler go out left; Mr. and Miss Ivory and Inkwell go out right and close the door._]

SUD. Mr. Wouldby, if you sit down here with me, we'll be out of the way. [_Sud and Wouldby sit on two stools way down right._] You must imagine that this room is the library in Mr. Ivory's house. [_Sud claps his hands and calls._] Ready.

[_There is a pause, then the door up left opens and Mrs. Pencil comes in; her pantomime is as Sud explains it to Wouldby._]

SUD [_in stage whisper to Wouldby_]. The adventuress--she comes in--she has been cut--she is worried--that nervous twitching of lips and narrowing of eyes are always full of suspense--she takes off her gloves, her hat--that's good business. A door opens--she starts--by starting she shows you she is guilty of something--

MISS IVORY [_without hat or gloves enters from right_]. Oh, there you are, Mrs. Pencil.

MRS. PENCIL. Yes, I'm back.

MISS IVORY. I thought I should have to drink my tea without you.

[_They sit down to tea--Miss Ivory back of table center. Mrs. Pencil left of table._]

SUD [_in stage whisper to Wouldby_]. That tells the audience what time of the day it is; besides, drinking afternoon tea shows Miss Ivory is in society.

MRS. PENCIL. Isn't your father going to join us?

SUD [_aside_]. That's merely to show the girl has a father.

MISS IVORY. No, he is talking business with Mr. Inkwell.

MRS. PENCIL [_starting_]. Inkwell!

MISS IVORY. Yes, do you know him?

MRS. PENCIL [_evasively_]. I? Oh--no.

MISS IVORY. You've heard of him?

MRS. PENCIL. Yes--of course----

SUD [_aside_]. Do you catch it? Do you see how her nervousness and her few words at once suggest that there is a link between Mrs. Pencil and Inkwell? That's where I show my technique.

WOULDBY [_scratching his head_]. Technique! How can I learn it?

SUD. It is the secret that every playwright locks in his breast. Keep the young ones out! _Mum_ is the word!

MISS IVORY. I am so sorry father has all this trouble with the brick-layers. They shouldn't have gone on a strike--just now--when you are visiting us.

SUD [_to Wouldby_]. That tells that Mrs. Pencil is a guest in Miss Ivory's house.

MISS IVORY. When you were here last year my mother----

SUD [_aside_]. The girl hesitates--they both look sorrowful; we had to cut down the cast, so I killed off her mother.

MRS. PENCIL [_sadly, with foreign accent_]. Ah, my dear--we were such close friends--since my arrival in this country----

SUD [_aside_]. You see, I had to make her a foreigner. A villainess always talks with a foreign accent.

MRS. PENCIL. I haven't had much time to read particulars about the strike. Does your father still refuse to arbitrate?

MISS IVORY [_haughtily_]. What right have brick-layers to make rules for my father? He would show his weakness if he gave in--I have faith that what he does is right.

SUD [_to Wouldby_]. The innocent heroine, so cool and pure and white.

[_The right door opens and Inkwell enters--he starts as he sees Mrs. Pencil; there is a straight look of recognition between them which Miss Ivory does not see._]

SUD [_aside_]. That's a dramatic scene. Doesn't it thrill your spine?

MISS IVORY. Mrs. Pencil, may I introduce Mr. Inkwell--[_Inkwell and Mrs. Pencil bow slightly._] Will you have a dish of tea?

SUD. Cup, cup of tea.

MISS IVORY. Dish; _dish_ of tea, or I quit. [_Pause._] Which is it?

SUD. Oh, very well, dish if you like.

[_Sud's manner indicates he gives in simply to let the rehearsal progress, but that he will settle with Miss Ivory later._]

MISS IVORY. Please tell me that you have ordered the strikers to come to father's terms?

MR. INKWELL [_at right of table_]. He is looking through his safe for more papers so he asked me to wait in here.

SUD. That's an explanation why he came in.

MISS IVORY [_offering cup_]. How many lumps?

SUD [_aside_]. That question of the number of lumps is very important; it gives a natural air to the scene.

MISS IVORY. I am going to the dining-room to get some arrack for your tea.

MR. INKWELL [_nervously_]. Oh, please don't trouble----

MISS IVORY. No trouble at all.

[_Exit right._]

SUD. When you want to get a character out, you've got to get 'em out.

MR. INKWELL [_at right of table, to Mrs. Pencil_]. You here!

MRS. PENCIL [_at left of table_]. Sch! I had to come! I couldn't live without you any longer----

INKWELL. But in this house?

MRS. PENCIL. I was her mother's friend.

INKWELL. You are indiscreet----

MRS. PENCIL. I was desperate for you! You kept putting me off--when I read about this strike I had to come.

SUD. Mrs. Pencil is the dreadful woman! A play can't exist without her----

WOULDBY. You mean she was his----

SUD [_seriously_]. Oh, yes--the more fuss we make about her the better.

MRS. PENCIL. Oh! Clem! You aren't glad to see me! Oh! that I have lived for this!!!

[_She tears around the stage waving her hands in grief--making faces of agony. Sud rises in astonishment and follows her left._]

SUD [_shrieks in anger_]. Idiot! Can't you talk! Do you think I write lines to be cut? How dare you cut my lines!!!

MRS. PENCIL. I've done just what it says. [_She takes her part from table, reads from it and shows it to him._] "Mrs. Pencil shows extreme despair and passionately----"

SUD. That's not the play! That's the moving picture version!!! Come here.

[_He fumbles with his papers. Takes blue pencil to her part, changes his mind and uses red pencil--and puts them back of different ears._]

WOULDBY. Oh! Have you the same play ready for the movies?

SUD. I write in columns--alongside of each other. Dramatic version, moving picture, novelization--for magazines--newspapers and books.

WOULDBY. All _at once_!

SUD. Yes!

WOULDBY. What are all the pins for?

SUD. When I cut out a line one place--I keep it until I find a place somewhere else to patch it in.

[_Hands new lines to Mrs. Pencil, who is back of table center._]

WOULDBY. A great playwright has to be economical with his great ideas!

SUD. Yes, if he wants a yacht.

MRS. PENCIL [_studying her book_]. Now I see, now I see--Mr. Sud. Shall I go on?

SUD. Yes, go on!

[_Sud comes down right to Wouldby._]

MRS. PENCIL. Oh! Clem--I was so frightened when I heard about the strikers. Even if you are their leader now, they might turn and murder you.

[_Mrs. Pencil and Inkwell play center, front of table._]

INKWELL. Nonsense, I control the strikers, they come to me for orders. I'll stop this strike as soon as old Ivory gives me my price.

MRS. PENCIL. What do the brick-layers want?

INKWELL. They want shorter hours, more pay, better light--better air----

[_Inkwell stops and looks at Sud._]

SUD. Go on--go on--don't glare at me!

INKWELL. Pardon me, Mr. Sud--but you have me say the brick-layers want better air. It doesn't sound right. You see brick-layers work out of doors and the air there is--I beg your pardon--it's in no way of criticism, sir----

SUD. Come here. [_He cuts the line, using wrong colored pencil first._] Leave out "light and air." That's a confusion from bad typing in the serial version. Go on, Mr. Inkwell.

INKWELL [_sits right of table and Mrs. Pencil left_]. See here, Kate, you keep out of this business--I'm not going to be spied on by any woman.

MRS. PENCIL [_in whisper_]. Who is spying on you?

INKWELL [_in whisper_]. You!!

MRS. PENCIL. I?

SUD [_smacks his lips_]. Now we are coming to a big scene! There is nothing so effective as the repetition of the same words brought up to a climax. Begin again, Mrs. Pencil. "Who is spying on you?"

MRS. PENCIL. Who is spying on you?

INKWELL. You!

MRS. PENCIL. I?

INKWELL. You!

MRS. PENCIL. I?

INKWELL. You!

MRS. PENCIL. I?

SUD [_tearing his hair--going to them_]. Parrots! Nothing but parrots! Increase the stress--build up the scene--build--build!

INKWELL. How can we build when you don't give us any lines?

SUD. What do you call yourselves actors for if you can't supply acting when the playwright uses dashes!--This is the biggest scene in the play. [_Crosses to lower left._] The very fact that I don't give you a lot of literary lines puts me in the class of the most forceful dramatists of the day! My plays are not wishy-washy lines! They are full of

## action--red-blood--of flesh and blood! Now you do _your_ part--bing-bang

stuff!--shake them in their chairs out there--make shivers run up their spines! Make 'em _feel_ you! Compel their applause! Now go to _it!_ Go to it!!!

[_Sud sets the tempo, repeating their words._]

INKWELL. You!

MRS. PENCIL. I?

INKWELL. You!

MRS. PENCIL. I?

SUD [_shouts_]. Get it over! Get it over!

INKWELL. You!

MRS. PENCIL. I?

SUD [_shouts_]. Get it over! Mr. Wouldby, is it getting over?

WOULDBY [_looks at footlights_]. I don't see anything get over.

SUD. He doesn't see it! You hear? He doesn't see it! Begin again! And please, please, please--get it over--over!!

[_He motions violently with his arms during following scene as if to help them raise the vitality of the scene. Sud sets tempo again._]

MRS. PENCIL. Who is spying on you?

INKWELL. You!

MRS. PENCIL. I?

INKWELL. You!!

MRS. PENCIL. I??

INKWELL. You!!!

MRS. PENCIL. I???

INKWELL. You!!!!!

MRS. PENCIL. I??????

INKWELL [_fiercely_]. You!!!!!!!

MRS. PENCIL. I???????

INKWELL. What do you call it then, coming here after me like this?

MRS. PENCIL. What do you mean--like this?

SUD [_shrieks--beside himself_]. Like what?

MRS. PENCIL. Like this?

SUD. Accent it--stress it--increase it! Like _what_?

MRS. PENCIL. Like this!

SUD. Like what?

MRS. PENCIL. Like this!

SUD [_rushes around circuit of stage and ends near Wouldby_]. The best

## scene in the play--ruined--ruined! I'm noted for my strong, laconic

scenes and you make me suffer like this. Perfectly hopeless--I say increase--you decrease; nothing but animal sounds! Nothing but a machine! Oh! What's the use! Go on, go on--now you see, Mr. Wouldby, how actors can make plays fail--

MRS. PENCIL. If you'd write us a decent play once we might--

SUD. No back-talk, madam! I haven't engaged you yet. If you can't play it any better, I'll let you out! Show us what you can do with the rest of the scene! By Heaven--if you can't pound his chest right the box office will lose money on you!

WOULDBY [_his eyes popping_]. Oh! Must she pound him?

SUD. Seeing a woman pounding a man's chest and hearing her scream is worth two dollars to anybody. Go on, Mrs. Pencil.

MRS. PENCIL. You are keeping something from me? You have deceived me! You dog! Tell me! Tell me! Who is she? Where is she? You are keeping something from me!

[_She pounds Inkwell in a rage._]

WOULDBY [_in innocent wonderment_]. Is she trying to yank it out of his chest?

SUD. Pound! Pound! Get it over! [_Sud rushes back between Mrs. Pencil and Inkwell, pushes her down left, drags Inkwell to center, grasps his coat lapel, shakes him violently and shouts her lines: "You are keeping something from me." and pushes Inkwell to right. Sud turns quickly to left and shows her his manuscript._] I wrote "applause" here. You've got to get applause here--so pound!

INKWELL. Would you mind skipping the scene to-day? I'll wear a foot-ball suit to-morrow.

SUD [_in scorn_]. Just like an actor to have a personal prejudice against a part.

INKWELL. I'm not "suited" to it yet--but with the proper costume--

SUD [_in scorn_]. You must not rely on costume! Think of your art!

WOULDBY. But why must she pound him so hard?

SUD [_down left_]. Because he is the villain and the audience likes to see him get it.

MRS. PENCIL [_at right and Inkwell to her left_]. Who is she? You are keeping something from me!

WOULDBY. What has he done to make him the villain?

SUD. I didn't want an explanation here, so I had to interrupt them--sch--here comes Miss Ivory.

[_Miss Ivory enters._]

SUD. Such interruptions reek with dramatic intensity.

MISS IVORY. Here is the arrack for you, Mr. Inkwell--

INKWELL [_accepting it_]. Thank you.

MRS. PENCIL [_nervously_]. I think I'll take my hat to my room--

[_Inkwell gives her her hat. She goes out._]

SUD [_aside_]. Not a bad excuse, the hat! Eh? I had to get her out.

WOULDBY. Very natural--yes--indeed--

MISS IVORY [_seated at right of table. Inkwell stands back of table--center_]. Well, Mr. Inkwell, I hope we may yet succeed in claiming you as a friend--instead of coddling you as an enemy.

INKWELL. If you treat all your enemies so well--what must you do for your friends?

MISS IVORY. We abuse those we love.

SUD [_nudging Wouldby--aside_]. Quite epigrammatic, eh?

INKWELL. Even abuse at such fair hands could only please.

SUD [_aside_]. Did you catch the subtlety of that line?

MISS IVORY [_nervously_]. Wi--wi--will you have some more tea?

INKWELL [_coming left of table--to be opposite her--catching her hand._] I don't want tea--I want you! I love you!

SUD. Wait a moment! That's too abrupt! I've some more lines here somewhere. [_Looks through slips pinned in manuscript._] I cut some out of the beginning of the act. When the first curtain went up and the maid was discovered dusting the room I had the Irish butler make love to her. [_To Wouldby._] [_Handing Inkwell a paragraph._] There, Inkwell, are the love lines I was looking for. Proceed, please.

MISS IVORY. Shall I go back?

INKWELL. To tea.

MISS IVORY. Wi--will--will you have some m--more--t--tea?

INKWELL [_catching her hand and bringing her forward, he gives speech with Irish accent_]. I don't want tea--I want you! I love you! Oh! My darlint, it is a terrible sensation I'ave for you, I'ave--'and me your little 'and in moine, for the loikes of you I never--[_As all look dazed and Inkwell has trouble twisting his tongue._] I beg pardon, Mr. Sud, but this is a butler making love--I am playing the part of a gentleman--

SUD [_has dropped from his stool and retired in tears and rage up right_]. Haven't you any brains of your own? If a musician can transpose music by sight, can't you do the same to dialogue?

INKWELL. But a gentleman doesn't make love like a--

SUD [_goes up stage again--ends at his stool by Wouldby_]. He means the same--now go on--I can't stand these arguments. They will give me apoplexy!

MISS IVORY. Oh! Come on, Robert, say anything.

[_They sit at table again._]

INKWELL. Ahem!

MISS IVORY. Wi--wi--will you have some more t--tea?

INKWELL. I don't want tea! I want you! I love you! Oh! My darling--it is a wonderful feeling--this one--that--which I have for you--indeed--that one which I have for you--put your hand in mine--for a woman like you never before fr--fr--never before have I seen a woman such as you--

[_Again he has brought Miss Ivory down center._]

SUD. My stars! Leave out the h's. That--which--such!--Get it clear for to-morrow's rehearsal.

INKWELL [_puts paragraph in his pocket--hesitatingly, doubtfully, sarcastically_]. I ought to have my name on the program as co-author.

[_Exit left._]

SUD [_jumps forward_]. You ought to have it cut out of the program when you forget to act! [_Raps on floor and cries out._] Mr. Ruler--Mr. Ruler--Pay some attention to your cues, please!--

[_Sud goes off stage center over bridge into pit._]

RULER [_pokes head in from left_]. Beg pardon, sir--I didn't hear my cue!

SUD [_at right of center_]. It's your business to listen for it.

RULER. But they didn't give me the cue!

SUD. Well, what is your cue?

RULER [_not seen_]. What is it?

SUD. I asked you what your cue was?

RULER [_appears_]. What is it?

SUD. Is your hearing perfectly clear?

RULER. Perfectly.

SUD. Then will you kindly tell me what your cue is?

RULER. What is it?

SUD. I shall go mad! I'm dealing with lunatics! Lunatics--Once again I ask you, Mr. Ruler--if you can _hear_--[_Yells._] Kindly read from your book and tell me what your cue is--

RULER [_yells furiously and is now down stage_]. I've been trying to tell you my cue is "WHAT IS IT!"

[_During this scene all the other players come in to see the fight and grin._]

SUD [_wipes perspiration from brow_]. Heart disease! Heart disease--I shall die of it! That line was cut long ago!!! [_Sud walks back and forth across the pit._] The trouble with you actors is you can't forget. Oh! If you could only forget!

WOULDBY [_meekly_]. I always thought actors had to remember.

SUD. Any fool can remember--

RULER. See here, Mr. Sud--I don't take abuse! In fact, it's my first experience taking it from authors. In all the other companies I've been in the manager kept the playwright out. He wouldn't have him meddling about!

[_Sud stops short during this speech--turns--straightens up--buttons coat--adjusts tie--faces Ruler._]

SUD. Mr. Ruler, I am backing the show. I haven't engaged you because you can act, but because you were born good-looking, which is scarcely a compliment to your own efforts. [_Other players retire now laughing at Ruler._] If you please we will proceed. I'll find a line here somewhere in my treasure note books.

[_He goes upstairs and stands near border lights aside to hunt through many books he has in his pockets. Ruler sits left of table to rest and smoke. Mr. Ivory and Mrs. Pencil play cards out of character up stage._]

MISS IVORY [_talks out of character and gets light from Ruler for her cigarette_]. Did you see the advance notices in the paper this morning, Jack--saying the Pot-Boiler is sold out three weeks in advance?

RULER. Bill told me there's a steady line outside of the box office.

MISS IVORY. I have visions of rehearsing all night outside the night before the opening.

RULER. I'm used to doing that, my dear. What gets me is the story of the plot the Sunday edition printed. How can the newspaper know the plot before the playwright does?

MISS IVORY. Doesn't Mr. Sud know his own plot?

RULER. Why! No, my part's not written after the second act.

MISS IVORY. My part isn't either, but it doesn't worry me. These authors--[_She points to her forehead._] I don't memorize until dress rehearsal night. What's the _use_. _They don't know themselves_ by that time what lines they told you to keep in or put in or take out. The next morning the critics re-write it _anyway_ for the manager--_I_ don't begin to memorize really--until we're settled for a _run_.

RULER [_worried_]. You'll throw me all out if you give wrong cues--

MISS IVORY [_rises and strolls about_]. Oh! When I can't use my tongue, I let my eyes talk. The public doesn't know the difference. _I_ don't have to act, just be myself. They engage _me_ for my _eyes_.

SUD. Ah! Here's a precious line [_Goes up to Ruler._], take it down, Mr. Ruler. "I was in the neighborhood looking for some real estate." [_All the players suppress a laugh._] Now, Mr. Ruler, you enter in time--[_Sud goes down the stairs again._] You enter in time to interrupt Mr. Inkwell's declaration of love to Miss Ivory. They spring apart--spring! Mr. Inkwell! [_Inkwell springs._] No, the house is not on fire!--I didn't say jump.

INKWELL. Spring is the same as jump!

[_Ruler enters from left. Inkwell goes right, Miss Ivory comes center._]

SUD. There is no time to discuss synonyms. Go on, Miss Ivory.

MISS IVORY. Oh! Jack--hello!--where'd _you_ come from?

RULER. I was in the neighborhood looking at some real estate--Hello, Inkwell--how's the strike?

[_Miss Ivory and Ruler cross to give Ruler the center._]

INKWELL. If you could persuade Mr. Ivory to--

RULER. No--Inkwell--I'm not converted to your view! I have my own theories!

SUD [_at left speaks across in delight to Wouldby_]. Now we are coming to the kernel of the play's success. The new viewpoint--Use all the stock character and situations you want, but add a new twist.

WOULDBY. What does Ruler think?

SUD. Listen.

RULER. I believe sternly in justice--righteous expiation of sin--only in that way can we progress to higher things.

SUD. Forms, not things.

RULER. Beg pardon, forms--the position I hold to-day is the result of my desires in my previous life--when the trumpet calls me into the next--there I shall reap the harvest of what I have sown here. Why should we help the brick-layers?

[_Miss Ivory interrupts, "Mr. Sud."_]

SUD [_waves her silent_]. Sch!

RULER. If they chose in their past life to be born brick-layers here, have we the right--

[_Miss Ivory interrupts several times. Miss Ivory is on stage left._]

SUD. Sch!!

RULER. I ask you--have we the right to tear down the building they designed when they were here before? Have we the right to say to them how they shall lay the bricks in the foundation for their next life? Have we the right--

MISS IVORY. Mr. Sudd!!!

SUD [_at last in desperation_]. Well, what is it, Miss Ivory?

MISS IVORY. Excuse me, Mr. Sud--but all this time--while Ruler is talking--I don't know what to do with my _hands_! Couldn't you _cut_ his lines?

RULER. I protest! Mr. Sud, I would resent having a part shortened on me because the leading lady doesn't know what to do with her hands. I really think in this speech of mine you have shown your talent. To cut one word of it would do you a great injustice!

SUD [_smiles at Ruler_]. Thank you! Quite so! Quite so! Miss Ivory, during this scene you might be--you might be--be--fanning yourself--to keep yourself the heroine, cool and white.

WOULDBY. How well you understand human nature. The play is really more important than the players--isn't it?

SUD [_aside. Goes back on stage and sits next to Wouldby_]. Of course, but actors are so superbly conceited.

WOULDBY. I know--poor things!

SUD. Mr. Ivory's entrance.

WOULDBY. The girl's father?

IVORY [_enters_]. I could not find the papers in the safe, Inkwell. Ah--how-do-you-do, Jack.

POSITIONS

_Inkwell_ _Miss Ivory_ _Mr. Ivory_ _Ruler_

[_Ivory has crossed to Ruler and is between Miss Ivory and Ruler._]

RULER. Good morning, Mr. Ivory.

IVORY. Daughter, dear--do you know anything about the papers in the safe?

SUD. Keep up the suspense--Inkwell.

INKWELL. I have no lines here.

SUD. A villain should sustain the suggestion of villainy whether he has lines or not. Look uneasy--tremble--

[_Inkwell looks uneasy and trembles._]

IVORY. But if I see him tremble, Mr. Sud, wouldn't I ask him if he had a chill?

SUD. It's not your business to be looking his way just then. Again, Inkwell.

[_Inkwell trembles, etc._]

SUD [_yells to Ivory_]. Don't catch his eye!

IVORY [_to Inkwell_]. Will you tremble again please?

[_Inkwell does so patiently._]

SUD. Count five for the tremble. Again please, "Daughter dear, do you know anything about the papers in the safe?"

IVORY. Daughter, dear, do you know anything about the papers in the safe?

SUD [_excitedly_]. Everybody look away. Tremble, Inkwell--Now, Inkwell, count five--now look at Inkwell--Again, please.

IVORY. Daughter, dear, do you know anything about the papers in the safe?

SUD [_claps his hands_]. One--two--three--four--five--

IVORY. Those valuable papers!

SUD. That's it, go ahead!

MISS IVORY. I don't even know the combination, father. Could they have been stolen?

WOULDBY. Did Inkwell really take them?

SUD. He's the villain, isn't he? I couldn't let the hero do it.

IVORY. What shall I do? Where shall I look? Where, oh where?

[_Ivory goes up stage back of Miss Ivory to table and knocks off a revolver._]

MISS IVORY. Oh! Revolvers!

RULER. Let me, sir. [_Picks them up._]

MISS IVORY [_in terror_]. Where did they come from?

WOULDBY [_hands to ears_]. Are they going to use them?

SUD. Of course. I had to show the audience the revolvers are there, so Ivory had to knock them down.

IVORY [_is up stage. Places one revolver on table_]. I have to have these near by when a strike is on, one never knows what to expect.

RULER [_places other revolver on table_]. Even I have one in my pocket.

INKWELL [_slaps his side pocket_]. And I in mine--

MISS IVORY. Oh! dear, how dreadful! Suppose one of them should go off! Oh! Do be careful!

INKWELL [_insinuatingly_]. Have you changed your mind, Mr. Ivory? Have you decided to accept my proposition?

MISS IVORY. What is your proposition, Mr. Inkwell?

INKWELL [_goes left to Ruler_]. I believe your father wishes to discuss it with you. Mr. Ruler, will you have a smoke with me in the orangerie?

SUD [_corrects him with great disgust_]. Orangerie!!!

[_Inkwell and Ruler exeunt right._]

MISS IVORY [_crosses right--anxiously_]. What does he want to know--

IVORY [_almost breaking down. Sinks into chair left of table_]. Oh! My daughter--how can I tell you--how can I--I am ruined--ruined!

[_Sud rises, and beats time in rhythm like a conductor to their "Ohs."_]

MISS IVORY [_a little up and left of table_]. _You_--_ruined_--_Oh!_--

IVORY. Oh!

MISS IVORY. Oh!

SUD [_turning to Wouldby and whispering audibly_]. When you are hard up for conversation use Oh's--

[_Sits quickly._]

IVORY. We have lived beyond our means--Oh!--my child--I have only brought you misery--

MISS IVORY [_goes to father, stands back of his chair and caresses him_]. Poor father--don't take it that way--I _love_ you--we must live differently--anything you say--

WOULDBY [_to Sud_]. How sweet and sacrificial!

SUD [_enthusiastically_]. Ah! She's pure Ivory--a chip off the old block!

IVORY. That is not all. Inkwell represents the brick-layers; he will continue the strike unless I can buy him off.

[_Sud goes up right, to be behind them. Faces them. Follows every line in his manuscript._]

MISS IVORY. And you can't raise the money?

IVORY. He doesn't want money. He wants to marry you! He will stop at nothing to get me into prison--any place to crush me--he has power. I have cause to fear him.

[_Ivory at right._]

MISS IVORY [_at left. In distress_]. Oh! Oh!--How terrible--how terrible--what am I to say! Oh--father--and I can save you? And I hesitate? Yes--yes--I will--father!

[_Rushes to Ivory's arms._]

IVORY. Oh! My daughter! My child! My child!

MISS IVORY. Yes, father, I will, cost me what it may. I will.

[_She reads last line flatly._]

SUD. Miss Ivory! Show some feeling! Think how you feel when you read those lines!

MISS IVORY. I know how I feel [_impudently. Then with some feeling._] Yes, father, I will. Cost me what it may, I will, Mr. Inkwell!

SUD. Abandonment, Miss Ivory--abandonment--

MISS IVORY [_nods intelligently_]. Mr. Inkwell! Mr. Ink--we--all--!

IVORY [_rushing after Miss Ivory_]. Wait--think--consider--

[_Inkwell and Ruler enter right._]

INKWELL [_takes her hand_]. Ah, My dear!

IVORY [_with bowed head_]. Oh!

RULER [_in alarm, to Miss Ivory_]. My dear--what is it?

SUD. Now, there's your line of "what is it?" I tucked it in there.

MISS IVORY [_goes left to Mr. Ruler. Ivory is up center. Inkwell is right_]. I can't keep my promise to you--Mr. Ruler--please don't ask for an explanation.

RULER [_excited, rushing up to Mr. Ivory_]. What is it, Mr. Ivory?

IVORY [_in despair, taking Ruler's arm for support_]. Oh--I--am broken-hearted--she is going to marry Inkwell!

RULER. No!--no!--not while I live!

IVORY. It must be! Come with me--I'll tell you--alone!

RULER. Not while I live!

SUD [_excitedly_]. Mr. Ruler! Mr. Ruler! You go out too easily! Wait! I remember a precious line I cut out of one of my last year's plays. It is perfectly fresh! No novelty worn off and incontestably original! "I am coming back."

RULER [_deferentially Ruler writes the line_]. I am coming back--yes, sir. I am coming back.

SUD. There is no, "yes, sir," in it.

RULER. No, sir.

SUD. Do you wish to retire for a few minutes and commit to memory? [_Ruler repeats the line._] Now that we are reaching the climax I want as few interruptions and references to the book as possible--

RULER. I think I have it. [_All resume former positions. Sud climbs on his stool._] Cue please, Mr. Ivory.

IVORY [_drags Ruler across to go out right_]. Come with me--I'll tell you!--alone!

RULER. Not while I live! I am coming back! I am coming back!!!--I am coming back!

[_Exeunt Ivory and Ruler right. Sud tiptoes up center to make sure Mrs. Pencil is ready for her cue._]

INKWELL [_to Miss Ivory_]. Now that they have left us alone--my darling--let me tell you how I have waited for this moment--

MISS IVORY [_in despair and tears she tries to rush by to right, but he catches her_]. No, let me pass--now, now. I have said yes, let it go at that--I cannot talk now--not now--

[_Exit right weeping._]

MRS. PENCIL [_in fury of jealousy opens door and enters in rage_]. Coward! Villain!--I have been listening behind that door--all your false vows to me!

INKWELL [_he tries to choke her_]. Don't yell so!

MRS. PENCIL [_in ordinary tone_]. I will yell!

SUD [_delighted_]. Of course, she will! Shriek good, Mrs. Pencil.

MRS. PENCIL [_shrieks_]. Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah!

INKWELL [_they struggle. Grabs Mrs. Pencil to put his hand over her mouth_]. Stop--! Stop!

SUD. Tussle! Tussle! The audience loves it!

[_They fight._]

WOULDBY. But what did Inkwell do?

SUD [_talks fast over shoulder to Wouldby like a man in a fast auto talks to another passing_]. Can't you tell. Haven't decided yet! Explanation in last act. No time now. Reaching climax of play. Keep it up! Keep it up!

MRS. PENCIL [_yelling_]. Oh! The treachery--perjury--You are not fit to live! I'll have my revenge--Revenge! Bing! Bang! [_She grabs revolver from table and shoots Inkwell. He falls back and obligingly lies upon the table._] I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!

MISS IVORY [_having heard the shot and shrieks, runs in from the wing_]. Oh--who's hurt?

MRS. PENCIL [_turning and aiming revolver at Miss Ivory_]. Don't come near him or I'll shoot you!

RULER [_enters from right_]. What's the matter?

MISS IVORY [_screams at Ruler_]. _Don't_ move or she'll shoot _you_.

RULER [_taking a revolver out of his pocket aims it at Mrs. Pencil_]. Harm her and I'll shoot _you_!

INKWELL [_who has come to in the meantime, manages to get his own revolver out of his pocket, he half raises himself from his lying position on the table and aims at Ruler, crying hoarsely_]. You thought you could be my rival--the girl said she would be mine! If you shoot the woman she'll kill the girl. I'm going to save the girl. Shoot and I'll kill _YOU_!

MR. IVORY [_he enters from right and, hearing these desperate words--takes revolver from his pocket and aims at Inkwell! Screams in fear and rage_]. Stop! Save him or I'll shoot to kill! I'll shoot to kill! I'll shoot to kill!

WOULDBY [_thrilled and excited, cries out_]. Who shoots?

SUD [_overcome with sudden realization, jumps up, grabs his forehead_]. My God! It's a deadlock!!! I don't know who shoots!

OTHERS. Oh! Shoot the _AUTHOR_!!

[_Curtain._]

ENTER THE HERO

A COMEDY

BY THERESA HELBURN

Copyright, 1916, by Theresa Helburn. Copyright, 1918, by Egmont Arens.

All rights reserved.

ENTER THE HERO was first produced in San Francisco by the St. Francis Little Theater Players, on January 16th, 1918, with the following cast:

RUTH CAREY _Ruth Hammond_. ANNE CAREY _Helene Sullivan_. HAROLD LAWSON _Arthur Maitland_. MRS. CAREY _Julia Deane_.

Reprinted from No. 4, of the "Flying Stag Plays," published by Egmont Arens, by special permission of Miss Helburn. The professional and amateur stage rights on this play are strictly reserved by the author. Applications for permission to produce the play should be made to Egmont Arens, 17 West 8th St., New York.

ENTER THE HERO

A COMEDY BY THERESA HELBURN

[_The scene presents an upstairs sitting room in a comfortable house in a small city. The wall on the spectator's left is broken by a fireplace, and beyond that a door leading into the hall. At the back of the stage is a deep bay window from which one may have a view up and down the street. A door in the right wall leads to Anne Carey's bedroom. The sitting room, being Anne's particular property, is femininely furnished in chintz. A table desk with several drawers occupies an important place in the room, which is conspicuously rich in flowers._

_The curtain rises on an empty stage. Ruth Carey, a pretty girl of eighteen years, enters hurriedly, carrying a large box; she wears a hat and coat._]

RUTH. Oh, Anne, here's _another_ box of flowers! Anne, where are you?

VOICE FROM ANNE'S BEDROOM. In here. I thought you had gone out.

RUTH [_opening door left_]. I was just going when the expressman left these--and I wanted to see them. [_Looking into the bedroom._] Oh, how pretty your dress is. Turn round. Just adorable! May I open these?

THE VOICE. Yes, but hurry. It's late.

RUTH [_throwing her sister a kiss_]. You dear! It's almost like having a fiance of my own. Three boxes in two days! He's adorably extravagant. Oh, Anne, exquisite white roses! Come, look!

[_Anne Carey appears in the bedroom door. She is a girl of twenty-two. Her manner in this scene shows nervousness and suppressed excitement._]

ANNE. Yes, lovely. Get a bowl, Ruth. Quickly.

RUTH. I will. Here's a card. [_She hands Anne an envelope, goes to the door, then stops._] What does he say, Anne? May I see?

[_Anne, who has read the card quickly with a curious little smile, hands it back to her without turning._]

RUTH [_reading_]:

"The red rose whispers of passion And the white rose breathes of love; Oh, the red rose is a falcon, And the white rose is a dove.

"But I send you a cream-white rosebud With a flush on its petal tips, For the love that is purest and sweetest Has a kiss of desire on the lips.

Oh, how beautiful! Did he make that up, do you suppose? I didn't know he was a real poet.

ANNE [_who has been pinning some of the roses on her dress_]. Any one in love is a poet.

RUTH. It's perfectly beautiful! [_She takes a pencil and little notebook out of her pocket._] May I copy it in my "Harold Notebook"?

ANNE. Your _what_?

RUTH. I call it my "Harold Notebook." I've put down bits of his letters that you read me, the lovely bits that are too beautiful to forget. Do you mind?

ANNE. You silly child!

RUTH. Here, you may see it.... That's from the second letter he wrote you from Rio Janeiro. I just couldn't get over that letter. You know I made you read it to me three times. It was so--so delicate. I remembered this passage--see. "A young girl seems to me as exquisite and frail as a flower, and I feel myself a vandal in desiring to pluck and possess one. Yet, Anne, your face is always before me, and I know now what I was too stupid to realize before, that it was you and you only, who made life bearable for me last winter when I was a stranger and alone." Oh, Anne--[_Sighing rapturously._] that's the sort of love letters I've dreamed of getting. I don't suppose I ever shall.

ANNE. [_still looking over the notebook with her odd smile_]. Have you shown this to any one?

RUTH. Only to Caroline--in confidence. [_Pauses to see how Anne will take it._] But really, Anne, every one knows about Harold. You've told Madge and Eleanor, and I'm sure they've told the others. They don't say anything to us, but they do to Caroline and she tells me. [_Watching Anne's face._] You're not angry, are you, Anne?

ANNE. Yes, rather. [_Then eagerly._] What do they say?

RUTH. Oh, all sorts of things. Some of them horrid, of course! You can't blame them for being jealous. Here you are having just the sort of experience that any one of them would give their eye teeth to have. _I'd_ be jealous if you weren't my sister. As it is, I seem to get some of the glory myself.

ANNE [_pleads, but disparaging_]. But every girl has this experience sooner or later.

RUTH. Oh, not in this way. Everything that Harold does is beautiful, ideal. Jane Fenwick showed me some of Bob's letters. They were so dull, so prosaic! All about his salary and the corn crop. I was disgusted with them. So was she, I think, when she saw Harold's letters.

ANNE. Oh, you showed them to Jane, too?

RUTH [_a bit frightened_]. No, really I didn't. Caroline did. I lent her my notebook once overnight, and she gave Jane a peek--in the _strictest_ confidence. Jane really needed it. She was getting so cocky about Bob. Girls are funny things, aren't they?

ANNE [_who has been keenly interested in all of Ruth's gossip_]. What do you mean?

RUTH. It isn't so much the man, as the idea of a man--some one to dream about, and to talk about. When I think of getting engaged--I suppose I shall get engaged some day--I never think of being really, really kissed by a man--

ANNE. What do you think of?

RUTH. I always think of telling Caroline about it, showing my ring to her and to Madge. Oh, Madge is green with envy. I believe she thought Harold sort of liked her. [_Anne turns away._] She was so excited when she saw him in New York. She said she would have got off the bus and chased him, but he went into a house.... Anne, why didn't you tell us--me, at least--that Harold was back from South America, before we heard it from Madge?

ANNE. Just because.... I wanted to avoid all this.... It was hard enough to have him within a few hours' distance and know he could not get to me. But it was easier when no one else knew. Don't you understand?

RUTH. Yes, dear, of course I do--but still--

ANNE [_impatiently_]. Now, Ruth, it's quarter past four. You promised--

RUTH. I'm going ... right straight off ... unless--Oh, Anne, mayn't I stay and have just one peek. I won't let him see me, and then I'll run straight away?

ANNE. Oh, for heaven's sake, don't be naughty and silly! Clear out now, quickly, or--[_Changing her tone suddenly._] Ruth, dear, put yourself in my place. Think how you would feel if you were going to see the man you loved for the first time. That's what it really is. Think of it! Two years ago when he went away we were just the merest friends--and now--

RUTH. And now you're engaged to be married! Oh, isn't it the most romantic thing! Of course you want to be alone. Forgive me. Oh, Anne, how excited you must be!

ANNE [_with rather histrionic intensity_]. No, I'm strangely calm. And yet, Ruth, I'm afraid, terribly afraid.

RUTH. Why, what of?

ANNE [_acting_]. I don't know ... of everything ... of the unknown. All this has been so wonderful, if anything should happen I don't think I could bear it. I think I should die.

RUTH. Nonsense, dear, what can happen? You're just on edge. Well, I'll be off. I'll join Mother at Aunt Nellie's. Give my love to Harold. You know I've never called him anything but Mr. Lawson to his face. Isn't that funny? Good-by, dear. [_Throwing Anne a kiss._] You look so sweet.

ANNE [_her hands on Ruth's shoulders for an impressive moment_]. Good-by, Ruth. Good-by.

[_They kiss. Ruth goes. Left alone, a complete change comes over Anne. She drops the romantic attitude. She is nervously determined. She quickly arranges the flowers, takes out the box, etc., straightens the room, and surveys herself rapidly in the mirror. There is a sound of wheels outside. Anne goes to the bay window and looks out. Then she stands erect in the grip of an emotion that is more like terror than anticipation. Hearing the sound of footsteps on the stair she is panic-stricken and about to bolt, but at the sound of voices she pulls herself together and stands motionless._]

MAN'S VOICE [_outside_]. In here? All right!

[_Harold Lawson enters, a well set up, bronzed, rather commonplace young man of about twenty-eight. He sees no one on his entry, but as he advances into the room, Anne comes down from the bay window._]

HAROLD. Hello, Miss Carey, how are you? Splendid to see you again, after all this time. [_Anne looks at him without speaking, which slightly embarrasses him._] You're looking fine. How's your mother--and little Ruth?

ANNE [_slowly_]. Welcome home.

HAROLD. Oh, thanks. It's rather nice to be back in God's country. But it's not for long this time.

ANNE. Are you going away again?

HAROLD. Yes. I've another appointment. This one in India, some big salt mines. Not bad, eh? I made pretty good in Brazil, they tell me.

ANNE [_nervously_]. Sit down.

HAROLD. Thanks. Hot for September, isn't it? Though I ought to be used to heat by this time. Sometimes the thermometer would run a hundred and eight for a week on end. Not much fun, that.

ANNE. No, indeed.

HAROLD [_settling back comfortably to talk about himself_]. You know I loathed it down there at first. What with all the foreigners and the rotten weather and the bugs--thought I'd never get into the swing. Wanted to chuck engineering for any old job that was cool, but after a while--

ANNE. How long have you been home?

HAROLD. About three weeks. I'd really been meaning to come out here and have a look round my old haunts, but there was business in New York, and I had to go South and see my family--you know how time flies. Then your note came. It was mighty jolly of you to ask me out here. By the way, how did you know I was back?

ANNE [_after a pause_]. Madge Kennedy caught sight of you in New York.

HAROLD. Did she really? How is little Madge? And that odd brother of hers. Is he just as much of a fool as ever? I remember once he said to me--

ANNE. Oh, I didn't ask you here to talk about Madge Kennedy's family.

HAROLD [_taken aback_]. No ... no, of course, not. I--I've been wondering just why you did ask me. You said you wanted to talk to me about something.

ANNE [_gently_]. Weren't you glad to come?

HAROLD. Why, of course I was. Of course. And then your note fired my curiosity--your asking me to come straight to you before seeing any one else.

ANNE. Aren't you glad to be here with me?

HAROLD. Why surely, of course, but--[_Pause._]

ANNE. You see, people seemed to expect you would come to see me first of all. I rather expected it myself. Don't you understand?

HAROLD [_very uncomfortably_]. No.... I'm afraid I don't....

ANNE. From the way you acted before you went away I thought you, yourself, would want to see me first of all.

HAROLD. Before I went away? What do you mean?

ANNE. You know well enough what I mean. The parties those last weeks--the theater we went to--the beautiful flowers you sent Mother--the letter--

HAROLD. But--but--why, I was going away. You and your people had been awfully nice to me, a perfect stranger in town. I was simply trying to do the decent thing. Good Lord! You don't mean to say you thought--

ANNE [_watching him very closely_]. Yes, it's true, I thought--and every one else thought--I've been waiting these two years for you to come back.

[_She drops her face into her hands. Her shoulders shake._]

HAROLD [_jumping up_]. Great Heavens! I never imagined--Why, Miss Carey, I--oh, I'm terribly sorry! [_She continues to sob._] Please don't do that--please! I'd better go away--I'll clear out--I'll go straight off to India--I'll never bother you again.

[_He seized his hat, and is making, in a bewildered way, for the door, when she intercepts him._]

ANNE. No. You mustn't go away!

HAROLD. But what can I do?

ANNE [_striking a tragic attitude_]. You mean to say you don't care at all--that you have never cared?

HAROLD. Really, Miss Carey, I--

ANNE. For heaven's sake, don't call me Miss Carey. Call me Anne.

HAROLD. Miss Carey.... Anne.... I.... Oh, you'd better let me go--let me get away before any one knows I'm here--before they think--

ANNE. It's too late. They think already.

HAROLD. Think what? What do you mean?

ANNE. Oh, this is terrible! Sit down, Harold, and listen to me. [_She pushes him into a chair and begins to talk very rapidly, watching intently the effect of her words upon him._] You see, when you went away, people began to say things about us--you and me--about your caring. I let them go on. In fact I believed them. I suppose it was because I wanted so much to believe them. Oh, what a fool I've been! What a fool!

[_She covers her face with her hands. He gets up intending vaguely to comfort her, but she thinks he is making another move to go, and jumps to her feet._]

ANNE. And now you want to clear out like a thief in the night, and leave me to be laughed at! No, no, you can't do that! You must help me. You've hurt me to the very soul. You mustn't humiliate me before the world.

HAROLD. I'll do anything I can, Miss Carey.

ANNE. Anne!

HAROLD. Anne, I mean. But how?

ANNE [_after a moment's thought, as if the idea had just come to her_]. You must stay here. You must pretend for a few days--for a week at most, that we're engaged.

HAROLD. I can't do that, you know. Really, I can't.

ANNE [_going to him_]. Why not? Only a little while. Then you'll go away to India. We'll find it's been a mistake. I'll break it off,--it will only be a pretense, of course, but at least no one will know what a fool I've been.

HAROLD [_after a moment's hesitation_]. Miss Carey--Anne, I mean, I'll do anything I can, but not that! A man can't do that. You see, there's a girl, an English girl, down in Brazil, I--

ANNE. Oh, a girl! Another! Well, after all, what does that matter? Brazil is a long way off. She need never know.

HAROLD. She might hear. You can't keep things like this hid. No. I wouldn't risk that. You'd better let me clear out before your family gets home. No one need ever know I've been here.

[_Again he makes a move toward the door. Anne stands motionless._]

ANNE. You can't go. You can't. It's more serious than you imagine.

HAROLD. Serious? What do you mean?

ANNE. Come here. [_He obeys. She sits in a big chair, but avoids looking at him. There is a delicate imitation of a tragic actress in the way she tells her story._] I wonder if I can make you understand? It means so much to me that you should--so much! Harold, you know how dull life is here in this little town. You were glad enough to get away after a year of it, weren't you? Well, it's worse for a girl, with nothing to do but sit at home--and dream--of you. Yes, that's what I did, until, at last, when I couldn't stand it any longer, I wrote you.

HAROLD [_quickly_]. I never got the letter, Miss Carey. Honor bright, I didn't.

ANNE. Perhaps not, but you answered it.

HAROLD. Answered it? What are you talking about?

ANNE. Would you like to see your answer? [_She goes to the desk, takes a packet of letters out of a drawer, selects one, and hands it to him._] Here it is--your answer. You see it's post-marked Rio Janeiro.

HAROLD [_taking it wonderingly_]. This does look like my writing. [_Reads._] "Anne, my darling--" I say, what does this mean?

ANNE. Go on.

HAROLD [_reading_]. "I have your wonderful letter. It came to me like rain in the desert. Can it be true, Anne, that you do care? I ask myself a hundred times what I have done to deserve this. A young girl seems to me as exquisite and frail as a flower--" Great Scott! You don't think _I_ could have written such stuff! What in the world!

ANNE [_handing over another letter_]. Here's the next letter you wrote me, from the mine. It's a beautiful one. Read it.

HAROLD [_tears it open angrily, and reads_]. "I have been out in the night under the stars. Oh, that you were here, my beloved! It is easy to stand the dust and the turmoil of the mine without you, but beauty that I cannot share with you hurts me like a pain--"

[_He throws the letter on the table and turns toward her, speechless._]

ANNE [_inexorably_]. Yes, that's an exceptionally beautiful one. But there are more--lots more. Would you like to see them?

HAROLD. But I tell you, I never wrote them. These aren't my letters.

ANNE. Whose are they, then?

HAROLD [_walking up and down furiously_]. God knows! This is some outrageous trick. You've been duped, you poor child. But we'll get to the bottom of this. Just leave it to me. I'll get detectives. I'll find out who's back of it! I'll--

[_He comes face to face with her and finds her looking quietly at him with something akin to critical interest._]

HAROLD. Good Lord. What's the matter with me! You don't believe those letters. You couldn't think I wrote them, or you wouldn't have met me as you did, quite naturally, as an old friend. _You understand!_ For heaven's sake, make it clear to me!

ANNE. I am trying to.... I told you there had to be ... answers.... I was afraid to send my letters to you, but there had to be answers. [_Harold stares at her._] So I wrote them myself.

HAROLD. You wrote them yourself?!?

ANNE. Yes.

HAROLD. These? These very letters?

ANNE. Yes. I had to.

HAROLD. Good God! [_He gazes at the litter of letters on the desk in stupefied silence._] But the handwriting.

ANNE. Oh, that was easy. I had the letter you wrote to Mother.

HAROLD. And you learned to imitate my handwriting?

ANNE [_politely_]. It was very good writing.

HAROLD [_in sudden apprehension_]. No one has seen these things,--have they?

ANNE. They arrived by mail.

HAROLD. You mean people saw the envelopes. Yes, that's bad enough.... But you haven't shown them to any one? [_At her silence he turns furiously upon her._] Have you?... Have you?

ANNE [_who enjoys her answer and its effect upon him_]. Only parts--never a whole letter. But it was such a pleasure to be able to talk about you to some one. My only pleasure.

HAROLD. Good heavens! You told people I wrote these letters? That we were engaged?

ANNE. I didn't mean to, Harold. Really, I didn't. But I couldn't keep it dark. There were your telegrams.

HAROLD. My telegrams?!?

[_She goes to desk and produces a bundle of dispatches._]

ANNE [_brazen in her sincerity_]. You used to wire me every time you changed your address. You were very thoughtful, Harold. But, of course, I couldn't keep those secret like your letters.

HAROLD [_standing helplessly, with the telegrams loose in his fingers_]. My telegrams! Good Lord! [_He opens one and reads_.] "Leaving Rio for fortnight of inspection in interior. Address care Senor Miguel--" _My_ telegrams!

[_He flings the packet violently on the table, thereby almost upsetting a bowl of roses which he hastens to preserve._]

ANNE. And then there were your flowers. I see you are admiring them.

[_Harold withdraws as if the flowers were charged with electricity._]

HAROLD. What flowers?

ANNE. These--these--all of them. You sent me flowers every week while you were gone.

HAROLD [_overcome_]. Good God!

[_He has now reached the apex of his amazement and becomes sardonic._]

ANNE. Yes. You were extravagant with flowers, Harold. Of course I love them, but I had to scold you about spending so much money.

HAROLD. Spending so much money? And what did I say when you scolded me?

ANNE [_taken aback only for a moment by his changed attitude_]. You sent me a bigger bunch than ever before--and--wait a minute--here's the card you put in it.

[_She goes to the same fatal desk and produces a package of florists' cards._]

HAROLD. Are all those my cards too?

ANNE. Yes.

HAROLD [_laughing a bit wildly_]. I'm afraid I was a bit extravagant!

ANNE. Here's the one! You wrote: "If all that I have, and all that I am, is too little to lay before you, how can these poor flowers be much?"

HAROLD. I wrote that? Very pretty--very. I'd forgotten I had any such knack at sentiments.

ANNE. And then, right away, you sent me the ring.

HAROLD [_jumps, startled out of his sardonic pose_]. Ring! What ring?

ANNE. My engagement ring. You really were very extravagant that time, Harold.

HAROLD [_looking fearfully at her hands_]. But I don't see.... You're not wearing...?

ANNE. Not there--here, next to my heart. [_She takes out a ring which hangs on a chain inside her frock and presses it to her lips. Looking at him deeply._] I adore sapphires, Harold.

[_A new fear comes into Harold's eyes. He begins to humor her._]

HAROLD. Yes. Yes. Of course. Everyone likes sapphires, Anne. It is a beauty. Yes. [_He comes very close to her, and speaks very gently, as if to a child._] You haven't shown your ring to any one, have you, Anne?

ANNE. Only to a few people--One or two.

HAROLD. A few people! Good heavens! [_Then he controls himself, takes her hands gently in his, and continues speaking, as if to a child._] Sit down, Anne; we must talk this over a little,--very quietly, you understand, very quietly. Now to begin with, when did you first--

ANNE [_breaks away from him with a little laugh_]. No, I'm not crazy. Don't be worried. I'm perfectly sane. I had to tell you all this to show how serious it was. Now you know. What are you going to do?

HAROLD. Do? [_He slowly straightens up as if the knowledge of her sanity had relieved him of a heavy load._] I'm going to take the next train back to New York.

ANNE. And leave me to get out of this before people all alone?

HAROLD. You got into it without my assistance, didn't you? Great Scott, you forged those letters in cold blood--

ANNE. Not in cold blood, Harold. Remember, I cared.

HAROLD. I don't believe it. [_Accusingly._] You enjoyed writing those letters!

ANNE. Of course I enjoyed it. It meant thinking of you, talking of--

HAROLD. Rot! Not of me, really. You didn't think I am really the sort of person who could write that--that drivel!

ANNE [_hurt_]. Oh, I don't know. After a while I suppose you and my dream got confused.

HAROLD. But it was the rankest--

ANNE. Oh, I'm not so different from other girls. We're all like that. [_Repeating Ruth's phrase reminiscently._] We must have some one to dream about--to talk about. I suppose it's because we haven't enough to do. And then we don't have any--any real adventures like--shop girls.

HAROLD [_surprised at this bit of reality_]. That's a funny thing to say!

ANNE. Well, it's true. I know I went rather far. After I got started I couldn't stop. I didn't want to, either. It took hold of me. So I went on and on and let people think whatever they wanted. But if you go now and people find out what I've done, they'll think I'm really mad--or something worse. Life will be impossible for me here, don't you see--impossible. [_Harold is silent._] But if you stay, it will be so easy. Just a day or two. Then you will have to go to India. Is that much to ask? [_Acting._] And you save me from disgrace, from ruin!

[_Harold remains silent, troubled._]

ANNE [_becoming impassioned_]. You must help me. You _must_. After I've been so frank with you, you can't go back on me now. I've never in my life talked to any one like this--so openly. You _can't_ go back on me! If you leave me here to be laughed at, mocked at by every one, I don't know what I shall do. I shan't be responsible. If you have any kindness, any chivalry.... Oh, for God's sake, Harold, help me, help me!

[_Kneels at his feet._]

HAROLD. I don't know.... I'm horribly muddled.... All right, I'll stay!

ANNE. Good! Good! Oh, you are fine! I knew you would be. Now everything will be so simple. [_The vista opens before her._] We will be very quiet here for a couple of days. We won't see many people, for of course it isn't announced. And then you will go ... and I will write you a letter....

HAROLD [_disagreeably struck by the phrase_]. Write me a letter? What for?

ANNE [_ingenuously_]. Telling you that I have been mistaken. Releasing you from the engagement ... and you will write me an answer ... sad but manly ... reluctantly accepting my decision....

HAROLD. Oh, I am to write an answer, sad but manly--Good God! Suppose you don't release me after all.

ANNE. Don't be silly, Harold. I promise. Can't you trust me?

HAROLD. Trust you? [_His eyes travel quickly from the table littered with letters and dispatches to the flowers that ornament the room, back to the table and finally to the ring that now hangs conspicuously on her breast. She follows the look and instinctively puts her hand to the ring._] Trust you? By Jove, no, I don't trust you! This is absurd, I don't stay another moment. Say what you will to people. I'm off. This is final.

ANNE [_who has stepped to the window_]. You can't go now. I hear Mother and Ruth coming.

HAROLD. All the more reason. [_He finds his hat._] I bolt.

ANNE [_blocking the door_]. You can't go, Harold! Don't corner me. I'll fight like a wildcat if you do.

HAROLD. Fight?

ANNE. Yes. A pretty figure you'll cut if you bolt now. They'll think you a cad--an out and out cad! Haven't they seen your letters come week by week, and your presents? And you have written to Mother, too--I have your letter. There won't be anything bad enough to say about you. They'll say you jilted me for that English girl in Brazil. It will be true, too. And it will get about. She'll hear of it, I'll see to that--and then--

HAROLD. But it's a complete lie! I can explain--

ANNE. You'll have a hard time explaining your letters and your presents--and your ring. There's a deal of evidence against you--

HAROLD. See here, are you trying to blackmail me? Oh, this is too ridiculous!

ANNE. They're coming! I hear them on the stairs! What are you going to tell them?

HAROLD. The truth. I must get clear of all this. I tell you--

ANNE [_suddenly clinging to him_]. No, no, Harold! Forgive me, I was just testing you. I will get you out of this. Leave it to me.

HAROLD [_struggling with her_]. No, I won't leave anything to you, _ever_.

ANNE [_still clinging tightly_]. Harold, remember I am a woman--and I love you.

[_This brings him up short a moment to wonder, and in this moment there is a knock at the door._]

ANNE [_abandoning Harold_]. Come in. [_There is a discreet pause._]

MRS. CAREY'S VOICE [_off stage_]. May we come in?

ANNE [_angrily_]. Yes!

[_Harold, who has moved toward the door, meets Mrs. Carey as she enters. She throws her arms about his neck and kisses him warmly. She is followed by Ruth._]

MRS. CAREY. Harold! My door boy!

RUTH [_clutching his arm_]. Hello, Harold. I am so glad.

[_Harold, temporarily overwhelmed by the onslaught of the two women, is about to speak, when Anne interrupts dramatically._]

ANNE. Wait a moment, Mother. Before you say anything more I must tell you that Harold and I are no longer engaged!

[_Mrs. Carey and Ruth draw away from Harold in horror-struck surprise._]

MRS. CAREY. No longer engaged? Why.... What...?

HAROLD. Really, Mrs. Carey, I--

ANNE [_interrupts, going to her mother_]. Mother, dear, be patient with me, trust me, I beg of you--and please, please don't ask me any questions. Harold and I have had a very hard--a very painful hour together. I don't think I can stand any more.

[_She is visibly very much exhausted, gasping for breath._]

MRS. CAREY. Oh, my poor child, what is it? What has he done?

[_She supports Anne on one side while Ruth hurries to the other._]

HAROLD. Really, Mrs. Carey, I think I can explain.

ANNE. No, Harold, there's no use trying to explain. There are some things a woman feels, about which she cannot reason. I know I am doing right.

HAROLD [_desperately_]. Mrs. Carey, I assure you--

ANNE [_as if on the verge of a nervous crisis_]. Oh, please, _please_, Harold, don't protest any more. I am not blaming you. Understand, Mother, I am not blaming him. But my decision is irrevocable. I thought you understood. I beg you to go away. You have just time to catch the afternoon express.

HAROLD. Nonsense, Anne, you must let me--

ANNE [_wildly_]. No, no, Harold, it is finished! Don't you understand? Finished! [_She abandons the support of her mother and Ruth and goes to the table._] See, here are your letters. I am going to burn them. [_She throws the packet into the fire._] All your letters--[_She throws the dispatches into the fire._] Don't, please, continue this unendurable situation any longer. Go, I beg of you, go!

[_She is almost hysterical._]

HAROLD. But I tell you I must--

ANNE [_falling back in her mother's arms_]. Make him go, Mother! Make him go!

MRS. CAREY. Yes, go! Go, sir! Don't you see you are torturing the child. I insist upon your going.

RUTH. Yes, she is in a dreadful state.

[_Here Mrs. Carey and Ruth fall into simultaneous urgings._]

HAROLD [_who has tried in vain to make himself heard_]. All right, I'm going, I give up!

[_He seizes his hat and rushes out, banging the door behind him. Anne breaks away from her mother and sister, totters rapidly to the door and calls down gently._]

ANNE. Not in anger, I beg of you, Harold! I am not blaming you. Good-by.

[_The street door is heard to bang. Anne collapses in approved tragedy style._]

ANNE [_gasping_]. Get some water, Ruth. I shall be all right in a moment.

[_Ruth rushes into the bedroom._]

MRS. CAREY. Oh, my dear child, calm yourself. Mother is here, dear. She will take care of you. Tell me, dear, tell me.

[_Ruth returns with the water. Anne sips a little._]

ANNE. I will, Mother--I will ... everything ... later. [_She drinks._] But now I must be alone. Please, dear, go away ... for a little while. I must be alone [_Rising and moving to the fire._] with the ruin of my dreams.

[_She puts her arms on the chimney shelf and drops her head on them._]

RUTH. Come, Mother! Come away!

MRS. CAREY. Yes, I am coming. We shall be in the next room, Annie, when you want us. Right here.

ANNE [_as they go out, raises her head and murmurs_]. Dust and ashes! Dust and ashes!

[_As soon as they have gone, Anne straightens up slowly. She pulls herself together after the physical strain of her acting. Then she looks at the watch on her wrist and sighs a long triumphant sigh. Her eye falls on the desk and she sees the package of florists' cards still there. She picks them up, returns with them to the fire and is about to throw them in, when her eye is caught by the writing on one. She takes it out and reads it. Then she takes another--and another. She stops and looks away dreamily. Then slowly, she moves back to the desk, drops the cards into a drawer and locks it. She sits brooding at the desk and the open paper before her seems to fascinate her. As if in a dream she picks up a pencil. A creative look comes into her eyes. Resting her chin on her left arm, she begins slowly to write, murmuring to herself._]

ANNE [_reading as she writes_]. "Anne, my dearest.... I am on the train ... broken, shattered.... Why have you done this to me ... why have you darkened the sun ... and put out the stars ... put out the stars?... Give me another chance, Anne.... I will make good.... I promise you.... For God's sake, Anne, don't shut me out of your life utterly.... I cannot bear it.... I...."

[_The Curtain has fallen slowly as she writes._]

THE SHEPHERD IN THE DISTANCE

A PANTOMIME

BY HOLLAND HUDSON

Copyright, 1920, by Frank Shay. All rights reserved.

THE SHEPHERD IN THE DISTANCE was first produced by the Washington Square Players, at the Bandbox Theatre, New York City, on the night of March 26, 1915, with the following cast:

THE PRINCESS _Frances Paine_. THE ATTENDANT _Beatrice Savelli_. THE SHEPHERD _Robert Locher_. THE WAZIR _Arvid Paulson_. THE VIZIER _John Alan Houghton_. GHURRI-WURRI [_the Beggar_} _Harry Day_. THE GOAT _E. J. Ballantine_. SLAVES OF THE PRINCESS { _Josephine Niveson_. { _Edwina Behre_. THE MAKER OF SOUNDS _Robert Edwards_.

Produced under the direction of William Pennington. Scenes and costumes designed by Robert Locker.

PROGRAM

THE PERSONS:

THE PRINCESS. THE ATTENDANT. THE SLAVES. THE WAZIR [_her guardian_]. THE VIZIER. THE NUBIAN. THE SHEPHERD. THE GOAT. GHURRI-WURRI. THE MAKER OF SOUNDS.

THE SHEPHERD IN THE DISTANCE is published for the first time. The editors are indebted to Mr. Holland Hudson for permission to include it in this volume. The professional and amateur stage rights on this pantomime are strictly reserved by the author. Applications for permission to produce the pantomime should be made to Frank Shay, Care Stewart & Kidd Company, Cincinnati, Ohio.

THE ACTION:

I. The Princess beholds The Shepherd in the Distance and goes in quest of him. II. Ghurri-Wurri, enraged by the Princess' meager alms, swears vengeance. III. He reveals her destination to the Wazir. IV. Pursuit ensues. V. The Princess meets The Shepherd in the Distance. Her capture is averted by the faithful Goat. VI. The Goat's long head evolves a means of rescuing The Shepherd from the cruel Wazir. VII. The Princess joins The Shepherd in the Distance.

THE STORY.[1]

Of the Princess, we know only that she was fair and slender as the lily, that somehow the fat and stupid Wazir became her guardian, and that he neglected her utterly and played chess eternally in the garden with his almost-equally-stupid Vizier. Is it any wonder she was bored?

One afternoon the Princess called for her ivory telescope, and, placing it to her eye, sought relief from the deadly ennui which her guardian caused. In the Distance she discerned a Shepherd, playing upon his pipe for the dancing of his favorite Goat. While he played the Princess marveled at his comeliness. She had never seen before a man so pleasing in face and person. At the end of his tune it seemed to her that the Shepherd turned and beckoned to her. She dared watch him no longer, lest her guardian observe her.

When the Wazir, the Vizier and the Nubian were deep in their afternoon siesta, the Princess stole out of the garden with her personal retinue and her small, but precious hope chests, and set forth toward the Distance.

Now on the highway between the foreground and the Distance lived a wretched and worthless beggar who had even lost his name and was called Ghurri-Wurri because he looked absolutely as miserable as that. He pretended to be blind and wore dark spectacles. The greatest affliction of his life was that his dark spectacles prevented him from inspecting the coins that fell in his palm, and he received more than his share of leaden counterfeits.

When Ghurri-Wurri observed the approach of the Princess and her retinue he reasoned from the richness of their attire that alms would be plentiful and large and he fawned and groveled before them. The Princess was generous, but she was also in haste, so bade her attendant give him the first coin that came to hand, and hurried on.

Ghurri-Wurri's rage knew no bounds. He wept, he stamped, he shook his fists, he railed, and he cursed. Then, perceiving the Princess' destination, he made haste to notify her guardian. The Wazir would not believe him at first and the beggar would have lost his head if he had not happened on the Princess' telescope and placed it in the Wazir's hand.

Gazing toward the Distance, the Wazir saw the Princess and her retinue nearing their destination. He lost his temper and did all of the undignified things which Ghurri-Wurri had done. Then, with the Vizier and the Nubian, he set forth in pursuit, forcing the reluctant Ghurri-Wurri to guide them. They ran like the wind, till the beggar gasped and staggered, only to be jerked to his feet and forced on by the implacable Vizier, who was cruel as well as stupid.

Meanwhile the Princess arrived in the Distance. The Shepherd, who was as wise as he was comely, had proper regard for her rank and danced in her honor to his own piping. They had scarcely spoken to each other when the faithful Goat warned them of the furious approach of the raging Wazir. The Goat carried the Princess to a place of safety on his back while the Shepherd stayed to delay her pursuers. Of the Nubian he made short work indeed, but the Vizier overcame him with his great scimiter and they led him captive to the garden, leaving Ghurri-Wurri cursing on the sands.

Arrived at the garden, the Wazir ordered the Shepherd bound in chains and went on with his chess game. The Shepherd, in a gesture of despair, came upon the Princess' telescope and, seeking some ray of hope, gazed into the Distance. Here he saw the Princess and his faithful Goat, who, he perceived, had invented a plan for his deliverance.

Soon the Princess returned to the garden, disguised as a wandering dancer. She danced before the Wazir and pleased him so much that he bade her come nearer. She did so, and bound the Vizier's arms with a scarf, which so amused the Wazir that he laughed loud and long. Then she bound the Wazir's arms in the same manner and it was the Vizier's turn to laugh. Into their laughing mouths she thrust two poisoned pills so that in another instant they fell over, quite dead, amongst the chessmen.

The omnivorous Goat delivered the Shepherd from his chains with his strong teeth and they all returned to the Distance, where they still dwell in more-than-perfect bliss and may be discerned through an ivory telescope any fine afternoon.

[1] A synopsis for readers only.

CONCERNING THE SCENERY.

In the original production by The Washington Square Players, THE SHEPHERD IN THE DISTANCE was played in front of backgrounds of black velvet. The garden scene consisted of a black velvet drop about half-way between the curtain and back-wall, upon which a decorative white design merely suggesting the garden and its gate was appliqued. This drop was made in three sections, the middle one hung on a separate set of lines so that it could be raised to show the "Distance" (as seen through the telescope) without disturbing the rest of the scene.

The "Distance" consisted of a velvet drop hung slightly behind the middle section of the garden scene, on the middle of which two large, white concentric circles were appliqued around a circular opening about five feet in diameter. The bottom of the opening was about eighteen inches above the stage. Behind this stood a platform just large enough to hold four characters at one time. Black masking drapes were provided at both sides of the stage and behind the platform.

The Prologue, Scenes II, IV, V, the first part of Scene VII and the Epilogue were all played before a plain velvet drop hung a few feet upstage of the curtain line.

THE SHEPHERD IN THE DISTANCE has also been produced in colors very effectively by the Hollywood Community Theatre, at Hollywood, California. There is no reason why any highly decorative treatment of scenery and costuming will not enhance the production if it be well planned and consistent throughout.

IMPORTANT PROPERTIES.

The properties consist principally of a small chess table with most of the chessmen glued on, two stools, a telescope, a balloon and papier mache chain which are employed as a ball and chain, a very large Chinese crash cymbal for the stage manager's use, and such personal properties as occur in the text.

COSTUMES AND MAKE-UP.

Whatever scheme is selected for the scenery, the costumes and make-up should be consistent with it. In the original production, all of the characters but the Nubian were made up completely with clown white or "Plexo," the eyebrows and eyes outlined in black and mouths rouged but slightly. No unwhitened flesh was visible at all.

The Princess wore a white satin pseudo-Oriental costume with stiff ruffs at the collar, wrists and knees, the trousers not gathered at the ankles, a flat close-fitting turban with a number of ornaments and a hanging veil, and white slippers. In the dance in Scene VI she used a long black gauze scarf and a white one. Her attendant wore a similar costume of cheaper material, an unornamented turban and black slippers. Her slaves were also similarly garbed, in cotton, but with bulkier turbans, and baggy trousers, gathered at the ankles.

The Wazir, armed with a preposterous "corporation," wore baggy white trousers, gathered at the ankles, a sleeveless vest with wide, horizontal black-and-white stripes, a white cloak hanging from his shoulders which terminated in a large black tassel, a turban, a beard made of several lengths of black portiere cord sewed to white gauze, and white pointed shoes. His bare arms were whitened, his eyebrows were short, thick and high up on his forehead, and he carried a black snuff-box.

The Vizier's white trousers were not so full as the Wazir's; his tight white vest had tight white sleeves; his cloak was shorter and without a tassel. His white turban, however, was decorated with antennae of white milliner's wire. He affected high arching eyebrows, a long pointed nose, a drooping mustache, a disdainful mouth, carried a white wooden scimiter about four feet long with a black handle and wore bells on his pointed white shoes.

The Nubian wore black tights and shirt, black slippers and a white skull cap and breech-clout. The rest of him, excepting his eyes and mouth, which were whitened, was a symphony in burnt cork.

The Shepherd wore white, knee-length trunks, frayed at the ends, a little drapery about the upper man, slippers and a cap. His body was whitened profusely and he carried a tiny flute.

The Goat wore a white furry skin, horns, and foot and hand coverings resembling hoofs. His make-up approached the animal's face as nearly as possible.

Ghurri-Wurri wore tattered white baggy trousers, vest and cloak, a turban and black goggles.

The Maker of Sounds was garbed in an all-enveloping white burnous and a white skull cap.

A FEW STAGE DIRECTIONS.

Left and right, in this text, refer to the actor's, not the spectator's, point of view. The action of the piece is meant to be two-dimensional; the actors are to perform in profile as far as possible; except when registry of facial expression is important the action should be parallel with the back drop.

The entire action must be rhythmical and the rhythms should be used as definite themes, one for the Princess and her retinue, another for the Wazir, etc. The performance should be extremely rapid and must never drag. The cast should direct special attention to the comic features, and the director to the pictorial elements of the piece. The director may consider the performance as an animated poster which moves rapidly from design to design.

THE SHEPHERD IN THE DISTANCE

A PANTOMIME BY HOLLAND HUDSON

PROLOGUE.

[_The curtain rises on a plain drop curtain. The Maker of Sounds enters with his arms full of instruments, crosses the scene and sits with his back against one side of the proscenium, outside the curtain line. He tries out all his instruments, wind, string, percussion and "traps." He yawns. He becomes impatient and raps on the stage._]

Cymbal Crash The lights go out The drop is lifted in the darkness

Cymbal Crash The lights are turned on

## SCENE I.

[_The Wazir's garden. Discovered left to right, the Nubian, standing with folded arms, the Vizier, seated at the chess table, playing with the Wazir. At the other side of the stage, the Princess, her attendant, her two slaves. All stand motionless until set in action by the Maker of Sounds._]

_The Music_ _The Pantomime, etc._

Tap--on Chinese wood _Nubian_ unfolds his arms block

Tap He salaams

Tap Resumes original pose

Tap _Vizier_ moves a chessman

Tap _Wazir_ moves a chessman

Tap _Vizier_ moves a chessman

Tap _Wazir_ picks up snuff-box

Tap Opens it

Tap Offers Vizier snuff

Tap _Vizier_ takes a pinch

Sand blocks Sniffs it

Drum crash _Vizier_ sneezes

Drum crash Sneezes again

No sound Sneezes again _Nubian_ sneezes synchronously with Vizier's paroxysms

Tap _Vizier_ returns snuff-box

Tap _Wazir_ puts it away

Bell _Princess_ yawns

Tap Signals her attendant

Tap _Attendant_ picks up telescope

Tap Hands it to Princess

Wind instrument _Princess_ uses telescope [The middle portion of the back drop is lifted to show the "Distance" in which the _Shepherd_ is discovered piping for the _Goat's_ dancing.]

Stringed instrument _The Shepherd_ sees the Princess, stops piping, and declares his adoration across the distance. He beckons her to join him. _Princess_ promises to do so. [The lifted portion of the drop is lowered again. The "Distance" vanishes.]

Tap _Princess_ signals to her retinue

Tap _Attendant_ relays the signal

Tap _Slaves_ stoop.

Tap Lift the hope chests to their shoulders

Bass chord on _Princess and retinue_ take one step stringed instrument downstage

Treble chord All lean forward, watching Wazir

Drum crash _Wazir_ and _Vizier_ stand up

Drum crash They glare at Princess

Tap on wood block They sit

Bass chord _Vizier_ yawns

Bass chord _Wazir_ yawns

Bass chord _Nubian_ yawns

Bass chord _Vizier_ nods

Bass chord _Wazir_ nods

Bass chord _Nubian_ drops on one knee

Treble chord _Princess and retinue_ lean forward

Bass chord They take one step [A continuation of this business takes them off at the left] The lights go out

Cymbal crash [In the darkness. _Princess and retinue_ cross to right of stage, ready for

## Scene II]

The plain drop is lowered

Cymbal crash The lights come up

## SCENE II.

_The Music_ _The Pantomime, etc._

Tambourine jingles _Ghurri-Wurri_ discovered above at center, with his dark glasses pushed up on his forehead, counting his money.

Tap on piece He finds a bad coin of crockery

Sand blocks Bites it

Tap crockery Throws it away

Begins the Princess Hears the _Princess and retinue_ approaching rhythms on Chinese wood block

[Telegraphically He pulls glasses over his eyes expressed it is ... ... ... ... Musically, accented triplets, common time, _presto_] He grovels

Princess rhythm _Princess and retinue_ enter from the right continues They pass by Ghurri-Wurri without pause

Drum crash _Ghurri-Wurri_ runs ahead and prostrates himself before the Princess

Tap _Princess' retinue_ halts

Tap _Princess_ signals to attendant

Tap _Attendant_ signals to nearest slave

Tap _Slave_ proffers chest

Tap, Tap, Tap _Attendant_ opens it, takes coin, closes it

Tap Gives coin to Princess

Tap on crockery _Princess_ drops coin in beggar's hand

Princess rhythm _Princess and retinue_ exit at the left

Begin drum roll _Ghurri-Wurri_ looks at coin, scrambles to _pp. cresc. to ff._ his feet, looks after Princess, shakes his fists, starts to the right, turns, shakes his fist again, exits at right, raging

Cymbal crash Lights out In the darkness Ghurri-Wurri crosses to left of stage, ready for Scene III The drop is lifted

Cymbal crash Lights up

## SCENE III.

[The Wazir's Garden as in Scene I]

_The Music_ _The Pantomime, etc._

Bass chords _Wazir_, _Vizier_ and _Nubian_ asleep as before

Tap on drum _Ghurri-Wurri_ enters at the left

Tap on drum Prostrates himself before Wazir

Bass chord _Wazir and court_ sleep on

Tap on drum _Ghurri-Wurri_ again prostrates himself

Bass chord _The Court_ sleeps on

Drum crash _Ghurri-Wurri_ slams himself down hard

Drum crash _Wazir_, _Vizier_, _Nubian_ awake

Drum roll _Wazir_ shakes his fist at the beggar

Wood-block tap Signals Vizier

Sand blocks _Vizier_ runs thumb along his scimiter blade

Tap _Ghurri-Wurri_ retreats to the right

Tap He stumbles over the telescope

Tap, tap He picks it up and hands it to the Wazir

Tap _Ghurri-Wurri_ points to the "Distance."

Tap _The Wazir_ uses the telescope

Princess rhythm The "Distance" is revealed as in Scene I _Princess and retinue_ are seen traveling [across the platform from right to left]

Tap _The Wazir_ lowers the telescope The "Distance" vanishes as in Scene I

Drum crash _Wazir_ stamps his foot

Drum roll He shakes his fists, first at the distance, then off left

Tap Points at Ghurri-Wurri

Tap _Vizier_ seizes Ghurri-Wurri by the scruff of the neck

Tap _Vizier_ points off left with his scimiter

Wazir rhythm on _The Court_ _and_ _Ghurri-Wurri_ begin to wood-drum run, _Nubian_ first, then _Ghurri-Wurri_, [Telegraphically then _Vizier_, then _Wazir_. The running stated ... ... etc. is entirely vertical in movement, no ground being covered at all. Musically, accented Lights out eighth notes in 2/4 [In the darkness, the runners move downstage time, _presto_] without losing step. A plain drop is lowered behind them]

Cymbal crash

Cymbal crash Lights on

## SCENE IV.

_The Music_ _The Pantomime, etc._

Wazir rhythm, The runners increase their speed throughout the _crescendo_ and scene _acceleramento_ _Ghurri-Wurri_ slips to his knees, _Vizier_, without losing a step, jerks him back on his feet _Ghurri-Wurri_, pointing left, resumes running _Wazir_ points left When the runners have reached their maximum speed

Cymbal crash The lights go out In the darkness the _Wazir's court_ and _Ghurri-Wurri_ exit and take their places at the right ready for Scene V _The Shepherd_ and _Goat_ take their places

Cymbal crash Lights up

## SCENE V.

_The Music_ _The Pantomime, etc._

Wind instrument [A plain drop] _The Shepherd_ is discovered well to the left, piping for the Goat _Goat_ is dancing

Begin Princess _Goat_ stops to listen, looks off to the right rhythm _Shepherd_ looks to the right _Goat_ crosses to extreme right, bows _Princess and retinue_ enter

Tap They halt

Tap _The Shepherd_ kneels to the Princess, then dances for her

Stringed instrument

Drum roll _pp. _The Goat_ becomes alarmed crescendo_ _All_ turn and look to the right _Goat_, on all fours, offers his back to the Princess _Shepherd_ induces _Princess_ to sit on Goat's back

Princess rhythm _Goat_ exits, followed by Princess and retinue

Tap _Shepherd_ folds his arms

Wazir rhythm _Wazir's Court_ and _Ghurri-Wurri_ enter from the right

Tap They halt

Tap _Wazir_ points to Shepherd

Tap _Vizier_ brandishes his scimiter

Drum roll _Nubian_ approaches Shepherd

Drum crash _Nubian_ falls

Drum roll _Wazir_ shakes his fists _Crescendo_ Points at Shepherd to _Vizier_ attacks Shepherd with scimiter _Shepherd_ grasps scimiter They struggle, conventionally, one, two, three, four, five, six

Drum crash _The Shepherd_ falls

Drum roll _The Vizier_ waves his scimiter aloft

Drum roll _Wazir_ exults

Tap _Nubian_ rises

Tap _Wazir_ points to the right

Tap _Vizier_ points at Shepherd with scimiter

Tap _Nubian_ seizes the Shepherd

Wazir rhythm _Wazir's Court_ and _Shepherd_ exit at the right, ignoring Ghurri-Wurri, Nubian and Shepherd first, then Vizier, then Wazir. [All cross behind the drop to left of stage ready for

## Scene VI]

Drum crash _Ghurri-Wurri_ stamps his foot

Drum roll Shakes his fists after them

Drum roll Runs to left and shakes his fists at the Princess

Drum roll Runs to right and shakes them at the Wazir Runs to center and shakes them at the audience

Cymbal crash Lights out _Ghurri-Wurri_ exits The drop is raised

Cymbal crash Lights on

## SCENE VI.

[The Wazir's garden. No characters on scene]

_The Music_ _The Pantomime, etc._

Wazir rhythm _Nubian_ enters from left, holding the Shepherd The _Wazir_ and _Vizier_ follow

Tap _Wazir_ takes his seat, smirking

Tap _Wazir_ orders Shepherd thrown down at the right

Drum crash _Nubian_ complies

Tap _Vizier_ orders Nubian off right

Wazir rhythm, fast _Nubian_ hurries out

Wazir rhythm, slow Reenters, staggering under a ball and chain [the chain of papier mache and the ball a balloon]

Drum crash Drops these beside the Shepherd

Clank, clank Rivets chain to Shepherd's leg

Tap Rises

Tap _Vizier_ orders Nubian off, left

Wazir rhythm _Nubian_ exits left

Tap _Vizier_ sits

Tap _Wazir_ moves a chessman

Tap _Vizier_ moves a chessman

Tap _Shepherd_, in a gesture of despair, finds the telescope He looks into the "Distance" [The "Distance" is shown as in Scene I]

Stringed music _Princess_ and _Goat_ discovered in conference. Goat has an idea. He points to the Shepherd, then to the Wazir, then to the Princess and executes an ancient dance movement which is contemporaneously described as the "shimmy" _The Princess_ claps her hands and exits, followed by the Goat

Tap _Shepherd_ lowers the telescope [The "Distance" vanishes]

Tap _Shepherd_ is puzzled

Stringed music _Princess_ enters from the left, veiled and carrying a scarf in her hands _Goat_ enters with her, goes at once to the Shepherd _Princess_ poses at center _Wazir_ and _Vizier_ turn, smirking _Princess_ dances _Wazir_ leers and strokes his beard _Princess_ ends dance beside Vizier

Chords, agitato She ties his arms with her scarf

Sand blocks _Wazir_ is convulsed with laughter

Chords _Princess_ binds Wazir's arms with her veil

Sand blocks _Vizier_ is convulsed with laughter

Princess rhythm on _The Attendant_ enters from the left with a box wood drum on which a skull and cross-bones are conspicuous

Tap _Princess_ takes two pills from the box

Tap She pops them into her prisoners' open mouths

Princess rhythm _The Attendant_ exits as she came

Sand blocks _Wazir_ and _Vizier_ swallow vigorously

Drum crash They lay their heads upon the chess table and die

Tap _Princess_ beckons to the Shepherd

Tap _Shepherd_ points to his fetters

Tap _Goat_ attacks the ball and chain

Drum crash He "bites" the ball [bursts the balloon]

Tap He "bites" the chain.

String music _Princess_, _Shepherd_ and _Goat_ dance in a circle

Cymbal crash Lights out _Princess_ and _Shepherd_ and _Goat_ ready at left for next scene The drop is lowered

Cymbal crash Lights up

## SCENE VII.

_The Music_ _The Pantomime, etc._

String music _Princess_ and _Shepherd_ dance across followed by the _Goat_, who is playing on the Shepherd's pipe _Princess_ and _Shepherd_, behind the drop take their places on the platform

Cymbal crash Lights out [The drop is lifted]

Cymbal crash Lights on [The Wazir's garden with the middle section of the drop lifted to show the "Distance"]

String music _Shepherd_ and _Princess_ discovered in the "Distance" posed in a kiss

Cymbal crash Lights out [The drop is lowered]

Cymbal crash Lights on The Maker of Sounds rises, yawns cavernously, bows very slightly and exits

[_Curtain._]

BOCCACCIO'S UNTOLD TALE

A PLAY

BY HARRY KEMP

Copyright, 1920, by Stewart & Kidd Co. All rights reserved.

PERSONS OF THE DRAMA.

FLORIO [_a poet_]. OLIVIA [_Florio's mistress_]. VIOLANTE [_a Florentine noblewoman_]. LIZZIA [_Florio's serving-woman_]. DIONEO [_a member of Boccaccio's party_]. ONE VOICE. ANOTHER VOICE. VARIOUS PROCESSIONS BEARING THE DEAD.

TIME: _The year of the Great Plague, A. D. 1348_. PLACE: _Florence_.

Published by permission of and special arrangement with Harry Kemp. Applications for the right of performing BOCCACCIO'S UNTOLD TALE must be made to Mr. Harry Kemp, in care of Brentano's, New York.

BOCCACCIO'S UNTOLD TALE

A PLAY BY HARRY KEMP

[SCENE: _A lower room in Florio's house. It is wide and simply furnished._

_In the center, at back, is a large doorway, hung with great black arras. In the right-hand extreme corner is a small altar to the Virgin._

_In wall, at back, high up on left, a small window._

_A smaller doorway, hung with arras of black, is on the left, well toward the front. This doorway gives on the study of the poet._

_At rise of curtain the stage is lit with the uncertain light of tapers._

_Lizzia, the old servant, is discovered kneeling at the altar._

_Soon she rises, crossing herself devoutly._

_Demurringly and with deprecating shakes of the head, she begins hanging wreaths about the walls of the room._

_After the hanging of each wreath she crosses herself, and, with agitated piety verging on superstition, she bends the knee briefly before altar._

_Now the wreaths are all in place.... Through the small window the grayness that comes before dawn begins to glimmer in._

_One by one Lizzia snuffs out the tapers._

_For a moment everything is left in the gray half-darkness._

_But now Lizzia draws aside the large black arras in the back. There is revealed a magnificent panoramic view of medieval Florence, flushing gradually from pearl-gray to soft, delicate rose, then to the full gold of accomplished sunrise._

_Again the old woman kneels at the altar._

_Enter, through the open doorway at back, Violante--rather tall, good-looking, quite dark._

_Violante stands silent for a moment. One can see that it is in her thought to wait till Lizzia finishes her devotions ... then she becomes impatient and breaks in on them._]

VIOLANTE

Lizzia, where bides your master, Florio? I sped a servant hither yesterday, To bid him come to me, and now, this morning, I come myself.

LIZZIA

For three days he has looked upon no one. Even I, who wait upon him, have not seen him.

VIOLANTE

Where keeps he, then?

LIZZIA [_indicating the small doorway_].

Yonder, within that arras.

VIOLANTE

Summon him forth! Say the Lady Violante waits his presence.

LIZZIA

He will grow wroth with me--nor will he greet you.

VIOLANTE

Fears he, then, the Plague so? Is he too such As dare not walk abroad nor breathe the air Lest he should drink infection?

LIZZIA

Not so, Lady, but he--

VIOLANTE

Tell him, then, Our friend Boccaccio, the story-teller, Has shaped a brave device against the Plague.... Before the sun climbs higher into day And the night's Dead are heaped up in the streets For buriers and priests to draw away, A group of goodly ladies and gentlemen Go forth to a sequestered country place Remote from Florence and invisible Death. There, in green gardens full of birds and leaves, The blue, cloud-wandering heaven spread above, We shall beguile the time with merriment, Music and song and telling of many tales, Trusting that Death, glutted with multitudes, Will pass us by.... We need but Florio To bring our perfect pleasure to the brim.

LIZZIA [_obstinately_]

But he will see no one, Lady, not even you. He is--he is--

VIOLANTE

Not smitten by the Plague?

LIZZIA [_hesitating_]

Nay, he has taken a vow of close seclusion.

VIOLANTE [_confidently_]

But he knows not I am here--the Lady Violante! [_A pause_.] [_Impetuously_] Go, tell him it is I,-- Nor take upon yourself such high command!

LIZZIA [_somewhat resentfully_]

I am a servant, I only do as he commanded me.... [_Barring way_.]

VIOLANTE [_distractedly_]

Strange that he should so change in ten days' space. [_With passionate abandonment_] Old woman, go this instant--summon him! I will abide your crabbed ways no longer.

LIZZIA [_stung to retaliation_]

Lady, he would not look upon your face If you made him ruler of the world for it.

VIOLANTE [_flaming_]

What new freak of his is this? He is as full of moods as any woman.... But I had never thought-- [_Determined_] I will go to him!

LIZZIA [_again barring way_]

I could tell you many things, But I would spare you.

VIOLANTE

Spare me!... you insolent, presumptuous old woman, What have I, I, the Lady Violante Ugolini, To do with your good master, Florio, Beyond a fostering friendship for his song! Else he were nothing to me.... You are presuming on your age and service-- He shall rebuke you for this....

LIZZIA

Very well, Lady, if you must know-- He has sworn that he will look upon no one Till he behold--Olivia!

VIOLANTE [_startled_]

Olivia!... who is Olivia?

LIZZIA

She is a girl who came from Padua Hither, to flee the Plague ... and fled in vain. He has loved her just ten days ... since first she came.... She came to him, a stranger, singing songs-- His songs!

VIOLANTE

And flattering him so--he loved her!

LIZZIA

Nay, she was beautiful, my noble lady,-- Surpassing wonderful.... "His shining dream Of ivory and gold," he called her....

VIOLANTE [_coldly_]

What has all this to do with me? [_Relapsing into forgetful eagerness._] Tell me, where, then, is his Olivia now?

LIZZIA

The Plague! He gave her to a doctor's care, Beggaring himself therefor, as one who loves!

VIOLANTE

And now he shuts himself away for grief Because she died!... But, if she be dead, Wherefore these garlands?-- Or does he think she will come back, alive?

LIZZIA

The learned doctor swears if she survives Three days, she shall not die.

VIOLANTE

Not die, in sooth! Who is this man who resurrects the Dead? Why, folk whose nerves and sinews sing with life Sicken, fall down, and seethe with death and worms Within an hour, and they, the few who live, Living, curse God because they did not die.... He would best think of the Living, and forget The Dead.

LIZZIA

Half-crazed with love, he dreams she will return.... This is the morning after the third day-- This is the very hour she would return. Suppose the learned doctor keep his word?-- Hence have I hung these garlands.

[_The sounds of a funeral procession heard approaching.... The procession passes the large doorway, going by, along the street, without. The people bear candles.... They pass slowly by the open door ... bodies being carried in shrouds._]

ONE VOICE

We bore the son ... and now we bear the father....

ANOTHER VOICE

And I or you, mayhap, will be the next.

LIZZIA [_continuing_]

These wreaths, they seem a mockery of Heaven. I pray that God will smite me not--I do What I am bid!...

VIOLANTE [_half to herself_]

She will not come!... [_To Lizzia_] Is there nothing will cure his madness?

LIZZIA

Even if she die they are to bring her hither....

VIOLANTE

Hither? And all corrupt? Then Death will strike you both!

LIZZIA

Lady, I am so old I'd rather sleep Than walk this sinful, weary world; and be-- He will unshroud her, kiss her lips, and die!

VIOLANTE [_with great bitterness_]

Fie, this our Florio--he has loved before, And he will love again, and yet again.... Women's beauty he loves, not any woman!

LIZZIA

What you have said were true ten days ago-- Do I not know him, Lady?... But a change Has come upon him that I marvel at-- So great a change in such a little while.... Ah, looked you on them when they were together, Saw you how he is caught up in her face And all the beauty of her, you would say "Here is a love, at last, that climbs from earth to heaven!"

VIOLANTE [_laughing harshly_]

It is her beauty he loved; not she The thing he loved! A poet, he!... [_A pause._] It were as well you tore these garlands down: If, by a miracle, she should return, The Plague will have marked her with such ugliness That even you will shine like Helen of Troy beside her! Much will he care, then, if she sing his songs! Had she a voice like a garden of nightingales He could not listen to her without loathing....

[_Sounds of approach of another funeral procession._]

VIOLANTE [_continuing_]

Pray draw the arras, Lizzia, and close out The things that they bring by.... They have begun To move the night's innumerable Dead.

[_Lizzia draws the large arras.... From now on, till the very last, just before climax, sound and murmur of processions are continually heard._]

VIOLANTE [_persistently_]

I think she will not come-- But, if she does, she should be spared the cruelty Of his heart's change, And he, her marred, plague-broken face! Stand aside--let me pass....

LIZZIA [_barring way again_]

He took his oath Before that altar, to the most high God! You shall not break his vow....

VIOLANTE

Let me go to him--here are my jewels!

FLORIO [_calling from within_]

Who is it speaks without? Whose voice is this Wrangling and breaking in upon my peace?

LIZZIA

The Lady Violante Ugolini!

FLORIO

To-day, of all days, must I be alone....

[_Florio pushes out arras from small doorway and stands before it, so that he remains unseen to Violante and Lizzia._]

FLORIO [_to Lizzia_]

Go, Lizzia, I will speak with the Lady.... Have you the wreaths hung, Lizzia?

LIZZIA

Aye, master Florio!

FLORIO

Have you the table heaped with delicacies In the green space by the fountain-shaken pool?

LIZZIA

I go to set the viands now, my master.

[_Lizzia goes out._]

FLORIO

Violante, if you would speak with me, Stay where you are--I cannot look upon you.

VIOLANTE

Not look upon me?

FLORIO

Nor must you look on me.... I have vowed a vow!

VIOLANTE

How strange you are!... I had thought to rush into your arms!... Have you forgotten so soon the oaths you took?

[_She starts toward him._]

FLORIO [_hearing the rustle of her garment._]

Move one step further and I draw the arras!

VIOLANTE [_halting and hesitating_]

Have you forgotten the first time you saw my face And sent a sonnet to me?... It seems but a day Since you were awed by my nobility.... And when I let you press your burning lips Against my hand, you swore it made you God! [_Sadly_] From that time it was not far to my mouth.... And, after that, what with the shining moon, And nightingales beginning in the dusk, And songs and music that you made for me-- In a little while I was entirely yours!...

FLORIO

Remember that young nobleman who died For love of you?... I was your pastime, merely that! And so I sipped what honey came my way. But why do you come now? Did you not leave me without a word?

VIOLANTE

My father.... [_Sombrely_] My father whom the Pestilence has smitten--

FLORIO [_quickly_]

You sent me no message.

VIOLANTE

Every door was watched ... he might have had you slain.... He bore me off to Rome....

FLORIO

You loved me, then?

VIOLANTE

And did not you love me?

FLORIO

I could have sworn I did.

VIOLANTE

O Florio!... Where is my pride of rank, my woman's shame. That I should come like this to you!

FLORIO

Speak not so, Violante--I pray you go!

VIOLANTE

You love another, then?

FLORIO [_ecstatically_]

I have loved beauty, beauty all my life!

VIOLANTE

We are not metaphors and pale abstractions, We women ... nor would we be prized alone For smooth perfections.... [_Low and intense_] Say that you loved a woman Smitten with the Plague, say, further, that she lived-- One among ten thousand--that she came back to you, [The one thing sure] hideous and marred--

FLORIO

You try me sorely! Violante, I pray you, go!

VIOLANTE [_persistently_]

I have come hither To bid you come away with me.

FLORIO

It may not be.

VIOLANTE [_slowly_]

The other one--there is another one!-- I pity her!

FLORIO

You need not.

VIOLANTE

Ah, then, there is another?

FLORIO

Have you no pride, my Lady Violante?

VIOLANTE

That I have not, For shameless is the heart that loves.

FLORIO

Then shamelessly I love Another face, another heart and body, Another soul, unto eternity-- She is all beauty to me, and all life-- So shall she be forever!

VIOLANTE

Forever? That is what you swore to me.

FLORIO

I have not sworn a single oath to her, And yet she made earth heaven in a day, And earth continues heaven.... Go, noble Lady!

VIOLANTE

You have no pity on me?... You see How humbly I've become....

FLORIO

To pity you, Lady, would be cruel to her!... In a month you will be glad.

VIOLANTE

You have slain me, Florio!

FLORIO

Farewell, Violante!

[_Violante affects to go. But she stops quickly at large door in back and reenters on tiptoe. Florio withdraws to his study again, after listening for a moment_.]

LIZZIA [_reentering_]

You have not gone, my Lady Violante?

VIOLANTE

I will not go Till I have looked upon this woman's face!

[_As she finishes these words, the great black arras in the back is listed and a hooded and veiled woman enters. She stands regarding the two other women in silence._]

VIOLANTE

Ah!

LIZZIA

The miracle has come to pass!

[_Crosses herself._]

VIOLANTE

Do they call you Olivia? Speak, woman!

OLIVIA

Yea, I am she--but where is Florio?

[_Violante straightens, proud and erect, as if she had been struck an invisible blow._]

LIZZIA

He waits for you within.

OLIVIA

So he had faith I would not die?

LIZZIA

He had these garlands hung for your return. He has lived beneath a holy vow, the days You were not here: shut in his room, Yours must be the first face He sees, on his return to light and life. He must have fallen asleep from weariness Or he had heard your voice. [_To Violante._] Now, Lady Violante, you must go!

VIOLANTE [_indignant_]

How? I must go?

LIZZIA

You would not stay?

VIOLANTE

Yea, I would stay to see this love grow dark And shrink to hate.

OLIVIA [_astonished_]

And shrink to hate?

VIOLANTE

When you remove your veil Behind which ugliness that beggars hell Lies hidden--

OLIVIA [_dazed_]

Ugliness?

VIOLANTE

Cast by your veil!... Well may you shrink from your own hideousness Since the foul plague has withered up your face And seared it till you die.... There shines your mirror, wrought of polished brass-- How many hours you have dallied at it Only the beauty that you once possessed Can tell. You will no longer find a use for it.

OLIVIA [_recovering herself_]

I trust I shall!

LIZZIA [_to Olivia_]

Alas, dear God! And is it true, Olivia?

OLIVIA [_to Lizzia_]

Would he not love me still if it were true?

LIZZIA [_to Olivia_]

I am old and wretched and full of woe. I have known life too long.

VIOLANTE [_to Olivia_]

He whose one cry is beauty! How could _that_ be?

OLIVIA [_almost singing in speech_]

Then, God be praised, I need not try him thus! For God has wrought two miracles with me: I live, and I am beautiful!

VIOLANTE

Unveil your face, then--give yourself to sight.

OLIVIA

His must be the first eyes that look on me.

VIOLANTE

Ah, so you trust that you, with fond deceit, May find some magic way to cozen him?

LIZZIA [_with great emotion_]

Go, Lady--I see darkness in the air, I thrill to some strange horror, yet unguessed.... Go, Lady Violante, I pray you, go!

[_Lizzia lifts arras in back for Violante's exit. Violante does not move from where she stands._]

VIOLANTE [_persistently, to Olivia_]

Woman it is your beauty that he loved, And that alone ... just as he loves a flower Or sunset.... That gone, lo, his love is gone!

OLIVIA

Strange woman, there is evil in your voice! And yet I know he loves me for myself, Taking my beauty, none the less, in gladness Like any transitory gift from God.

VIOLANTE

And yet you dare not put him to the test?

OLIVIA

What test?

VIOLANTE

To make him first believe That you are ugly!

OLIVIA

I would not toy with such a splendid gift As a man's love.

VIOLANTE [_mocking_]

Ah ... in sooth?

OLIVIA

How strange you look ... yet stranger is your speech.

VIOLANTE

Before you came--whom loved he then?

OLIVIA

I do not think he was like other men.

VIOLANTE

Like other men he took and tossed aside, Deceived and lied and went from heart to heart Reaping the richness of each woman's soul.

OLIVIA

Go, lest I strike you!

VIOLANTE

Poor, fond, believing child-- Now I would not have you test his love!

OLIVIA [_stirred_]

By all the saints, I'll put him to the test!... [_As Violante steps closer to her_] Nay, I'll not let you look upon my face.... He must, as I have vowed, look on it first, Nor will I break that vow--[_Her vanity conquering_] But lift yon mirror And you shall look in it and see me there Reflected!...

[_Violante lifts mirror so she and Lizzia can see reflection_.]

OLIVIA [_with simplicity_]

Keep your backs so! [_Unveiling briefly, then drawing veil again_.] There! Have I lied?

VIOLANTE

He always worshiped beauty.... You are fair!

OLIVIA

Soon will you know our love has mighty wings Outsoaring time into eternity!

VIOLANTE

I'll have him forth--are you ready for the trial?

OLIVIA

Do you persuade him of my ugliness.... If he loves me not I shall go forth and die-- Then life will be far too like death to live!

LIZZIA [_agonized_]

My little children, you must not do this thing! Love is too high a gift to play with so. God only has the right to put the heart Of man to trial!

VIOLANTE [_to Lizzia_]

Will you be quiet, old woman!

OLIVIA [_to Lizzia_]

I would not hold him if he only loved My beauty, and not me. The test is just....

VIOLANTE [_to Lizzia_]

Go you, inform him of her return.... But tell him that that flower which was her face Is shriveled up and lean as any hag's.

LIZZIA

Now God forbid I should deceive him so!

VIOLANTE

Not even for gold?

LIZZIA

Have you no fear of God?

[_A stir is heard within._]

VIOLANTE

Hush!... I will do it, then. [_Going up to small arras over study door, she calls._] Florio!... Florio!...

FLORIO [_from within, after a brief space_]

Who is it calls me?

VIOLANTE

It is I, Violante!

FLORIO

Why have you come again?

VIOLANTE

I have returned, Florio, In strange times, bearing strange news.

FLORIO

My soul is full of death--I pray you go!

VIOLANTE

It could not be--aye, it is passing strange!-- She said her name was "Olivia."

FLORIO

Olivia, ah, she lives!

VIOLANTE

Then, it is true? You love this shriveled woman?

FLORIO

Shriveled woman?

VIOLANTE

Ugly and bent and gray--a woman Who says in as few words she is your mistress.

FLORIO

Has she come? Is she here?... Go, Violante-- Go, leave us two alone!

VIOLANTE

She walked as one bewitched in a dream. She seemed to fear.... I bade her wait without.... Florio, could it be true you loved this woman?

FLORIO

Has all the brightness fallen from her eyes, The glory and the wonder from her face?

VIOLANTE

She _lives_! How few have had the plague and _lived_!

FLORIO

Alas, woe, woe is me!

VIOLANTE [_triumphantly, to Olivia_]

You heard? [_To Florio._] Come forth--she's at the threshold.

FLORIO

Bid her wait. Give me space for thought ... a little space.... This is almost as horrible as her death....

[_Long silence. The women wait.... Groaning within. Olivia starts forward to go to Florio._]

VIOLANTE [_to Olivia_]

Do you flinch now? I knew you would not dare!

[_Olivia stops. Proudly she remains still._]

VIOLANTE [_as arras stirs_]

Now bear _your_ part--continue the deceit.

OLIVIA [_in a frightened voice_]

I know he loves me. Yet a little while And I will draw my veil! [_Another groan. Olivia starts forward again._] Oh, I cannot!

VIOLANTE [_mocking_]

I knew you would not dare!

[_Again Olivia stops still. Now, after a long pause, during which death processions are heard to pass, the arras over the smaller doorway is slowly put aside. Florio enters, swaying. He holds his cloak about his brow._]

FLORIO

Where is Olivia?

OLIVIA [_feigning with an effort_]

Florio, God pity you and me-- I had rather died!...

FLORIO

Oh, speak not so!

OLIVIA

My "beauty clean and golden as the sun," As once you sang it, has become so gross And fearful, that I veil it, broken with shame, From eyes of men.... [_A pause._] 'Tis well you cloak your eyes, For should I drop my veil through which I glance--[_Another pause._] Shall I go?

FLORIO [_breathing heavily_]

No ... for I love you ... bide with me.... [_With great effort_] ... Though you be foul, Olivia!

[_As he still stands muffled, Olivia grows more and more frightened at what she is doing, and now, in complete surrender to terror, gives over the deceit and speaks the truth._]

OLIVIA

Florio, my Florio--draw down your arm.... No longer need you fear to look on me-- It was a test, my love, a cruel test!

[_She draws aside her veil, the other women in back of her, Florio obliquely in front. Her face is seen to be one of surpassing loveliness._

_Florio, groaning, keeps his face cloaked and does not speak._]

OLIVIA

Look, my beloved, or I shall go mad!

[_Olivia tugs at his arm. He lowers it. He exposes a sightless face._]

LIZZIA [_breaking in on the awful pause_].

Self-blinded, my poor master!

VIOLANTE

Oh, Florio, what is this that I have done!

[_Olivia has dropped slowly back, stricken dumb with voiceless terror. Her throat works convulsively with a scream which now rushes forth._

_Florio falls to his knees, again covering his face and bowing his head. Olivia comes and kneels, grief-stricken, beside him, putting one arm about him in support._]

OLIVIA [_sobbing_]

There is ... no one ... that's ... uglier ... than I!

FLORIO [_convulsively_]

You were the glory of the world, Olivia!... And now ... your beauty ... that is ... dead ... will always be ... to me ... The glory of ... the world!... forever and forever!...

OLIVIA

Oh, if you could but see my ugliness-- I think there's nothing like it in the world! O God, why did I not die an hour ago!

VIOLANTE [_crazed anew with jealousy_]

Florio, Florio--Olivia lies! Her beauty floods the very room with light-- You are deceived most horribly!

OLIVIA

Command that woman hence; She is the source and cause of all our ill.

FLORIO

What does this mean? My soul is sick to death!

VIOLANTE

I tell you, Florio, that she lies to you.

[_To Lizzia._]

Tell him the truth, old woman, and beware, As you have fear of Hell, belief in God, And hope of Heaven, to perjure not your soul!

LIZZIA [_at first frightened and irresolute, then quietly determined._]

God help me--she is surpassingly--ugly!

[_Returning Violante glare for glare._]

Her ugliness--!

[_Breaking down, she goes to altar and drops on knees before it._]

FLORIO

Go, Violante!

VIOLANTE

I could curse God for this!

[_Violante staggers toward the great black curtain in doorway, where she supports herself by clinging to it._]

FLORIO

Olivia, come back to me from the great Dark-- All life is but a ghost. Where are you, Olivia?

OLIVIA

I am here--close to you, Florio!

FLORIO

What have you women done to me! [_To Olivia._] Your face! An evil dream is in my heart!

[_He gropes, catches her quickly on each side of the head with both hands. He draws her down to him. He runs his fingers flickeringly over the smooth, rosy beauty of her face...._

_Then, with an eyeless, uplifted countenance which reveals complete understanding and an abyss of horror and madness, he slowly pushes Olivia away...._

_He lifts his fingers up grotesquely in the air, each distinct and widespread--painfully, as if fire spurted out of the ends of them. Olivia weeps...._

_Lizzia intones prayers...._

_Violante holds herself erect and triumphant, clinging to the great arras in back, struggling for strength to go out._

_At this moment another death-procession passes.... A Miserere is chanted...._

_A dawn of horror breaks over Violante's face ... she shrinks inward from the passing procession, feeling the huge horror of the Pestilence._

_Olivia gathers Florio's unresisting head to her bosom...._

_The sound of the Miserere dies off...._

_Into this tableau breaks Dioneo. Slowly he parts the arras._]

DIONEO [_grimacing, and seeing, at first, only Lizzia at the altar._]

Bestir yourself, old woman-- Where is your master, Florio, And Lady Violante Ugolini?... This is no time for lovers' dallying.... Tell them that Seignior Boccaccio Sends word through me that we must wait no longer. And, furthermore, he bids me say--that

[_Violante falls in a faint across his feet. Dioneo sees all. Shrinking back._]

Merciful God!...

[_Curtain._]

ANOTHER WAY OUT

A COMEDY

BY LAWRENCE LANGNER

Copyright, 1916, by Lawrence Langner. All rights reserved.

ANOTHER WAY OUT was originally produced by the Washington Square Players at the Comedy Theatre, New York, on November 13th, 1916, with the following cast:

MARGARET MARSHALL _Gwladys Wynne_. MRS. ABBEY _Jean Robb_. POMEROY PENDLETON _Jose Ruben_. BARONESS DE MEAUVILLE _Helen Westley_. CHARLES P. K. FENTON _Robert Strange_.

TIME: _The Present_.

Produced under the direction of MR. PHILLIP MOELLER.

Reprinted from "Plays of the Washington Square Players," published by Frank Shay, by permission of Mr. Lawrence Langner. Applications for permission to perform ANOTHER WAY OUT must be made to Lawrence Langner, 55 Liberty Street, New York.

ANOTHER WAY OUT

A COMEDY BY LAWRENCE LANGNER

[SCENE: _The studio in Pendleton's apartment. A large room, with sky-light in center wall, doors right and left, table set for breakfast; a vase with red flowers decorates the table. Center back stage, in front of sky-light, modeling stand upon which is placed a rough statuette, covered by cloth. To one side of this is a large screen. The furnishings are many hued, the cushions a flare of color, and the pictures fantastically futuristic._

_At Rise: Mrs. Abbey, a benevolent looking, middle-aged woman, in neat clothes and apron, is arranging some dishes on the table. Margaret, a very modern young woman, is exercising vigorously. She is decidedly good-looking. Her eyes are direct, her complexion fresh, and her movements free. Her brown hair is "bobbed," and she wears a picturesque Grecian robe._]

MRS. ABBEY. Breakfast is ready, ma'am.

[_Margaret sits at table and helps herself. Exit Mrs. Abbey, left._]

MARGARET [_calling_]. Pommy dear. Breakfast is on the table.

PENDLETON [_from without_]. I'll be there in a moment.

[_Margaret glances through paper; Pendleton enters, door right. He is tall and thin, and of aesthetic appearance. His long blond hair is brushed loosely over his forehead and he is dressed in a helitrope-colored dressing gown. He lights a cigarette._]

MARGARET. I thought you were going to stop smoking before breakfast.

PENDLETON. My dear, I can't possibly stand the taste of tooth paste in my mouth all day.

[_Pendleton sits at table. Enters Mrs. Abbey with tray. Pendleton helps himself, then drops his knife and fork with a clang. Mrs. Abbey and Margaret are startled._]

MRS. ABBEY. Anything the matter, sir?

PENDLETON. Dear, dear! My breakfast is quite spoiled again.

MRS. ABBEY [_concerned_]. Spoiled, sir?

PENDLETON [_pointing to red flowers on breakfast table_]. Look at those flowers, Mrs. Abbey. Not only are they quite out of harmony with the color scheme in this room, but they're positively red, and you know I have a perfect horror of red.

MRS. ABBEY. But you like them that color sometimes, sir. What am I to do when you're so temperamental about 'em.

MARGARET. Temperamental. I should say bad-tempered.

MRS. ABBEY [_soothingly_]. Oh no, ma'am. It isn't bad temper. I understand Mr. Pendleton. It's just another bad night he's had, that's what it is.

PENDLETON [_sarcastically polite_]. Mrs. Abbey, you appear to have an intimate knowledge of how I pass the nights. It's becoming quite embarrassing.

MRS. ABBEY. You mustn't mind an old woman like me, sir.

[_The sound of a piano hopelessly out of tune, in the apartment upstairs, is heard, the player banging out Mendelssohn's Wedding March with unusual insistence._]

PENDLETON. There! That confounded piano again!

MARGARET. And they always play the Wedding March. There must be an old maid living there.

MRS. ABBEY. They're doing that for a reason.

MARGARET. What reason?

MRS. ABBEY. Their cook tole me yesterday that her missus thinks if she keeps on a-playing of the Wedding March, p'raps it'll give you an' Mr. Pendleton the idea of getting married. She don't believe in couples livin' to-gether, like you an' Mr. Pendleton.

MARGARET. No?

MRS. ABBEY. And I just said you an' Mr. Pendleton had been living together so long, it was my opinion you might just as well be married an' done with it.

MARGARET [_angrily_]. Your opinion is quite uncalled for, Mrs. Abbey.

PENDLETON. Why shouldn't Mrs. Abbey give us her opinion? It may be valuable. Look at her experiences in matrimony.

MRS. ABBEY. In matrimony, and out of it, too.

MARGARET [_sitting_]. But Mrs. Abbey has no right to discuss our affairs with other people's maids.

MRS. ABBEY. I'll be glad to quit if I don't suit the mistress.

MARGARET [_angrily_]. There! Mistress again! How often have I asked you not to refer to me as the mistress?

MRS. ABBEY. No offense, ma'am.

PENDLETON. You'd better see if there's any mail, Mrs. Abbey, and take those flowers away with you.

MRS. ABBEY. Very well, sir.

[_Exit Mrs. Abbey door center._]

MARGARET. What an old-fashioned point of view Mrs. Abbey has.

[_Pendleton takes up paper and commences to read._]

MARGARET. Pommy, why do you stoop so?

PENDLETON. Am I stooping?

MARGARET. I'm tired of telling you. You ought to take more exercise.

[_Pendleton continues to read._]

MARGARET. One reason why the Greeks were the greatest of artists was because they cultivated the body as carefully as the mind.

PENDLETON. Oh! Hang the Greeks!

[_Enter Mrs. Abbey right, with letters._]

MRS. ABBEY. There are your letters, sir. [_Coldly._] And these are yours, ma'am.

[_Exit Mrs. Abbey left._]

MARGARET [_who has opened her letters meanwhile_]. How delightful! Tom Del Valli has asked us to a party at his studio next Friday.

PENDLETON [_opening his letters_]. Both of us?

MARGARET [_giving him letter_]. Yes, and Helen Marsden wants us for Saturday.

PENDLETON. Both of us?

MARGARET [_picking up another letter_]. Yes, and here's one from Bobby Watson for Sunday.

PENDLETON. Both of us?

MARGARET. Yes.

PENDLETON. Really, Margaret, this is becoming exasperating. [_Holds up letters._] Here are four more, I suppose for both of us. People keep on inviting us out together time after time as though we were the most conventional married couple on God's earth.

MARGARET. Do you object to going out with me?

PENDLETON [_doubtfully_]. No, it isn't that. But we're having too much of a good thing. And I've come to the conclusion that it's your fault.

MARGARET [_indignantly_]. Oh! it's my fault? Of course you'd blame me. Why?

PENDLETON. Because you have such an absurd habit of boasting to people of your devotion for me, when we're out.

MARGARET. You surely don't expect me to quarrel with you in public?

PENDLETON. It isn't necessary to go to that extent. But then everybody believes that we're utterly, almost stupidly in love with one another, what can you expect?

MARGARET. You said once you never wanted me to suppress anything.

PENDLETON. That was before we began to live together.

MARGARET. What could I have done?

PENDLETON [_up right_]. Anything just so we could have a little more freedom instead of being tied to one another the way we are. Never a moment when we're not together, never a day when I'm not interviewed by special article writers from almost every paper and magazine in the country, as the only successful exponent of the theory that love can be so perfect that the marriage contract degrades it. I put it to you, Margaret, if this is a free union it is simply intolerable!

MARGARET. But aren't we living together so as to have more freedom? Think of what it might be if we were married. Didn't you once write that "When marriage comes in at the door, freedom flies out at the window"?

PENDLETON. Are we any better off, with everybody treating us as though we were living together to prove a principle?

MARGARET. Well, aren't we incidently? You said so yourself. We can be a beautiful example to other people, and show them how to lead the pure natural lives of the later Greeks?

PENDLETON. Damn the later Greeks! Why do you always throw those confounded later Greeks in my face? We've got to look at it from our standpoint. This situation must come to an end.

MARGARET. What can we do?

PENDLETON. It rests with you.

MARGARET. With me?

PENDLETON. You can compromise yourself with somebody publicly. That'll put an end to everything.

MARGARET. How will that end it?

PENDLETON. It'll break down the morally sanctified atmosphere in which we're living. Then perhaps, people will regard us as immoral and treat us like decent human beings again.

MARGARET. But I don't want to compromise myself.

PENDLETON. If you believe in your own ideas, you must.

MARGARET. But why should I have to do it?

PENDLETON. It will be so easy for you.

MARGARET. Why can't we both be compromised? That would be better still.

PENDLETON. I should find it a bore. You, unless my memory fails me, would enjoy it.

MARGARET. You needn't be cynical. Even if you don't enjoy it, you can work it into a novel.

PENDLETON. It's less exertion to imagine an affair of that sort, and the result would probably be more saleable. Besides I have no interest whatsoever in women, at least, in the women we know.

MARGARET. For that matter, I don't know any eligible men.

PENDLETON. What about Bob Lockwood?

MARGARET. But he's your best friend!

PENDLETON. Exactly--no man ever really trusts his best friend. He'll probably compromise you without compunction.

MARGARET. I'm afraid he'd be too dangerous--he tells you all his secrets. Whom will you choose?

PENDLETON. It's a matter of complete indifference to me.

MARGARET. I've heard a lot of queer stories about Jean Roberts. How would she do?

PENDLETON [_firmly_]. Margaret, I don't mind being party to a flirtation--but I draw the line at being the victim of a seduction.

MARGARET. Why not leave it to chance? Let it be the next interesting woman you meet.

PENDLETON. That might be amusing. But there must be an age limit. And how about you?

MARGARET [_takes cloth off statuette and discloses figure of Apollo in rough modeling clay_]. Me! Why not the new model who is coming to-day to pose for my Apollo?

PENDLETON. Well, if he's anything like that, you ought to be able to create a sensation. Then, perhaps, we shall have some real freedom.

MARGARET. Pommy, do you still love me as much as you did?

PENDLETON. How you sentimentalize! Do you think I'd be willing to enter into a flirtation with a strange woman, if I didn't want to keep on living with you?

MARGARET. And we won't have to break up our little home, will we?

PENDLETON. No, anything to save the home. [_Catches himself._] My God! If any of my readers should hear me say that! To think that I, Pomeroy Pendleton, should be trying to save my own home. And yet, how characteristically paradoxical.

MARGARET [_interrupting_]. You are going to philosophize! Give me a kiss.

[_She goes to him, sits on his lap, and places her arm on his shoulder; he takes out cigarette, she lights it for him._]

PENDLETON [_brought back to reality_]. I have some work to do--I must go.

MARGARET. A kiss!

PENDLETON [_kisses her carelessly_]. There let me go.

MARGARET. I want a real kiss.

PENDLETON. Don't be silly, dear, I can't play this morning. I've simply got to finish my last chapter.

[_A bell rings, Mrs. Abbey enters and goes to door._]

MRS. ABBEY. There's a lady to see Mr. Pendleton.

MARGARET. Tell her to come in!

PENDLETON. But, Margaret!

MARGARET. Remember! [_Significantly._] The first woman you meet!

[_Exit Margaret. Mrs. Abbey enters with Baroness de Meauville. Exit Mrs. Abbey._]

BARONESS DE MEAUVILLE [_speaking with a pronounced English accent_]. Good morning, Mr. Pendleton, I'm the Baroness de Meauville!

PENDLETON [_recalling her name_]. Baroness de Meauville? Ah, the costumiere?

BARONESS. Not a costumiere, Mr. Pendleton, I am an artist, an artist in modern attire. A woman is to me what a canvas is to a painter.

PENDLETON. Excuse me for receiving you in my dressing gown. I was at work.

BARONESS. I like to see men in dressing gowns--yours is charming.

PENDLETON [_flattered and pleased_]. Do you like it? I designed it myself.

BARONESS [_looking seductively into his eyes_]. How few really creative artists there are in America.

PENDLETON [_modestly_]. You flatter me.

BARONESS. Not at all. You must know that I'm a great admirer of yours, Mr. Pendleton. I've read every one of your books. I feel I know you as an old friend.

PENDLETON. That's very nice of you!

[_The Baroness reclines on couch; takes jeweled cigarette case from reticule and offers Pendleton a cigarette._]

BARONESS. Will you smoke?

PENDLETON. Thanks.

[_Pendleton lights her cigarette, then his own. He draws his chair up to the couch. An atmosphere of mutual interest is established._]

BARONESS. Mr. Pendleton, I have a mission in life. It is to make the American woman the best dressed woman in the world. I came here to-day because I want you to help me.

PENDLETON. But I have no ambitions in that direction.

BARONESS. Why should you have ambitions? Only the bourgeoisie have ambitions. We artists have inspirations. I want to breathe into you the spirit of my great undertaking. Already I have opened my place in the smartest part of the Avenue. Already I have drawn my assistants from all parts of the world. Nothing is lacking to complete my plans but you.

PENDLETON. Me? Why me?

BARONESS [_endearingly_]. Are you not considered one of the foremost men of letters in America?

PENDLETON [_modestly_]. Didn't you say you had read all my books?

BARONESS. Are you not the only writer who has successfully portrayed the emotional side of American life?

PENDLETON [_decidedly_]. Yes.

BARONESS. Exactly. That is why I have chosen you to write my advertisements.

PENDLETON [_aghast_]. But, Baroness!

BARONESS. You're not going to say that. It's so ordinary.

PENDLETON. But, but, you want me to write advertisements!

BARONESS. Please don't disappoint me.

PENDLETON. Yes, I suppose that's so. But one has a sense of pride.

BARONESS. Art comes before Pride. Consider my feelings, an aristocrat, coming here to America and engaging in commerce, and advertising, and other dreadful things, and all for the sake of Art!

PENDLETON. But you make money out of it!

BARONESS. Only incidentally. Just as you, in writing my advertisements, would make, say ten thousand or so, as a sort of accident. But don't let us talk of money. It's perfectly revolting, isn't it? Art is Life, and I believe in Life for Art's sake. That's why I'm a success.

PENDLETON. Indeed? How interesting. Please go on.

BARONESS. When a woman comes to me for a gown, I don't measure body, why should I? I measure her mind. I find her color harmony. In a moment I can tell whether she ought to wear scarlet, mauve, taupe, magenta, or any other color, so as to fall into her proper rhythm. Every one has a rhythm, you know. [_Pendleton sits on sofa._] But I don't have to explain all this to you, Mr. Pendleton. You understand it intuitively. This heliotrope you are wearing shows me at once that you are in rhythm.

PENDLETON [_thinks of Margaret_]. I'm not so sure that I am. What you say interests me. May I ask you a question?

BARONESS. Yes, but I may not answer it.

PENDLETON. Why do you wear heliotrope and the same shade as mine?

BARONESS [_with mock mystery_]. You mustn't ask me that.

PENDLETON. I'm all curiosity.

BARONESS. Curiosity is dangerous.

PENDLETON. Supposing I try to find out?

BARONESS. That may be even more dangerous.

PENDLETON. I'm fond of that kind of danger.

BARONESS. Take care! I'm very fragile.

PENDLETON. Isn't heliotrope in rhythm with the faint reflection of passion?

BARONESS. How brutal of you to have said it.

PENDLETON [_coming closer to her_]. I, too, am in rhythm with heliotrope.

BARONESS [_with joy_]. How glad I am. Thank God you've no desire to kiss my lips.

PENDLETON. Only your finger-tips.

[_They exchange kisses on finger-tips._]

PENDLETON. Your fingers are like soft, pale, waxen tapers!

BARONESS. Your kisses are the breathings that light them into quivering flame!

PENDLETON. Exquisite--exquisite!

BARONESS [_withdrawing her hands_]. That was a moment!

PENDLETON. We must have many such.

BARONESS. Many? That's too near too much.

PENDLETON [_feverishly_]. We shall, dear lady.

BARONESS. How I adore your writings! They have made me realize the beauty of an ideal union, the love of one man for one woman at a time. Let us have such a union, you and me.

PENDLETON [_taken back_]. But I live in such a union already.

BARONESS [_rising in amazement_]. And only a moment ago you kissed me!

PENDLETON. Well--what of it?

BARONESS. Don't you see what we've done? You are living in one of those wonderful unions you describe in your books--and I've let you kiss me. I've committed a sacrilege.

PENDLETON. You're mistaken. It isn't a sacrilege. It's an opportunity.

BARONESS [_dramatically_]. How can you say that--you whose words have inspired my deepest intimacies. No, I must go. [_Makes for the door._] I--must--go.

PENDLETON. You don't understand. I exaggerated everything so in my confounded books.

BARONESS. Please ask her to forgive me. Please tell her I thought you were married, otherwise, never, never, would I have permitted you to kiss me.

PENDLETON. What made you think I was married?

BARONESS. One often believes what one hopes.

PENDLETON. You take it too seriously. Let me explain.

BARONESS. What is there to explain? Our experience has been complete. Why spoil it by anti-climax?

PENDLETON. Am I never to see you again?

BARONESS. Who knows? If your present union should end, and some day your soul needs--some one?

[_Exit door center, her manner full of promise._]

PENDLETON [_with feeling_]. Good-by--long, pale fingers.

[_Enter Margaret, door right._]

MARGARET. Did you get a good start with the scandal?

PENDLETON. Not exactly. I may as well admit it was a failure through no fault of mine, of course. And now, I simply must finish that last chapter.

[_He exits. Margaret rings. Mrs. Abby enters._]

MARGARET. You may clear, Mrs. Abbey.

MRS. ABBEY. Very well, ma'am.

[_She attends to clearing the table._]

MARGARET. Mrs. Abbey, have you worked for many people living together, like Mr. Pendleton and myself?

MRS. ABBEY. Lor', Ma'am, yes. I've worked in nearly every house on the south side of Washington Square.

MARGARET. Mr. Pendleton says I'm as domestic as any wife could be. Were the others like me?

MRS. ABBEY. Most of them, ma'am, but some was regular hussies; not only a-livin' with their fellers--but havin' a good time, too. That's what I call real immoral.

[_Bell rings. Mrs. Abbey opens door center and passes out. Conversation with Fenton without is heard. Mrs. Abbey comes back._]

MRS. ABBEY. A young man wants to see you, ma'am.

MARGARET. That's the new model. I'll get my working apron.

[_Exit Margaret, door right. Mrs. Abbey calls through door center._]

MRS. ABBEY. You c'n come in.

[_Enter door left, Charles P. K. Fenton, dictionary salesman. He is a strikingly handsome young man, offensively smartly dressed in a black and white check suit, gaudy tie, and white socks. His hair is brushed back from his forehead like a glossy sheath. He carries a black bag. His manner is distinctly "male."_]

MRS. ABBEY [_points to screen_]. You can undress behind there.

FENTON. Undress? Say, what's this? A Turkish bath?

MRS. ABBEY. Did you expect to have a private room all to yourself?

FENTON [_looking around_]. What am I to undress for?

MRS. ABBEY. The missus will be here in a minute.

FENTON. Good night! I'm goin'.

[_Makes for door._]

MRS. ABBEY. What's the matter? Ain't you the Missus' new model?

FENTON. A model! Ha! Ha! You've sure got the wrong number this time. I'm in the dictionary line, ma'am.

MRS. ABBEY. Well, of all the impudence! You a book agent, and a-walkin' in here.

FENTON. Well, you asked me in, didn't you? Can't I see the missus, jest for a minute?

MRS. ABBEY [_good-naturedly_]. Very well. Here she is. [_Confidentially._] And I advise you to remove that Spearmint from your mouth, if you want to sell any dictionaries in this house.

FENTON [_placing hand to mouth_]. Where shall I put it?

MRS. ABBEY. You'd better swallow it!

[_Fenton tries to do so, chokes, turns red, and places his hand to mouth._]

MARGARET [_to Fenton_]. I'm so glad to see you.

[_Fenton is most embarrassed. Mrs. Abbey, in surprise, attempts to explain situation._]

MRS. ABBEY. But, ma'am--

MARGARET. You may go, Mrs. Abbey.

MRS. ABBEY. But, but, ma'am--

MARGARET [_severely_]. You may go, Mrs. Abbey. [_Exit Mrs. Abbey in a huff._] I'm so glad they sent you up to see me. Won't you sit down?

[_Fenton finds it a difficult matter to handle the situation. He adopts his usual formula for an "opening," but his speech is mechanical and without conviction. Margaret adds to the embarrassment by stepping around him and examining him with professional interest._]

FENTON. Madam, I represent the Globe Advertising Publishing Sales Co., the largest publishers of dictionaries in the world.

MARGARET [_continuing to appraise him_]. Then you're not the new model?

FENTON. No, ma'am.

MARGARET. What a pity! Never mind, go on.

FENTON. As I was saying, ma'am, I represent the Advertising Globe Publishing--I mean the Globe Publishing Sales Publishing Co., the largest publishers of dictionaries in the world. For some time past we have felt there was a demand for a new Encyclopaedic Dictionary, madam, one that would not only fill up a good deal of space in the bookshelf, making an attractive addition to the home, but also containing the most complete collection of words in the English language.

MARGARET [_who has taken a pencil and is measuring Fenton while he speaks; Fenton's discomfort is obvious. He attempts to rearrange his tie and coat, thinking she is examining him._] Please go on talking, it's so interesting.

FENTON. Statistics show that the Woman of Average Education in America, Madam, has command of but fifteen hundred words. This new dictionary, Madam, [_Produces book from bag._] will give you command of over eight hundred and fifty thousand.

MARGARET [_archly_]. So you are a dealer in words--how perfectly romantic.

FENTON [_warming_]. Most of these words, madam, are not used more than a dozen times a year. They are our Heritage from the Past. And all these words, to say nothing of the fact that the dictionary fills five inches in a bookshelf, making an attractive addition to the library, being handsomely bound in half-cloth--all these are yours, ma'am, for the price of one dollar.

[_He places dictionary in her hand. She examines it._]

FENTON. If you have a son, madam, the possession of this dictionary will give him an opportunity of acquiring that knowledge of our language which made Abraham Lincoln the Father of our Country. Madam, opportunity knocks at the door only once and _This_ is _your_ opportunity at one dollar.

MARGARET [_meaningly_]. Yes, this is my opportunity! I'll buy the dictionary and now [_sweetly_] won't you tell me your name?

FENTON [_pocketing dollar_]. My name is Charles P. K. Fenton.

MARGARET. Mr. Fenton, would you mind doing me a favor?

FENTON [_looking dubiously towards the screen_]. Why, I guess not, ma'am.

MARGARET. I want you to take off your coat.

FENTON [_puzzled_]. You're not trying to kid me, ma'am?

MARGARET. I just want to see your development. Do you mind?

FENTON [_removes coat_]. Why, no, ma'am, if that's all you want.

MARGARET. Now, bring your arm up, tighten the muscles. [_Fenton does as she bids; Margaret thumps his arm approvingly._] Splendid! You must take lots of exercise, Mr. Fenton.

FENTON. Not me, ma'am. I never had no time for exercise; I got that workin' in a freight yard.

Margaret. I suppose you think me rather peculiar, Mr. Fenton.

FENTON. You said it, Miss.

MARGARET. You see I'm a sculptress. [_Points to statuette._] This is my work.

FENTON. You made that? Gee! that's great. [_Examines statuette._] Just like them statues at the Metropolitan.

MARGARET. That figure is Apollo, Mr. Fenton.

FENTON. Oh, Apollo.

MARGARET. I was to engage a professional model for it, but I could never hope to get a professional as fine a type as you. Will you pose for it?

FENTON [_aghast_]. Me? That feller there without any clothes. [_Dubiously._] Well, I don't know. It's kind of chilly here.

MARGARET. If I draped you, it would spoil some of your lines. [_Seeing his hesitation._] But I will if you like.

FENTON [_relieved_]. Ah, now you're talking.

MARGARET. So, you'll really come?

FENTON. How about this evening?

MARGARET. Splendid! Sit down. [_Fenton does so._] Mr. Fenton, you've quite aroused my curiosity. I know so few business men. Is your work interesting?

FENTON. Well, I can't say it was, until I started selling around this neighborhood.

MARGARET. Is it difficult?

FENTON. Not if you've got personality, Miss. That's the thing, personality. If a feller hasn't got personality, he can't sell goods, that's sure.

MARGARET. What do you mean by personality, Mr. Fenton.

FENTON. Well, it's what sells the goods. I don't know how else to explain it exactly. I'll look it up in the dictionary. [_Takes dictionary and turns pages._] Here it is, ma'am. Per--per--why, it isn't in here. I guess they don't put in words that everybody knows. We all know what personality means. It's what sells the goods.

MARGARET. I adore a strong, virile, masculine personality.

FENTON. I don't quite get you, madam.

MARGARET. The men I know have so much of the feminine in them.

FENTON. Oh, "Cissies"!

MARGARET [_flirtingly_]. They lack the magnetic forcefulness which I like so much in you.

FENTON. I believe you are kidding me. Does that mean you like me?

MARGARET. That's rather an embarrassing question.

FENTON. You must or you wouldn't let me speak to you this way.

MARGARET [_archly_]. Never mind whether I like you. Tell me whether you like me?

FENTON [_feeling more at home_]. Gee! I didn't get on to you at first. Sure I like you.

MARGARET. Then we're going to be good friends.

FENTON. You just bet we are. Say, got a date for to-morrow evening?

MARGARET. No.

FENTON. How about the movies? There's a fine feature film at the Strand. Theda Bara in "The Lonesome Vampire," five reels. They say it's got "Gloria's Romance" beat a mile.

MARGARET. I don't know that I'd care to go there.

FENTON. How about a run down to Coney?

MARGARET. Coney! I've always wanted to do wild Pagan things.

FENTON. Say, you'll tell me your name, won't you?

MARGARET. Margaret Marshall.

FENTON. Do you mind if I call you Margie?

MARGARET. If you do, I must call you--

FENTON. Charley. Gee, I like the name of Margie. Some class to that.

MARGARET. I'm glad you like it.

FENTON [_moving nearer_]. And some class to you!

MARGARET [_coyly_]. So you really like me?

FENTON. You bet. Say, before I go, you've got to give me a kiss, Margie.

MARGARET. Well, I don't know. Aren't you rather "rushing" me?

FENTON. Say, you are a kidder.

[_He draws her up from her chair, and kisses her warmly on the lips._]

MARGARET [_ecstatically_]. You have the true Greek spirit! [_They kiss again._] If only Pommy would kiss me that way!

FENTON. Pommy? Who's Pommy?

MARGARET. Pommy is the man I live with.

FENTON. Your husband!

MARGARET. No, we just live together. You see, we don't believe in marriage.

FENTON [_pushing her away in horror_]. I thought there was something queer about all this. Does he live here?

MARGARET. Yes. [_Points to door._] He's in there now.

FENTON [_excitedly_]. Good night! I'm goin'.

[_Looks for hat._]

MARGARET [_speaking with real anguish_]. You're surely not going just on that account.

FENTON [_taking hat and bag_]. Isn't that enough?

MARGARET [_emotionally_]. Please don't go. Listen, I can't suppress my feeling for you; I never do with anybody. I liked you the moment I saw you, I want you as a friend, a good friend. You can't go now, just when everything's about to begin.

FENTON [_severely_]. Fair's fair, Miss. If he's keeping you, you can't be taking up with me at the same time. That puts the finish on it.

MARGARET. But he doesn't keep me. I keep myself.

FENTON. Wait a minute. You support yourself, and live with him of your own free will. Then you've got no excuse for being immoral; 'tisn't like you had to make your living at it. [_At door._] Good-by.

MARGARET. But I can explain everything.

FENTON. It's no use, Miss. Even though I am a salesman, I've got a sense of honor. I sized you up as a married woman when I came in just now, or I never would have made love to you at all.

MARGARET. Oh--wait! Supposing I should want to buy some more dictionaries.

FENTON [_returning_]. You've got my card, Miss. The 'phone number is on it. Bryant 4253. [_Sees Margaret hang her head._] Don't feel hurt, Miss. You'll get over these queer ideas some day, and when you do, well, you've got my number. So long, kid.

[_Exit Fenton, door, center._]

MARGARET [_taking his card from table and placing it to her lips soulfully_]. My Apollo, Bryant 4253!

PENDLETON. Did you get a good start with your scandal. [_Margaret hangs her head._] It's no use; I'm convinced we're in a hopeless muddle.

MARGARET. I heartily agree with you.

PENDLETON. You've changed your mind very suddenly.

MARGARET. I have my reasons.

PENDLETON. The fact is, Margaret, that so long as we live together we're public figures, with everybody else as our jury.

MARGARET. But lots of people read your books and respect us.

PENDLETON. The people that respect us are worse than the people that don't.

MARGARET. If they wouldn't always be bothering about our morals!

PENDLETON. If we continue living together, we shall simply be giving up our freedom to prove we are free.

MARGARET [_faltering_]. I suppose we ought to separate.

PENDLETON. I believe we should.

MARGARET. We'll have to give up the studio.

PENDLETON [_regretfully_]. Yes.

MARGARET. It's taken a long time to make the place homelike.

PENDLETON. We've been very comfortable here.

MARGARET. I shall miss you at meals.

PENDLETON. I shall have to start eating at clubs and restaurants again, no more good home cooking.

MARGARET. We're kind of used to one another, aren't we?

PENDLETON. It isn't an easy matter to break, after five years.

MARGARET. And there are mighty few studios with as good a light as this; I don't want to separate if you don't.

PENDLETON. But, Margaret. [_Piano starts playing wedding march._] There, that confounded piano again. [_Seized with an idea._] Margaret, there's another way out!

MARGARET [_with same idea_]. You mean, we ought to marry!

PENDLETON. Yes, marry, and do it at once. That'll end everything.

MARGARET. Let's do it right away and get it over with; I simply must finish my Apollo.

PENDLETON. I'm going to buy you a new gown to get married in, a wedding present from Baroness de Meauville's.

MARGARET. I don't know that I want a De Meauville gown.

PENDLETON. Please let me. I want to give you something to symbolize our new life together.

MARGARET. Very well. And in return, I'll buy you a dictionary, so that I won't have to keep on correcting your spelling.

[_Exit Pendleton. Margaret goes to 'phone, and consults Fenton's card._]

MARGARET. Bryant 4253? Can I speak to Mr. Fenton? [_Enter Mrs. Abbey._] Mrs. Abbey. What do you think? We're going to get married!

MRS. ABBEY. Well, bless my soul! That's right. You can take it from me, ma'am, you'll find that respectability pays.

MARGARET [_at 'phone_]. Bryant 4253? [_Sweetly._] Is that Mr. Fenton? [_Pause._] Hello, Charley!

[_Curtain._]

ARIA DA CAPO

A PLAY

BY EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY

Copyright, 1920, by Edna St. Vincent Millay. All rights reserved.

PERSONS

PIERROT. COLUMBINE. COTHURNUS [_masque of tragedy_]. THYRSIS [_shepherd_]. CORYDON [_shepherd_].

First printed in "Reedy's Mirror," St. Louis. Application to produce this play should be made to Edna St. Vincent Millay, in care of the Provincetown Players, 133 Macdougal Street, New York.

ARIA DA CAPO

A PLAY BY EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY

[SCENE: _A Stage. The curtain rises on a stage set for a Harlequinade, a merry black and white interior. Directly behind the footlights, and running parallel with them, is a long table, covered with a gay black and white cloth, on which is spread a banquet. At the opposite ends of this table, seated on delicate thin-legged chairs with high backs, are Pierrot and Columbine, dressed according to the tradition, excepting that Pierrot is in lilac, and Columbine in pink. They are dining._]

COLU. Pierrot, a macaroon! I cannot _live_ Without a macaroon!

PIER. My only love, You are _so_ intense.... It is Tuesday, Columbine?---- I'll kiss you if it's Tuesday.

COLU. It is Wednesday, If you must know.... Is this my artichoke, Or yours?

PIER. Ah, Columbine,--as if it mattered! Wednesday.... Will it be Tuesday, then, to-morrow, By any chance?

COLU. To-morrow will be--Pierrot, That isn't funny!

PIER. I thought it rather nice. Well, let us drink some wine and lose our heads And love each other.

COLU. Pierrot, don't you love Me now?

PIER. La, what a woman!--How should I know? Pour me some wine: I'll tell you presently.

COLU. Pierrot, do you know, I think you drink too much.

PIER. Yes, I dare say I do.... Or else too little. It's hard to tell. You see, I am always wanting A little more than what I have,--or else A little less. There's something wrong. My dear, How many fingers have you?

COLU. La, indeed, How should I know?--It always takes me one hand To count the other with. It's too confusing. Why?

PIER. Why?--I am a student, Columbine; And search into all matters.

COLU. La, indeed?-- Count them yourself, then!

PIER. No. Or, rather, nay. 'Tis of no consequence.... I am become A painter, suddenly,--and you impress me-- Ah, yes!--six orange bull's-eyes, four green pin-wheels, And one magenta jelly-roll,--the title As follows: _Woman Taking In Cheese From Fire-Escape_.

COLU. Well, I like that! So that is all I've meant To you!

PIER. Hush! All at once I am become A pianist. I will image you in sound,... On a new scale ... without tonality.... _Vivace senza tempo senza tutto_.... Title: _Uptown Express at Six O'Clock_. Pour me a drink.

COLU. Pierrot, you work too hard. You need a rest. Come on out into the garden, And sing me something sad.

PIER. Don't stand so near me! I am become a socialist. I love Humanity; but I hate people. Columbine, Put on your mittens, child; your hands are cold.

COLU. My hands are _not_ cold.

PIER. Oh, I am sure they are. And you must have a shawl to wrap about you, And sit by the fire.

COLU. Why, I'll do no such thing! I'm hot as a spoon in a tea-cup!

PIER. Columbine, I'm a philanthropist. I know I am, Because I feel so restless. Do not scream, Or it will be the worse for you!

COLU. Pierrot, My vinaigrette: I cannot _live_ without My vinaigrette!

PIER. My only love, you are _So_ fundamental!... How would you like to be An actress, Columbine?--I am become Your manager.

COLU. Why, Pierrot, _I_ can't act.

PIER. Can't act! Can't act! La, listen to the woman! What's that to do with the price of furs?--You're blonde, Are you not?--You have no education, have you?-- Can't act! You under-rate yourself, my dear!

COLU. Yes, I suppose I do.

PIER. As for the rest, I'll teach you how to cry, and how to die, And other little tricks; and the house will love you. You'll be a star by five o'clock.... That is, If you will let me pay for your apartment.

COLU. _Let_ you?--well, that's a good one! Ha! Ha! Ha! But why?

PIER. But why?--well, as to that, my dear, I cannot say. It's just a matter of form.

COLU. Pierrot, I'm getting tired of caviar And peacocks' livers. Isn't there something else That people eat?--some humble vegetable, That grows in the ground?

PIER. Well, there are mushrooms.

COLU. Mushrooms! That's so! I had forgotten ... mushrooms ... mushrooms.... I cannot _live_ with.... How do you like this gown?

PIER. Not much. I'm tired of gowns that have the waist-line About the waist, and the hem around the bottom,-- And women with their breasts in front of them!-- _Zut_ and _ehe_! Where does one go from here!

COLU. Here's a persimmon, love. You always liked them.

PIER. I am become a critic; there is nothing I can enjoy.... However, set it aside; I'll eat it between meals.

COLU. Pierrot, do you know, Sometimes I think you're making fun of me.

PIER. My love, by yon black moon, you wrong us both.

COLU. There isn't a sign of a moon, Pierrot.

PIER. Of course not. There never was. "Moon's" just a word to swear by, "Mutton!"--now _there's_ a thing you can lay the hands on, And set the tooth in! Listen, Columbine: I always lied about the moon and you. Food is my only lust.

COLU. Well, eat it, then, For heaven's sake, and stop your silly noise! I haven't heard the clock tick for an hour.

PIER. It's ticking all the same. If you were a fly, You would be dead by now. And if I were a parrot, I could be talking for a thousand years!

[_Enters Cothurnus._]

PIER. Hello, what's this, for God's sake?--What's the matter? Say, whadda you mean?--get off the stage, my friend, And pinch yourself,--you're walking in your sleep!

COTH. I never sleep.

PIER. Well, anyhow, clear out. You don't belong on here. Wait for your own scene! Whadda you think this is,--a dress-rehearsal?

COTH. Sir, I am tired of waiting. I will wait No longer.

PIER. Well, but what are you going to do? The scene is set for me!

COTH. True, sir; yet I Can play the scene.

PIER. Your scene is down for later!

COTH. That, too, is true, sir; but I play it now.

PIER. Oh, very well!--Anyway, I am tired Of black and white. At least, I think I am. [_Exit Columbine._] Yes, I am sure I am. I know what I'll do!-- I'll go and strum the moon, that's what I'll do.... Unless, perhaps, ... you never can tell ... I may be, You know, tired of the moon. Well, anyway, I'll go find Columbine.... And when I find her, I will address her thus: "_Ehe_ Pierrette!"-- There's something in that.

[_Exit Pierrot._]

COTH. You, Thyrsis! Corydon! Where are you?

THYR. Sir, we are in our dressing-room!

COTH. Come out and do the scene.

CORY. You are mocking us!-- The scene is down for later.

COTH. That is true; But we will play it now. I am the scene.

[_Seats himself on high place in back of stage. Enter Corydon and Thyrsis._]

CORY. Sir, we were counting on this little hour. We said, "Here is an hour,--in which to think A mighty thought, and sing a trifling song, And look at nothing."--And, behold! the hour, Even as we spoke, was over, and the act begun, Under our feet!

THYR. Sir, we are not in the fancy To play the play. We had thought to play it later.

CORY. Besides, this is the setting for a farce. Our scene requires a wall; we cannot build A wall of tissue-paper!

THYR. We cannot act A tragedy with comic properties!

COTH. Try it and see. I think you'll find you can. One wall is like another. And regarding The matter of your insufficient wood, The important thing is that you speak the lines, And make the gestures. Wherefore I shall remain Throughout, and hold the prompt-book. Are you ready?

CORY.-THYR. [_sorrowfully_]. Sir, we are always ready.

COTH. Play the play!

[_Corydon and Thyrsis move the table and chairs to one side out of the way, and seat themselves in a half-reclining position on the floor, left of the center of the stage, propped up by crepe paper pillows and bolsters, in place of rocks._]

THYR. How gently in the silence, Corydon, Our sheep go up the bank. They crop a grass That's yellow where the sun is out, and black Where the clouds drag their shadows. Have you noticed How steadily, yet with what a slanting eye They graze?

CORY. As if they thought of other things. What say you, Thyrsis, do they only question Where next to pull?--Or do their far minds draw them Thus vaguely north of west and south of east?

THYR. One cannot say.... The black lamb wears its burdocks As if they were a garland,--have you noticed?-- Purple and white--and drinks the bitten grass As if it were a wine.

CORY. I've noticed that. What say you, Thyrsis, shall we make a song About a lamb that thought himself a shepherd?

THYR. Why, yes!--that is, why,--no. (I have forgotten My line.)

CORY. [_prompting_]. "I know a game worth two of that."

THYR. Oh, yes.... I know a game worth two of that: Let's gather rocks, and build a wall between us; And say that over there belongs to me, And over here to you!

CORY. Why,--very well. And say you may not come upon my side Unless I say you may!

THYR. Nor you on mine! And if you should, 'twould be the worse for you!

[_They weave a wall of colored crepe paper ribbons from the center front to the center back of the stage, fastening the ends to Columbine's chair in front and to Pierrot's chair in the back._]

CORY. Now there's a wall a man may see across, But not attempt to scale.

THYR. An excellent wall.

CORY. Come, let us separate, and sit alone A little while, and lay a plot whereby We may outdo each other.

[_They seat themselves on opposite sides of the wall._]

PIER. [_off stage_]. Ehe Pierrette!

COLU. [_off stage_]. My name is Columbine! Leave me alone!

THYR. [_coming up to the wall_]. Corydon, after all, and in spite of the fact I started it myself, I do not like this So very much. What is the sense of saying I do not want you on my side the wall? It is a silly game. I'd much prefer Making the little song you spoke of making, About the lamb, you know, that thought himself A shepherd!--what do you say?

[_Pause._]

CORY. [_at wall_]. (I have forgotten The line)

COTH. [_prompting_]. "How do I know this isn't a trick"

CORY. Oh, yes.... How do I know this isn't a trick To get upon my land?

THYR. Oh, Corydon, You _know_ it's not a trick. I do not like The game, that's all. Come over here, or let me Come over there.

CORY. It is a clever trick To get upon my land.

[_Seats himself as before._]

THYR. Oh, very well! [_Seats himself as before_] [_To himself._] I think I never knew a sillier game.

CORY. [_coming to wall_]. Oh, Thyrsis, just a minute!--all the water Is on your side the wall, and the sheep are thirsty. I hadn't thought of that.

THYR. Oh, hadn't you?

CORY. Why, what do you mean?

THYR. What do I mean?--I mean That I can play a game as well as you can. And if the pool is on my side, it's on My side, that's all.

CORY. You mean you'd let the sheep Go thirsty?

THYR. Well, they're not my sheep. My sheep Have water enough.

CORY. _Your_ sheep! You are mad, to call them. Yours--mine--they are all one flock! Thyrsis, you can't mean To keep the water from them, just because They happened to be grazing over here Instead of over there, when we set the wall up?

THYR. Oh, can't I?--wait and see!--and if you try To lead them over here, you'll wish you hadn't!

CORY. I wonder how it happens all the water _Is_ on your side.... I'll say you had an eye out For lots of little things, my innocent friend, When I said, "Let us make a song," and you said, "I know a game worth two of that!"

COLU. [_off stage_].

D'you know, I think you must be getting old, Or fat, or something,--stupid, anyway!-- Can't you put on some other kind of collar?

THYR. You know as well as I do, Corydon, I never thought of anything of the kind. _Don't_ you?

CORY. I _do_ not.

THYR. Don't you?

CORY. Oh, I suppose so. Thyrsis, let's drop this,--what do you say?--it's only A game, you know ... we seem to be forgetting It's only a game ... a pretty serious game It's getting to be, when one of us is willing To let the sheep go thirsty, for the sake of it.

THYR. I know it, Corydon.

[_They reach out their arms to each other across the wall._]

COTH. [_prompting_]. "But how do I know?"

THYR. Oh, yes.... But how do I know this isn't a trick To water your sheep, and get the laugh on me?

CORY. You can't know, that's the difficult thing about it, Of course,--you can't be sure. You have to take My word for it. And I know just how you feel. But one of us has to take a risk, or else, Why don't you see?--the game goes on forever-- It's terrible, when you stop to think of it.... Oh, Thyrsis, now for the first time I feel This wall is actually a wall, a thing Come up between us, shutting me away From you.... I do not know you any more!

THYR. No, don't say that! Oh, Corydon, I'm willing To drop it all, if you will! Come on over And water your sheep! It is an ugly game. I hate it from the first.... How did it start?

CORY. I do not know.... I do not know.... I think I am afraid of you!--you are a stranger! I never set eyes on you before! "Come over And water my sheep," indeed!--They'll be more thirsty Then they are now, before I bring them over Into your land, and have you mixing them up With yours, and calling them yours, and trying to keep them!

[_Enter Columbine._]

COLU. [_to Cothurnus_]. Glummy, I want my hat.

THYR. Take it, and go.

COLU. Take it and go, indeed! Is it my hat, Or isn't it? Is this my scene, or not? Take it and go! Really, you know, you two Are awfully funny!

[_Exit Columbine._]

THYR. Corydon, my friend, I'm going to leave you now, and whittle me A pipe, or sing a song, or go to sleep. When you have come to your senses, let me know.

[_Goes back to where he has been sitting, lies down and sleeps._]

[_Corydon, in going back to where he has been sitting, stumbles over bowl, of colored confetti and colored paper ribbons._]

CORY. Why, what is this?--Red stones--and purple stones-- And stones stuck full of gold!--The ground is full Of gold and colored stones!... I'm glad the wall Was up before I found them!--Otherwise, I should have had to share them. As it is, They all belong to me.... Unless--

[_He goes to wall and digs up and down the length of it, to see if there are jewels on the other side._]

None here-- None here--none here--They all belong to me!

[_Sits._]

THYR. [_awakening_]. How curious! I thought the little black lamb Came up and licked my hair! I saw the wool About its neck as plain as anything! It must have been a dream. The little black lamb Is on the other side of the wall, I'm sure.

[_Goes to wall and looks over. Corydon is seated on the ground, tossing the confetti up into the air and catching it._]

Hello, what's that you've got there, Corydon?

CORY. Jewels.

THYR. Jewels?--And where did you ever get them?

CORY. Oh, over here.

THYR. You mean to say you found them, By digging around in the ground for them?

CORY. [_unpleasantly_]. No, Thyrsis. By digging down for water for my sheep.

THYR. Corydon, come to the wall a minute, will you? I want to talk to you.

CORY. I haven't time. I'm making me a necklace of red stones.

THYR. I'll give you all the water that you want, For one of those red stones,--if it's a good one.

CORY. Water?--what for?--what do I want of water?

THYR. Why, for your sheep.

CORY. My sheep?--I'm not a shepherd!

THYR. Your sheep are dying of thirst.

CORY. Man, haven't I told you I can't be bothered with a few untidy Brown sheep all full of burdocks?--I'm a merchant, That's what I am!--And I set my mind to it, I dare say I could be an emperor! [_To himself_.] Wouldn't I be a fool to spend my time Watching a flock of sheep go up a hill, When I have these to play with--when I have these To think about?--I can't make up my mind Whether to buy a city, and have a thousand Beautiful girls to bathe me, and be happy Until I die, or build a bridge, and name it The Bridge of Corydon,--and be remembered After I'm dead.

THYR. Corydon, come to the wall, Won't you?--I want to tell you something.

CORY. Hush! Be off! Be off! Go finish your nap, I tell you!

THYR. Corydon, listen: If you don't want your sheep, Give them to me.

CORY. Be off. Go finish your nap. A red one--and a blue one--and a red one-- And a purple one--give you my sheep, did you say?-- Come, come! What do you take me for, a fool? I've a lot of thinking to do,--and while I'm thinking, The sheep might just as well be over here As over there.... A blue one--and a red one--

THYR. But they will die!

CORY. And a green one--and a couple Of white ones, for a change.

THYR. Maybe I have Some jewels on my side.

CORY. And another green one-- Maybe, but I don't think so. You see, this rock Isn't so very wide. It stops before It gets to the wall. It seems to go quite deep, However.

THYR. [_with hatred_]. I see.

COLU. [_off stage_]. Look, Pierrot, there's the moon!

PIER. [_off stage_]. Nonsense!

THYR. I see.

COLU. [_off stage_]. Sing me an old song, Pierrot,-- Something I can remember.

PIER. [_off stage_]. Columbine, Your mind is made of crumbs,--like an escallop Of oysters,--first a layer of crumbs, and then An oystery taste, and then a layer of crumbs.

THYR. I find no jewels ... but I wonder what The root of this black weed would do to a man If he should taste it.... I have seen a sheep die, With half the stalk still drooling from its mouth. 'Twould be a speedy remedy, I should think, For a festered pride and a feverish ambition. It has a curious root. I think I'll hack it In little pieces.... First I'll get me a drink; And then I'll hack that root in little pieces As small as dust, and see what the color is Inside. [_Goes to bowl on floor._] The pool is very clear. I see A shepherd standing on the brink, with a red cloak About him, and a black weed in his hand.... 'Tis I. [_Kneels and drinks._]

CORY. [_Coming to wall_]. Hello, what are you doing, Thyrsis?

THYR. Digging for gold.

CORY. I'll give you all the gold You want, if you'll give me a bowl of water. If you don't want too much, that is to say.

THYR. Ho, so you've changed your mind?--It's different, Isn't it, when you want a drink yourself?

CORY. Of course it is.

THYR. Well, let me see ... a bowl Of water,--come back in an hour, Corydon. I'm busy now.

CORY. Oh, Thyrsis, give me a bowl Of water!--and I'll find the bowl with jewels, And bring it back!

THYR. Be off, I'm busy now.

[_He catches sight of the weed, picks it up and looks at it, unseen by Corydon._]

Wait!--Pick me out the finest stones you have.... I'll bring you a drink of water presently.

CORY. [_goes back and sits down, with the jewels before him_].

A bowl of jewels is a lot of jewels.

THYR. [_chopping up the weed_]. I wonder if it has a bitter taste?

CORY. There's sure to be a stone or two among them I have grown fond of, pouring them from one hand Into the other.

THYR. I hope it doesn't taste Too bitter, just at first.

CORY. A bowl of jewels Is far too many jewels to give away.... And not get back again.

THYR. I don't believe He'll notice. He's thirsty. He'll gulp it down And never notice.

CORY. There ought to be some way To get them back again.... I could give him a necklace, And snatch it back, after I'd drunk the water, I suppose ... why, as for that, of course, a _necklace_....

[_He puts two or three of the colored tapes together and tries their strength by pulling them, after which he puts them around his neck and pulls them, gently, nodding to himself. He gets up and goes to the wall, with the colored tapes in his hands._

_Thyrsis in the meantime has poured the powdered root--black confetti--into the pot which contains the flower and filled it up with wine from the punch-bowl on the floor. He comes to the wall at the same time, holding the bowl of poison._]

THYR. Come and get your bowl of water, Corydon.

CORY. Ah, very good!--and for such a gift as that I'll give you more than a bowl of unset stones. I'll give you three long necklaces, my friend. Come closer. Here they are.

[_Puts the ribbons about Thyrsis' neck._]

THYR. [_putting bowl to Corydon's mouth_]. I'll hold the bowl Until you've drunk it all.

CORY. Then hold it steady. For every drop you spill I'll have a stone back Out of this chain.

THYR. I shall not spill a drop.

[_Corydon drinks, meanwhile beginning to strangle Thyrsis._]

THYR. Don't pull the string so tight.

CORY. You're spilling the water.

THYR. You've had enough--you've had enough--stop pulling The string so tight!

CORY. Why, that's not tight at all.... How's this?

THYR. [_drops bowl_]. You're strangling me! Oh, Corydon! It's only a game!--and you are strangling me!

CORY. It's only a game, is it?--Yet I believe You've poisoned me in earnest!

[_Writhes and pulls the strings tighter, winding them about Thyrsis' neck._]

THYR. Corydon! [_Dies._]

CORY. You've poisoned me in earnest.... I feel so cold.... So cold ... this is a very silly game.... Why do we play it?--let's not play this game A minute more ... let's make a little song About a lamb.... I'm coming over the wall, No matter what you say,--I want to be near you....

[_Groping his way, with arms wide before him, he strides through the frail papers of the wall without knowing it, and continues seeking for the wall straight across the stage._]

Where is the wall?

[_Gropes his way back, and stands very near Thyrsis without knowing it; he speaks slowly._]

There isn't any wall, I think.

[_Takes a step forward, his foot touches Thyrsis' body, and he falls down beside him._]

Thyrsis, where is your cloak?--just give me A little bit of your cloak!...

[_Draws corner of Thyrsis' cloak over his shoulders, falls across Thyrsis' body, and dies._

_Cothurnus closes the prompt-book with a bang, arises matter-of-factly, comes down stage, and places the table over the two bodies, drawing down the cover so that they are hidden from any actors on the stage, but visible to the audience, pushing in their feet and hands with his boot. He then turns his back to the audience, and claps his hands twice._]

COTH. Strike the scene!

[_Exit Cothurnus. Enter Pierrot and Columbine._]

PIER. Don't puff so, Columbine!

COLU. Lord, what a mess This set is in! If there's one thing I hate Above everything else,--even more than getting my feet wet-- It's clutter!--He might at least have left the scene The way he found it.... don't you say so, Pierrot?

[_She picks up punch bowl. They arrange chairs as before at ends of table._]

PIER. Well, I don't know. I think it rather diverting The way it is. [_Yawns, picks up confetti bowl._] Shall we begin?

COLU. [_screams_]. My God! What's that there under the table?

PIER. It is the bodies Of the two shepherds from the other play.

COLU. [_slowly_]. How curious to strangle him like that, With colored paper ribbons!

PIER. Yes, and yet I dare say he is just as dead. [_Pause. Calls Cothurnus._] Come drag these bodies out of here! We can't Sit down and eat with two dead bodies lying Under the table!... The audience wouldn't stand for it!

COTH. [_off stage_]. What makes you think so?--Pull down the tablecloth On the other play, and hide them from the house, And play the farce. The audience will forget.

PIER. That's so. Give me a hand there, Columbine.

[_Pierrot and Columbine pull down the table cover in such a way that the two bodies are hidden from the house, then merrily set their bowls back on the table, draw up their chairs, and begin the play exactly as before, speaking even more rapidly and artificially._]

COLU. Pierrot, a macaroon,--I cannot _live_ Without a macaroon!

PIER. My only love, You are _so_ intense!... Is it Tuesday, Columbine?-- I'll kiss you if it's Tuesday.

[_Curtains begin to close slowly._]

COLU. It is Wednesday, If you must know.... Is this my artichoke, Or yours?

PIER. Ah, Columbine, as if it mattered! Wednesday.... Will it be Tuesday, then to-morrow, By any chance?

[_Curtain._]

HELENA'S HUSBAND

AN HISTORICAL COMEDY

BY PHILIP MOELLER

Copyright, 1915, by Philip Moeller. Copyright, 1916, by Doubleday, Page & Co. All rights reserved.

CHARACTERS

HELENA, _the Queen_. TSUMU, _a black woman, slave to Helena_. MENELAUS, _the King_. ANALYTIKOS, _the King's librarian_. PARIS, _a shepherd_.

HELENA'S HUSBAND was first produced by the Washington Square Players, under the direction of Mr. Moeller, at the Bandbox Theatre, New York, on the night of October 4, 1915, with the following cast:

HELENA [_Queen of Sparta_] _Noel Haddon_. TSUMU [_the slave_] _Helen Westley_. MENELAUS [_the King_] _Frank Conroy_. ANALYTIKOS [_his librarian_] _Walter Frankl_. PARIS [_a shepherd_] _Harold Meltzer_.

The scene was designed by Paul T. Frankl and the costumes by Robert Locker.

Reprinted from "Five Somewhat Historical Plays" published by Alfred A. Knopf, by special permission of Mr. Moeller. The professional and amateur stage rights on this play are strictly reserved by the author. Applications for permission to produce the play should be made to Mr. Philip Moeller, care Alfred A. Knopf, 220 West 42nd Street, New York.

HELENA'S HUSBAND

AN HISTORICAL COMEDY BY PHILIP MOELLER

[_SCENE is that archaeological mystery, a Greek interior. A door on the right leads to the King's library, one on the left to the apartment of the Queen. Back right is the main entrance leading to the palace. Next this, running the full length of the wall, is a window with a platform, built out over the main court. Beyond is a view of hills bright with lemon groves, and in the far distance shimmers the sea. On the wall near the Queen's room hangs an old shield rusty with disuse. A bust of Zeus stands on a pedestal against the right wall. There are low coffers about the room from which hang the ends of vivid colored robes. The scene is bathed in intense sunlight. Tsumu is massaging the Queen._]

HELENA. There's no doubt about it.

TSUMU. Analytikos says there is much doubt about all things.

HELENA. Never mind what he says. I envy you your complexion.

TSUMU [_falling prostrate before Helena_]. Whom the Queen envies should beware.

HELENA [_annoyed_]. Get up, Tsumu. You make me nervous tumbling about like that.

TSUMU [_still on floor_]. Why does the great Queen envy Tsumu?

HELENA. Get up, you silly. [_She kicks her._] I envy you because you can run about and never worry about getting sunburnt.

TSUMU [_on her knees_]. The radiant beauty of the Queen is unspoilable.

HELENA. That's just what's worrying me, Tsumu. When beauty is so perfect the slightest jar may mean a jolt. [_She goes over and looks at her reflection in the shield._] I can't see myself as well as I would like to. The King's shield is tarnished. Menelaus has been too long out of battle.

TSUMU [_handing her a hand mirror_]. The Gods will keep Sparta free from strife.

HELENA. I'll have you beaten if you assume that prophetic tone with me. There's one thing I can't stand, and that's a know-all.

[_Flinging the hand mirror to the floor._]

TSUMU [_in alarm_]. Gods grant you haven't bent it.

HELENA. These little mirrors are useless. His shield is the only thing in which I can see myself full-length. If he only went to war, he'd have to have it cleaned.

TSUMU [_putting the mirror on a table near the Queen_]. The King is a lover of peace.

HELENA. The King is a lover of comfort. Have you noticed that he spends more time than he used to in the library?

TSUMU. He is busy with questions of State.

HELENA. You know perfectly well that when anything's the matter with the Government it's always straightened out at the other end of the palace. Finish my shoulder. [_She examines her arm._] I doubt if there is a finer skin than this in Sparta.

[_Tsumu begins to massage the Queen's shoulder._]

HELENA [_taking up a mirror_]. That touch of deep carmine right here in the center of my lips was quite an idea.

TSUMU [_busily pounding the Queen_]. An inspiration of the Gods!

HELENA. The Gods have nothing to do with it. I copied it from a low woman I saw at the circus. I can't understand how these bad women have such good ideas.

[_Helen twists about._]

TSUMU. If your majesty doesn't sit still, I may pinch you.

HELENA [_boxing her ears_]. None of your tricks, you ebony fiend!

TSUMU [_crouching_]. Descendant of paradise, forgive me.

HELENA. If you bruise my perfect flesh, the King will kill you. My beauty is his religion. He can sit for hours, as if at prayer, just examining the arch of my foot. Tsumu, you may kiss my foot.

TSUMU [_prostrate_]. May the Gods make me worthy of your kindness!

HELENA. That's enough. Tsumu, are you married?

TSUMU [_getting up_]. I've been so busy having babies I never had time to get married.

HELENA. It's a great disillusionment.

TSUMU [_agast_]. What!

HELENA. I'm not complaining. Moo Moo is the best of husbands, but sometimes being adored too much is trying. [_She sighs deeply._] I think I'll wear my heliotrope this afternoon.

[_A trumpet sounds below in the courtyard. Tsumu goes to the window._]

TSUMU. They are changing the guards at the gates of the palace. It's almost time for your bath.

[_She begins scraping the massage ointment back into the box._]

HELENA. You're as careful with that ointment as Moo Moo is with me.

TSUMU. Precious things need precious guarding.

HELENA. It's very short-sighted on Moo Moo's part to send everybody to the galleys who dares lift a head when I pass by--and all these nice-looking soldiers! Why--the only men I ever see besides Moo Moo are Analytikos and a lot of useless eunuchs.

TSUMU. Oh, those eunuchs!

HELENA [_as she sits dreaming_]. I wish, I wish--

[_She stops short._]

TSUMU. You have but to speak your desire to the King.

HELENA [_shocked_]. Tsumu! How can you think of such a thing? I'm not a bad woman.

TSUMU. He would die for you.

HELENA [_relieved_]. Ah! Do you think so, Tsumu?

TSUMU. All Sparta knows that His Majesty is a lover of peace, and yet he would rush into battle to save you.

HELENA. I should love to have men fighting for me.

TSUMU [_in high alarm_]. May Zeus turn a deaf ear to your voice.

HELENA. Don't be impertinent, Tsumu. I've got to have some sort of amusement.

TSUMU. You've only to wait till next week, and you can see another of the priestesses sacrificed to Diana.

HELENA. That doesn't interest me any longer. The girls are positively beginning to like it. No! My mind is set on war.

TSUMU [_terrified_]. I have five fathers of my children to lose.

HELENA. War, or--or--

TSUMU [_hopefully_]. Have I been so long your slave that I no longer know your wish?

HELENA [_very simply_]. Well, I should like to have a lover.

TSUMU [_springs up and rushes over in horror to draw the curtains across the door of the library. All of a tremble_]. Gods grant they didn't hear you.

HELENA. Don't be alarmed, Tsumu. Analytikos is over eighty.

[_She bursts into a loud peal of laughter and Menelaus rushes into the room._]

MENELAUS [_in high irritation_]. I wish you wouldn't make so much noise in here. A King might at least expect quiet in his own palace.

HELENA. Tsumu, see if my bath is ready. [_Tsumu exits._] You used not speak like that to me, Moo Moo.

MENELAUS [_in a temper_]. How many times must I tell you that my name is Menelaus and that it isn't "Moo Moo"?

HELENA [_sweetly_]. I'll never do it again, Moo Moo. [_She giggles._]

MENELAUS. Your laugh gets on my nerves. It's louder than it used to be.

HELENA. If you wish it, I'll never, never laugh again.

MENELAUS. You've promised that too often.

HELENA [_sadly_]. Things are not as they used to be.

MENELAUS. Are you going to start that again?

HELENA [_with a tinge of melancholy_]. I suppose you'd like me to be still and sad.

MENELAUS [_bitterly_]. Is it too much to hope that you might be still and happy?

HELENA [_speaking very quickly and tragically_]. Don't treat me cruelly, Moo Moo. You don't understand me. No man ever really understands a woman. There are terrible depths to my nature. I had a long talk with Dr. AEsculapius only last week, and he told me I'm too introspective. It's the curse of us emotional women. I'm really quite worried, but much you care, much you care. [_A note of tears comes into her voice._] I'm sure you don't love me any more, Moo Moo. No! No! Don't answer me! If you did you couldn't speak to me the way you do. I've never wronged you in deed or in thought. No, never--never. I've given up my hopes and aspirations, because I knew you wanted me around you. And now, NOW--[_She can contain the tears no longer._] Because I have neglected my beauty and because I am old and ugly, you regret that Ulysses or Agamemnon didn't marry me when you all wanted me, and I know you curse the day you ever saw me.

[_She is breathless._]

MENELAUS [_fuming_]. Well! Have you done?

HELENA. No. I could say a great deal more, but I'm not a talkative woman.

[_Analytikos comes in from the library._]

ANALYTIKOS. Your Majesty, are we to read no longer to-day?

HELENA. I have something to say to the King.

[_Analytikos goes toward the library. Menelaus anxiously stops him._]

MENELAUS. No. Stay here. You are a wise man and well understand the wisdom of the Queen.

ANALYTIKOS [_bowing to Helena_]. Helena is wise as she is beautiful.

MENELAUS. She is attempting to prove to me in a thousand words that she's a silent woman.

ANALYTIKOS. Women are seldom silent. [_Helen resents this._] Their beauty is forever speaking for them.

HELENA. The years have, indeed, taught you wisdom.

[_Tsumu enters._]

TSUMU. The almond water awaits your majesty.

HELENA. I hope you haven't forgotten the chiropodist.

TSUMU. He has been commanded but he's always late. He's so busy.

HELENA [_in a purring tone to Menelaus_]. Moo Moo.

[_Menelaus, bored, turns away._]

HELENA [_to Tsumu_]. I think after all I'll wear my Sicily blue.

[_She and Tsumu go into the Queen's apartment._]

ANALYTIKOS. Shall we go back to the library?

MENELAUS. My mind is unhinged again--that woman with her endless protestations.

ANALYTIKOS. I am sorry the poets no longer divert you.

MENELAUS. A little poetry is always too much.

ANALYTIKOS. To-morrow we will try the historians.

MENELAUS. No! Not the historians. I want the truth for a change.

ANALYTIKOS. The truth!

MENELAUS. Where in books can I find escape from the grim reality of being hitched for life to such a wife? Bah!

ANALYTIKOS. Philosophy teaches--

MENELAUS. Why have the Gods made woman necessary to man, and made them fools?

ANALYTIKOS. For seventy years I have been resolving the problem of woman and even at my age--

MENELAUS. Give it up, old man. The answer is--don't.

ANALYTIKOS. Such endless variety, and yet--

MENELAUS [_with the conviction of finality_]. There are only two sorts of women! Those who are failures and those who realize it.

ANALYTIKOS. Is not Penelope, the model wife of your cousin Ulysses, an exception?

MENELAUS. Duty is the refuge of the unbeautiful. She is as commonplace as she is ugly. [_And then with deep bitterness._] Why didn't _he_ marry Helen when we all wanted her? He was too wise for that. He is the only man I've ever known who seems able to direct destiny.

ANALYTIKOS. You should not blame the Gods for a lack of will.

MENELAUS [_shouting_]. Will! Heaven knows I do not lack the will to rid myself of this painted puppet, but where is the instrument ready to my hand?

[_At this moment a Shepherd of Apollonian beauty leaps across the rail of the balcony and bounds into the room. Menelaus and Analytikos start back in amazement._]

ANALYTIKOS. Who are you?

PARIS. An adventurer.

ANALYTIKOS. Then you have reached the end of your story. In a moment you will die.

PARIS. I have no faith in prophets.

ANALYTIKOS. The soldiers of the King will give you faith. Don't you know that it means death for any man to enter the apartments of the Queen?

PARIS [_looking from one to the other_]. Oh! So you're a couple of eunuchs.

[_Though nearly eighty this is too much for Analytikos to bear. He rushes to call the guard, but Menelaus stops him._]

PARIS [_to Analytikos_]. Thanks.

ANALYTIKOS. You thank me for telling you your doom?

PARIS. No--for convincing me that I'm where I want to be. It's taken me a long while, but I knew I'd get here. [_And then very intimately to Menelaus._] Where's the Queen?

MENELAUS. Where do you come from?

PARIS. From the hills. I had come down into the market-place to sell my sheep. I had my hood filled with apples. They were golden-red like a thousand sunsets.

MENELAUS [_annoyed_]. You might skip those bucolic details.

PARIS. At the fair I met three ancient gypsies.

MENELAUS. What have they to do with you coming here?

PARIS. You don't seem very patient. Can't I tell my story in my own way? They asked me for the apple I was eating and I asked them what they'd give for it.

MENELAUS. I'm not interested in market quotations.

PARIS. You take everything so literally. I'm sure you're easily bored.

MENELAUS [_with meaning_]. I am.

PARIS [_going on cheerfully_]. The first was to give me all the money she could beg, and the second was to tell me all the truth she could learn by listening, and the third promised me a pretty girl. So I chose--

[_He hesitates._]

ANALYTIKOS. You cannot escape by spinning out your tale.

PARIS. Death is the end of one story and the beginning of another.

MENELAUS. Well! Well! Come to the point. Which did you choose?

PARIS [_smiling_]. Well, you see I'd been in the hills for a long while, so I picked the girl.

ANALYTIKOS. It would have been better for you if you had chosen wisdom.

PARIS. I knew you'd say that.

ANALYTIKOS. I have spoken truly. In a moment you will die.

PARIS. It is because the old have forgotten life that they preach wisdom.

MENELAUS. So you chose the girl? Well, go on.

PARIS. This made the other cronies angry, and when I tossed her the apple one of the others yelped at me: "You may as well seek the Queen of Sparta: she is the fairest of women." And as I turned away I heard their laughter, but the words had set my heart aflame and though it cost me my life, I'll follow the adventure.

ANALYTIKOS [_scandalized_]. Haven't we heard enough of this?

MENELAUS [_deeply_]. No! I want to hear how the story ends. It may amuse the King.

[_He makes a sign to Analytikos._]

PARIS. And on the ship at night I looked long at the stars and dreamed of possessing Helen.

[_Analytikos makes an involuntary movement toward the balcony, but Menelaus stops him._]

PARIS. Desire has been my guiding Mercury; the Fates are with me, and here I am.

ANALYTIKOS. The wrath of the King will show you no mercy.

PARIS [_nonchalantly_]. I'm not afraid of the King. He's fat, and--a fool.

ANALYTIKOS. Shall I call the guards?

[_Menelaus stops him._]

MENELAUS [_very significantly_]. So you would give your life for a glimpse of the Queen?

PARIS [_swiftly_]. Yes! My immortal soul, and if the fables tell the truth, the sight will be worth the forfeit.

MENELAUS [_suddenly jumping up_]. It shall be as you wish!

PARIS [_buoyantly_]. Venus has smiled on me.

MENELAUS. In there beyond the library you will find a room with a bath. Wait there till I call you.

PARIS. Is this some trick to catch me?

MENELAUS. A Spartan cannot lie.

PARIS. What will happen to you if the King hears of this?

MENELAUS. I will answer for the king. Go.

[_Paris exits into the library._]

ANALYTIKOS [_rubbing his hands_]. Shall I order the boiling oil?

MENELAUS [_surprised_]. Oil?

ANALYTIKOS. Now that he is being cleaned for the sacrifice.

MENELAUS. His torture will be greater than being boiled alive.

ANALYTIKOS [_eagerly_]. You'll have him hurled from the wall of the palace to a forest of waiting spears below?

MENELAUS. None is so blind as he who sees too much.

ANALYTIKOS. Your majesty is subtle in his cruelty.

MENELAUS. Haven't the years taught you the cheapness of revenge?

ANALYTIKOS [_mystified_]. You do not intend to alter destiny.

MENELAUS. Never before has destiny been so clear to me.

ANALYTIKOS. Then the boy must die.

MENELAUS [_with slow determination_]. No! He has been sent by the Gods to save me!

ANALYTIKOS. Your majesty!

[_He is trembling with apprehension._]

MENELAUS [_with unbudgeable conviction_]. Helena must elope with him!

ANALYTIKOS [_falling into a seat_]. Ye Gods!

MENELAUS [_quietly_]. I couldn't divorce the Queen. That would set a bad example.

ANALYTIKOS. Yes, very.

MENELAUS. I couldn't desert her. That would be beneath my honor.

ANALYTIKOS [_deeply_]. Was there no other way?

MENELAUS [_pompously_]. The King can do no wrong, and besides I hate the smell of blood. Are you a prophet as well as a scholar? Will she go?

ANALYTIKOS. To-night I will read the stars.

MENELAUS [_meaningfully_]. By to-night I'll not need you to tell me. [_Analytikos sits deep in thought._] Well?

ANALYTIKOS. Ethics cite no precedent.

MENELAUS. Do you mean to say I'm not justified?

ANALYTIKOS [_cogitating_]. Who can establish the punctilious ratio between necessity and desire?

MENELAUS [_beginning to fume_]. This is no time for language. Just put yourself in my place.

ANALYTIKOS. Being you, how can I judge as I?

MENELAUS [_losing control_]. May you choke on your dialectics! Zeus himself could have stood it no longer.

ANALYTIKOS. Have you given her soul a chance to grow?

MENELAUS. Her soul, indeed! It's shut in her rouge pot. [_He has been strutting about. Suddenly he sits down crushing a roll of papyrus. He takes it up and in utter disgust reads._] "The perfect hip, its development and permanence." Bah! [_He flings it to the floor._] I've done what I had to do, and Gods grant the bait may be sweet enough to catch the Queen.

ANALYTIKOS. If you had diverted yourself with a war or two you might have forgotten your troubles at home.

MENELAUS [_frightened_]. I detest dissension of any kind--my dream was perpetual peace in comfortable domesticity with a womanly woman to warm my sandals.

ANALYTIKOS. Is not the Queen--?

MENELAUS. No! No! The whole world is but her mirror. And I'm expected to face that woman every morning at breakfast for the rest of my life, and by Venus that's more than even a King can bear!

ANALYTIKOS. Even a King cannot alter destiny. I warn you, whom the Gods have joined together--

MENELAUS [_in an outburst_]. Is for man to break asunder!

ANALYTIKOS [_deeply shocked_]. You talk like an atheist.

MENELAUS. I never allow religion to interfere with life. Go call the victim and see that he be left alone with the Queen.

[_Menelaus exits and Analytikos goes over to the door of the library and summons Paris, who enters clad in a gorgeous robe._]

PARIS. I found this in there. It looks rather well, doesn't it? Ah! So you're alone. I suppose that stupid friend of yours has gone to tell the King. When do I see the Queen?

ANALYTIKOS. At once.

[_He goes to the door of the Queen's apartment and claps his hand. Tsumu enters and at the sight of her Paris recoils the full length of the room._]

PARIS. I thought the Queen was a blonde!

ANALYTIKOS. Tell Her Majesty a stranger awaits her here.

[_Tsumu exits, her eyes wide on Paris._]

You should thank the Gods for this moment.

PARIS [_his eyes on the door_]. You do it for me. I can never remember all their names.

[_Helena enters clad in her Sicily blue, crowned with a garland of golden flowers. She and Paris stand riveted, looking at each other. Their attitude might be described as fantastic. Analytikos watches them for a moment and then with hands and head lifted to heaven he goes into the library._]

PARIS [_quivering with emotion_]. I have the most strange sensation of having seen you before. Something I can't explain--

HELENA [_quite practically_]. Please don't bother about all sorts of fine distinctions. Under the influence of Analytikos and my husband, life has become a mess of indecision. I'm a simple, direct woman and I expect you to say just what you think.

PARIS. Do you? Very well, then--[_He comes a step nearer to her._] Fate is impelling me toward you.

HELENA. Yes. That's much better. So you're a fatalist. It's very Greek. I don't see what our dramatists would do without it.

PARIS. In my country there are no dramatists. We are too busy with reality.

HELENA. Your people must be uncivilized barbarians.

PARIS. My people are a genuine people. There is but one thing we worship.

HELENA. Don't tell me it's money.

PARIS. It's--

HELENA. Analytikos says if there weren't any money, there wouldn't be any of those ridiculous socialists.

PARIS. It isn't money. It's sincerity.

HELENA. I, too, believe in sincerity. It's the loveliest thing in the world.

PARIS. And the most dangerous.

HELENA. The truth is never dangerous.

PARIS. Except when told.

HELENA [_making room on the couch for him to sit next to her_]. You mustn't say wicked things to me.

PARIS. Can your theories survive a test?

HELENA [_beautifully_]. Truth is eternal and survives all tests.

PARIS. No. Perhaps, after all, your soul is not ready for the supremest heights.

HELENA. Do you mean to say I'm not religious? Religion teaches the meaning of love.

PARIS. Has it taught you to love your husband?

HELENA [_starting up and immediately sitting down again_]. How dare you speak to me like that?

PARIS. You see. I was right.

[_He goes toward the balcony._]

HELENA [_stopping him_]. Whatever made you think so?

PARIS. I've heard people talk of the King. You could never love a man like that.

HELENA [_beautifully_]. A woman's first duty is to love her husband.

PARIS. There is a higher right than duty.

HELENA [_with conviction_]. Right is right.

PARIS [_with admiration_]. The world has libeled you.

HELENA. Me! The Queen?

PARIS. You are as wise as you are beautiful.

HELENA [_smiling coyly_]. Why, you hardly know me.

PARIS. I know you! I, better than all men.

HELENA. You?

PARIS [_rapturously_]. Human law has given you to Menelaus, but divine law makes you mine.

HELENA [_in amazement_]. What!

PARIS. I alone appreciate your beauty. I alone can reach your soul.

HELENA. Ah!

PARIS. You hate your husband!

HELENA [_drawing back_]. Why do you look at me like that?

PARIS. To see if there's one woman in the world who dares tell the truth.

HELENA. My husband doesn't understand me.

PARIS [_with conviction_]. I knew you detested him.

HELENA. He never listens to my aspirations.

PARIS. Egoist.

HELENA [_assuming an irresistible pose_]. I'm tired of being only lovely. He doesn't realize the meaning of spiritual intercourse, of soul communion.

PARIS. Fool!

HELENA. You dare call Moo Moo a fool?

PARIS. Has he not been too blind to see that your soul outshines your beauty? [_Then, very dramatically._] You're stifling!

HELENA [_clearing her throat_]. I--I--

PARIS. He has made you sit upon your wings. [_Helena, jumping up, shifts her position._] You are groping in the darkness.

HELENA. Don't be silly. It's very light in here.

PARIS [_undisturbed_]. You are stumbling, and I have come to lead you.

[_He steps toward her._]

HELENA. Stop right there! [_Paris stops._] No man but the King can come within ten feet of me. It's a court tradition.

PARIS. Necessity knows no tradition. [_He falls on his knees before her._] I shall come close to you, though the flame of your beauty consume me.

HELENA. You'd better be careful what you say to me. Remember I'm the Queen.

PARIS. No man weighs his words who has but a moment to live.

HELENA. You said that exactly like an actor. [_He leans very close to her._] What are you doing now?

PARIS. I am looking into you. You are the clear glass in which I read the secret of the universe.

HELENA. The secret of the universe. Ah! Perhaps you could understand me.

PARIS. First you must understand yourself.

HELENA [_instinctively taking up a mirror_]. How?

PARIS. You must break with all this prose. [_With an unconscious gesture he sweeps a tray of toilet articles from the table. Helena emits a little shriek._]

HELENA. The ointment!

PARIS [_rushing to the window and pointing to the distance_]. And climb to infinite poesie!

HELENA [_catching his enthusiasm, says very blandly_]. There is nothing in the world like poetry.

PARIS [_lyrically_]. Have you ever heard the poignant breathing of the stars?

HELENA. No. I don't believe in astrology.

PARIS. Have you ever smelt the powdery mists of the sun?

HELENA. I should sneeze myself to death.

PARIS. Have you ever listened to the sapphire soul of the sea?

HELENA. Has the sea a soul? But please don't stop talking. You do it so beautifully.

PARIS. Deeds are sweeter than words. Shall we go hand in hand to meet eternity?

HELENA [_not comprehending him_]. That's very pretty. Say it again.

PARIS [_passionately_]. There's but a moment of life left me. I shall stifle it in ecstasy. Helena, Helena, I adore you!

HELENA [_jumping up in high surprise_]. You're not making love to me, you naughty boy?

PARIS. Helena.

HELENA. You've spoken to me so little, and already you dare to do that.

PARIS [_impetuously_]. I am a lover of life. I skip the inessentials.

HELENA. Remember who I am.

PARIS. I have not forgotten, Daughter of Heaven. [_Suddenly he leaps to his feet._] Listen!

HELENA. Shhh! That's the King and Analytikos in the library.

PARIS. No! No! Don't you hear the flutter of wings?

HELENA. Wings?

PARIS [_ecstatically_]. Venus, mother of Love!

HELENA [_alarmed_]. What is it?

PARIS. She has sent her messenger. I hear the patter of little feet.

HELENA. Those little feet are the soldiers below in the courtyard.

[_A trumpet sounds._]

PARIS [_the truth of the situation breaking through his emotion_]. In a moment I shall be killed.

HELENA. Killed?

PARIS. Save me and save yourself!

HELENA. Myself?

PARIS. I shall rescue you and lead you on to life.

HELENA. No one has even spoken to me like that before.

PARIS. This is the first time your ears have heard the truth.

HELENA. Was it of you I've been dreaming?

PARIS. Your dream was but your unrealized desire.

HELENA. Menelaus has never made me feel like this. [_And then with a sudden shriek._] Oh! I'm a wicked woman!

PARIS. No! No!

HELENA. For years I've been living with a man I didn't love.

PARIS. Yes! Yes!

HELENA. I'm lost!

PARIS [_at a loss_]. No! Yes! Yes! No!

HELENA. It was a profanation of the most holy.

PARIS. The holiest awaits you, Helena! Our love will lighten the Plutonian realms.

HELENA. Menelaus never spoke to me like that.

PARIS. 'Tis but the first whisper of my adoration.

HELENA. I can't face him every morning at breakfast for the rest of my life. That's even more than a Queen can bear.

PARIS. I am waiting to release you.

HELENA. I've stood it for seven years.

PARIS. I've been coming to you since the beginning of time.

HELENA. There is something urging me to go with you, something I do not understand.

PARIS. Quick! There is but a moment left us.

[_He takes her rapturously in his arms. There is a passionate embrace in the midst of which Tsumu enters._]

TSUMU. The chiropodist has come.

HELENA. Bring me my outer garment and my purse.

[_Tsumu exits, her eyes wide on Paris._]

PARIS. Helena! Helena!

[_Helena looks about her and takes up the papyrus that Menelaus has flung to the floor._]

HELENA. A last word to the King. [_She looks at the papyrus._] No, this won't do; I shall have to take this with me.

PARIS. What is it?

HELENA. Maskanda's discourse on the hip.

[_A trumpet sounds below in the courtyard._]

PARIS [_excitedly_]. Leave it--or your hip may cost me my head. We haven't a minute to spare. Hurry! Hurry!

[_Helena takes up an eyebrow pencil and writes on the back of the papyrus. She looks for a place to put it and seeing the shield she smears it with some of the ointment and sticks the papyrus to it._]

PARIS [_watching her in ecstasy_]. You are the fairest of all fair women and your name will blaze as a symbol throughout eternity.

[_Tsumu enters with the purse and the Queen's outer robe._]

HELENA [_tossing the purse to Paris_]. Here, we may need this.

PARIS [_throwing it back to Tsumu_]. This for your silence, daughter of darkness. A prince has no need of purses.

TSUMU [_looking at him_]. A prince!

HELENA [_gloriously_]. My prince of poetry. My deliverer!

PARIS [_divinely_]. My queen of love!

[_They go out, Tsumu looking after them in speechless amazement. Suddenly she sees the papyrus on the shield, runs over and reads it and then rushes to the door of the library._]

TSUMU [_calling_]. Analytikos.

[_She hides the purse in her bosom. Analytikos enters, scroll in hand._]

ANALYTIKOS. Has the Queen summoned me?

TSUMU [_mysteriously_]. A terrible thing has happened.

ANALYTIKOS. What's the matter?

TSUMU. Where's the King?

ANALYTIKOS. In the library.

TSUMU. I have news more precious than the gold of Midas.

ANALYTIKOS [_giving her a purse_]. Well! What is it?

TSUMU [_speaking very dramatically and watching the effect of her words_]. The Queen has deserted Menelaus.

ANALYTIKOS [_receiving the shock philosophically_]. Swift are the ways of Nature. The Gods have smiled upon him.

TSUMU. The Gods have forsaken the King to smile upon a prince.

ANALYTIKOS. What?

TSUMU. He was a prince.

ANALYTIKOS [_apprehensively_]. Why do you say that?

TSUMU [_clutching her bosom_]. I have a good reason to know. [_There is a sound of voices below in the courtyard. Menelaus rushes in expectantly. Tsumu falls prostrate before him._] Oh, King, in thy bottomless agony blame not a blameless negress. The Queen has fled!

MENELAUS [_in his delight forgetting himself and flinging her a purse_]. Is it true?

TSUMU. Woe! Woe is me!

MENELAUS [_storming_]. Out of my sight, you eyeless Argus!

ANALYTIKOS [_to Tsumu_]. Quick, send a messenger. Find out who he was.

[_Tsumu sticks the third purse in her bosom and runs out._]

MENELAUS [_with radiant happiness, kneeling before the bust of Zeus_]. Ye Gods, I thank ye. Peace and a happy life at last.

[_The shouts in the courtyard grow louder._]

ANALYTIKOS. The news has spread through the palace.

MENELAUS [_in trepidation, springing up_]. No one would dare stop the progress of the Queen.

TSUMU [_rushes in and prostrates herself before the King_]. Woe is me! They have gone by the road to the harbor.

MENELAUS [_anxiously_]. Yes! Yes!

TSUMU. By the King's orders no man has dared gaze upon Her Majesty. They all fell prostrate before her.

MENELAUS. Good! Good! [_Attempting to cover his delight._] Go! Go! You garrulous dog.

[_Tsumu gets up and points to shield. Analytikos and the King look toward it. Analytikos tears off the papyrus and brings it to Menelaus. Tsumu, watching them, exits._]

MENELAUS [_reading_]. "I am not a bad woman. I did what I had to do." How Greek to blame fate for what one wants to do.

[_Tsumu again comes tumbling in._]

TSUMU [_again prostrate before the King_]. A rumor flies through the city. He--he--

ANALYTIKOS [_anxiously_]. Well? Well?

TSUMU. He--he--

MENELAUS [_furiously to Analytikos_]. Rid me of this croaking raven.

TSUMU. Evil has fallen on Sparta. He--

ANALYTIKOS. Yes--yes--

MENELAUS [_in a rage_]. Out of my sight, perfidious Nubian.

[_Sounds of confusion in the courtyard. Suddenly she springs to her feet and yells at the top of her voice._]

TSUMU. He was Paris, Prince of Troy!

[_They all start back. Analytikos stumbles into a seat. Menelaus turns pale. Tsumu leers like a black Nemesis._]

ANALYTIKOS [_very ominously_]. Who can read the secret of the Fates?

MENELAUS [_frightened_]. What do you mean?

ANALYTIKOS. He is the son of Priam, King of Troy.

TSUMU [_adding fuel_]. And of Hecuba, Queen of the Trojans.

[_She rushes out to spread the news._]

ANALYTIKOS. That makes the matter international.

MENELAUS [_quickly_]. But we have treaties with Troy.

ANALYTIKOS. Circumstances alter treaties. They will mean nothing.

MENELAUS. Nothing?

ANALYTIKOS. No more than a scrap of papyrus. Sparta will fight to regain her Queen.

MENELAUS. But I don't want her back.

ANALYTIKOS. Can you tell that to Sparta? Remember, the King can do no wrong. Last night I dreamed of war.

MENELAUS. No! No! Don't say that. After the scandal I can't be expected to fight to get her back.

ANALYTIKOS. Sparta will see with the eyes of chivalry.

MENELAUS [_fuming_]. But I don't believe in war.

ANALYTIKOS [_still obdurate_]. Have you forgotten the oath pledged of old, with Ulysses and Agamemnon? They have sworn, if ever the time came, to fight and defend the Queen.

MENELAUS [_bitterly_]. I didn't think of the triple alliance.

ANALYTIKOS. Can Sparta ask less of her King?

MENELAUS. Let's hear the other side. We can perhaps arbitrate. Peace at any price.

ANALYTIKOS. Some bargains are too cheap.

MENELAUS [_hopelessly_]. But I am a pacifist.

ANALYTIKOS. You are Menelaus of Sparta, and Sparta's a nation of soldiers.

MENELAUS [_desperately_]. I am too proud to fight!

ANALYTIKOS. Here, put on your shield. [_A great clamor comes up from the courtyard, Analytikos steps out on the balcony and is greeted with shouts of "The King! The King!" Addressing the crowd._] People of Sparta, this calamity has been forced upon us. [_Menelaus winces._] We are a peaceful people. But thanks to our unparalleled efficiency, the military system of Sparta is the most powerful in all Greece and we can mobilize in half an hour.

[_Loud acclaims from the people. Menelaus, the papyrus still in hand, crawls over and attempts to stop Analytikos._]

ANALYTIKOS [_not noticing him_]. In the midst of connubial and communal peace the thunderbolt has fallen on the King. [_Menelaus tugs at Analytikos' robe._] Broken in spirit as he is, he is already pawing the ground like a battle steed. Never will we lay down our arms! We and Jupiter! [_Cheers._] Never until the Queen is restored to Menelaus. Never, even if it takes ten years. [_Menelaus squirms. A loud cheer._] Even now the King is buckling on his shield. [_More cheers. Analytikos steps farther forward and then with bursting eloquence._] One hate we have and one alone! [_Yells from below._]

Hate by water and hate by land, Hate of the head and hate of the hand, Hate of Paris and hate of Troy That has broken the Queen for a moment's toy.

[_The yells grow fiercer._]

Zeus' thunder will shatter the Trojan throne. We have one hate and one alone!

[_Menelaus sits on the floor dejectedly looking at the papyrus. A thunder of voices from the people._]

We have one hate and one alone. Troy! Troy!

[_Helmets and swords are thrown into the air. The cheers grow tumultuous, trumpets are blown, and the_

_Curtain falls._]

THE SHADOWED STAR

BY MARY MACMILLAN

Copyright, 1913, by Stewart & Kidd Company. All rights reserved.

CAST

A WOMAN, _the mother_. AN OLD WOMAN, _the grandmother_. TWO GIRLS, _the daughters_. A MESSENGER BOY. A NEIGHBOR. ANOTHER NEIGHBOR.

THE SHADOWED STAR is reprinted from "Short Plays" by Mary MacMillan by permission of Messrs. Stewart & Kidd Company, Cincinnati, Ohio. The

## acting rights of this play are reserved by the author. Address all

correspondence to the author in regard to production.

THE SHADOWED STAR

BY MARY MACMILLAN

[_A very bare room in a tenement house, uncarpeted, the boards being much worn, and from the walls the bluish whitewash has scaled away; in the front on one side is a cooking-stove, and farther back on the same side a window; on the opposite side is a door opening into a hallway; in the middle of the room there is a round, worn dining-room table, on which stands a stunted, scraggly bit of an evergreen-tree; at the back of the room, near the window, stands an old-fashioned safe with perforated tin front; next it a door opening into an inner room, and next it in the corner a bed, on which lies a pallid woman; another woman, very old, sits in a rocking-chair in front of the stove and rocks. There is silence for a long space, the old woman rocking and the woman on the bed giving an occasional low sigh or groan. At last the old woman speaks._]

THE OLD WOMAN. David an' Michael might be kapin' the Christmas wid us to-morrow night if we hadn't left the ould counthry. They'd never be crossin' the sea--all the many weary miles o' wetness an' fog an' cold to be kapin' it wid us here in this great house o' brick walls in a place full o' strange souls. They would never be for crossin' all that weary, cold, green wather, groanin' an' tossin' like it was the grave o' sivin thousan' divils. Ah, but it would be a black night at sea! [_She remains silent for a few minutes, staring at the stove and rocking slowly._] If they hadn't to cross that wet, cold sea they'd maybe come. But wouldn't they be afeard o' this great city, an' would they iver find us here? Six floors up, an' they niver off the ground in their lives. What would ye be thinkin'? [_The other woman does not answer her. She then speaks petulantly._] What would ye be thinkin'? Mary, have ye gone clane to slape? [_Turns her chair and peers around the back of it at the pallid woman on the bed, who sighs and answers._]

THE WOMAN. No, I on'y wisht I could. Maybe they'll come--I don't know, but father an' Michael wasn't much for thravel. [_After a pause and very wearily._] Maybe they'll not come, yet [_slowly_], maybe I'll be kapin' the Christmas wid them there. [_The Old Woman seems not to notice this, wandering from her question back to her memories._]

THE OLD WOMAN. No, they'll niver be lavin' the ould land, the green land, the home land. I'm wishing I was there wid thim. [_Another pause, while she stares at the stove._] Maybe we'd have a duck an' potatoes, an' maybe something to drink to kape us warm against the cold. An' the boys would all be dancin' an' the girls have rosy cheeks. [_There is another pause, and then a knock at the door. "Come in," the two women call, in reedy, weak voices, and a thin, slatternly Irish woman enters._]

THE NEIGHBOR. God avnin' to ye; I came in to ask if I might borrow the loan o' a bit o' tay, not havin' a leaf of it left.

THE WOMAN. We have a little left, just enough we was savin' for ourselves to-night, but you're welcome to it--maybe the girls will bring some. Will ye get it for her, mother? Or she can help herself--it's in the safe. It's on the lower shelf among the cups an' saucers an' plates. [_The Old Woman and Neighbor go to the safe and hunt for the tea, and do not find it readily. The safe has little in it but a few cracked and broken dishes._]

THE NEIGHBOR [_holding up a tiny paper bag with an ounce perhaps of tea in it._] It's just a scrap!

THE OLD WOMAN. To be sure! We use so much tay! We're that exthravagant!

THE NEIGHBOR. It hurts me to take it from ye--maybe I'd better not.

THE OLD WOMAN. The girls will bring more. We always have a cupboard full o' things. We're always able to lend to our neighbors.

THE NEIGHBOR. It's in great luck, ye are. For some of us be so poor we don't know where the next bite's comin' from. An' this winter whin iverything's so high an' wages not raised, a woman can't find enough to cook for her man's dinner. It isn't that ye don't see things--oh, they're in the markets an' the shops, an' it makes yer mouth wather as ye walk along the sthrates this day before the Christmas to see the turkeys an' the ducks ye'll niver ate, an' the little pigs an' the or'nges an' bananies an' cranberries an' the cakes an' nuts an'--it's worse, I'm thinkin', to see thim whin there's no money to buy than it was in the ould counthry, where there was nothing to buy wid the money ye didn't have.

THE WOMAN. It's all one to us poor folk whether there be things to buy or not. [_She speaks gaspingly, as one who is short of breath._] I'm on'y thinkin' o' the clane air at home--if I could have a mornin' o' fresh sunshine--these fogs an' smoke choke me so. The girls would take me out to the counthry if they had time an' I'd get well. But they haven't time. [_She falls into a fit of coughing._]

THE OLD WOMAN. But it's like to be bright on Christmas Day. It wouldn't iver be cloudy on Christmas Day, an' maybe even now the stars would be crapin' out an' the air all clear an' cold an' the moon a-shinin' an' iverything so sthill an' quiet an' bleamin' an' breathless [_her voice falls almost to a whisper_], awaitin' on the Blessed Virgin. [_She goes to the window, lifts the blind, and peers out, then throws up the sash and leans far out. After a moment she pulls the sash down again and the blind and turns to those in the room with the look of pathetic disappointment in little things, of the aged._] No, there's not a sthar, not one little twinklin' sthar, an' how'll the shepherds find their way? Iverything's dull an' black an' the clouds are hangin' down heavy an' sthill. How'll the shepherds find their way without the sthar to guide thim? [_Then almost whimpering._] An' David an' Michael will niver be crossin' that wet, black sea! An' the girls--how'll they find their way home? They'll be lost somewhere along by the hedges. Ohone, ohone!

THE NEIGHBOR. Now, grannie, what would ye be sayin'? There's niver a hedge anywhere but granite blocks an' electric light poles an' plenty o' light in the city for thim to see all their way home. [_Then to the woman._] Ain't they late?

THE WOMAN. They're always late, an' they kape gettin' lather an' lather.

THE NEIGHBOR. Yis, av coorse, the sthores is all open in the avnin's before Christmas.

THE WOMAN. They go so early in the mornin' an' get home so late at night, an' they're so tired.

THE NEIGHBOR [_whiningly_]. They're lucky to be young enough to work an' not be married. I've got to go home to the childer an' give thim their tay. Pat's gone to the saloon again, an' to-morrow bein' Christmas I misdoubt he'll be terrible dhrunk again, an' me on'y jist well from the blow in the shoulder the last time. [_She wipes her eyes and moves towards the door._]

THE OLD WOMAN. Sthay an' kape Christmas wid us. We're goin' to have our celebratin' to-night on Christmas Eve, the way folks do here. I like it best on Christmas Day, the way 'tis in the ould counthry, but here 'tis Christmas Eve they kape. We're waitin' for the girls to come home to start things--they knowin' how--Mary an' me on'y know how to kape Christmas Day as 'tis at home. But the girls'll soon be here, an' they'll have the three an' do the cookin' an' all, an' we'll kape up the jollity way into the night.

THE NEIGHBOR [_looks questioningly and surprised at the Woman, whose eyes are on the mother._] Nay, if Pat came home dhrunk an' didn't find me, he'd kill me. We have all to be movin' on to our own throubles. [_She goes out, and the old woman leaves the Christmas-tree which she has been fingering and admiring, and sits down in the rocking-chair again. After a while she croons to herself in a high, broken voice. This lasts some time, when there is the noise of a slamming door and then of footsteps approaching._]

THE WOMAN. If I could on'y be in the counthry!

THE OLD WOMAN. Maybe that would be the girls! [_She starts tremblingly to her feet, but the steps come up to the door and go by._] If David and Michael was to come now an' go by--there bein' no sthar to guide thim!

THE WOMAN. Nay, mother, 'twas the shepherds that was guided by the sthar an' to the bed o' the Blessed Babe.

THE OLD WOMAN. Aye, so 'twas. What be I thinkin' of? The little Blessed Babe! [_She smiles and sits staring at the stove again for a little._] But they could not find Him to-night. 'Tis so dark an' no sthars shinin.' [_After another pause._] An' what would shepherds do in a ghreat city? 'Twould be lost they'd be, quicker than in any bog. Think ye, Mary, that the boys would be hootin' thim an' the p'lice, maybe, would want to be aristin' thim for loitherin'. They'd niver find the Blessed Babe, an' they'd have to be movin' on. [_Another pause, and then there is the sound of approaching footsteps again. The Old Woman grasps the arms of her chair and leans forward, intently listening._]--That would sure be the girls this time! [_But again the footsteps go by. The Old Woman sighs._] Ah, but 'tis weary waitin'! [_There is another long pause._] 'Twas on that day that David an' me was plighted--a brave Christmas Day wid a shinin' sun an' a sky o' blue wid fair, white clouds. An' David an' me met at the early mass in the dark o' the frosty mornin' afore the sun rose--an' there was all day good times an' a duck for dinner and puddin's an' a party at the O'Brady's in the evenin', whin David an' me danced. Ah, but he was a beautiful dancer, an' me, too--I was as light on my feet as a fairy. [_She begins to croon an old dance tune and hobbles to her feet, and, keeping time with her head, tries a grotesque and feeble sort of dancing. Her eyes brighten and she smiles proudly._] Aye, but I danced like a fairy, an' there was not another couple so sprightly an' handsome in all the country. [_She tires, and, looking pitiful and disappointed, hobbles back to her chair, and drops into it again._] Ah, but I be old now, and the strength fails me. [_She falls into silence for a few minutes._] 'Twas the day before the little man, the little white dove, my next Christmas that Michael was born--little son! [_There is a moment's pause, and then the pallid woman on the bed has a violent fit of coughing._]

THE WOMAN. Mother, could ye get me a cup o' wather? If the girls was here to get me a bite to ate, maybe it would kape the breath in me the night.

THE OLD WOMAN [_starts and stares at her daughter, as if she hardly comprehended the present reality. She gets up and goes over to the window under which there is a pail full of water. She dips some out in a tin cup and carries it to her bed._] Ye should thry to get up an' move about some, so ye can enjoy the Christmas threat. 'Tis bad bein' sick on Christmas. Thry, now, Mary, to sit up a bit. The girls'll be wantin' ye to be merry wid the rest av us.

THE WOMAN [_looking at her mother with a sad wistfulness_]. I wouldn't spoil things for the girls if I could help. Maybe, mother, if ye'd lift me a little I could sit up. [_The Old Woman tugs at her, and she herself tries hard to get into a sitting posture, but after some effort and panting for breath, she falls back again. After a pause for rest, she speaks gaspingly._] Maybe I'll feel sthronger lather whin the girls come home--they could help me--[_with the plaint of longing in her voice_] they be so late! [_After another pause._] Maybe I'll be sthrong again in the mornin'--if I'd had a cup of coffee.--Maybe I could get up--an' walk about--an' do the cookin'. [_There is a knock at the door, and again they call, "Come in," in reedy, weak voices. There enters a little messenger boy in a ragged overcoat that reaches almost to his heels. His eyes are large and bright, his face pale and dirty, and he is fearfully tired and worn._]

THE WOMAN. Why, Tim, boy, come in. Sit ye down an' rest, ye're lookin' weary.

THE OLD WOMAN. Come to the stove, Timmie, man, an' warm yourself. We always kape a warm room an' a bright fire for visitors.

THE BOY. I was awful cold an' hungry an' I come home to get somethin' to eat before. I started out on another trip, but my sisters ain't home from the store yit, an' the fire's gone out in the stove, an' the room's cold as outside. I thought maybe ye'd let me come in here an' git warm.

THE OLD WOMAN. Poor orphan! Poor lamb! To be shure ye shall get warm by our sthove.

THE BOY. The cars are so beastly col' an' so crowded a feller mostly has to stand on the back platform. [_The Old Woman takes him by the shoulder and pushes him toward the stove, but he resists._]

THE BOY. No, thank ye--I don't want to go so near yet; my feet's all numb an' they allays hurt so when they warms up fast.

THE OLD WOMAN. Thin sit ye down off from the sthove. [_Moves the rocking-chair farther away from the stove for him._]

THE BOY. If ye don't mind I'd rather stand on 'em 'til they gets a little used to it. They been numb off an' on mos' all day.

THE WOMAN. Soon as yer sisters come, Timmie, ye'd betther go to bed--'tis the best place to get warm.

THE BOY. I can't--I got most a three-hour trip yet. I won't get home any 'fore midnight if I don't get lost, and maybe I'll get lost--I did once out there. I've got to take a box o' 'Merican Beauty roses to a place eight mile out, an' the house ain't on the car track, but nearly a mile off, the boss said. I wisht they could wait till mornin', but the orders was they just got to get the roses to-night. You see, out there they don' have no gas goin' nights when there's a moon, an' there'd ought to be a moon to-night, on'y the clouds is so thick there ain't no light gets through.

THE OLD WOMAN. There's no sthar shinin' to-night, Tim. [_She shakes her head ominously. She goes to the window for the second time, opens it as before, and looks out. Shutting the window, she comes back and speaks slowly and sadly._] Niver a sthar. An' the shepherds will be havin' a hard time, Tim, like you, findin' their way.

THE BOY. Shepherds? In town? What shepherds?

THE WOMAN. She means the shepherds on Christmas Eve that wint to find the Blessed Babe, Jesus.

THE OLD WOMAN. 'Tis Christmas Eve, Timmie; ye haven't forgot that, have ye?

THE BOY. You bet I ain't. I know pretty well when Christmas is comin', by the way I got to hustle, an' the size of the boxes I got to carry. Seems as if my legs an' me would like to break up pardnership. I got to work till midnight every night, an' I'm so sleepy I drop off in the cars whenever I get a seat. An' the girls is at the store so early an' late they don't get time to cook me nothin' to eat.

THE WOMAN. Be ye hungry, Timmie?

THE BOY [_diffidently and looking at the floor_]. No, I ain't hungry now.

THE WOMAN. Be ye shure, Timmie?

THE BOY. Oh, I kin go till I git home.

THE WOMAN. Mother, can't you find something for him to eat?

THE OLD WOMAN. To be shure, to be shure. [_Bustling about._] We always kapes a full cupboard to thrate our neighbors wid whin they comes in. [_She goes to the empty safe and fusses in it to find something. She pretends to be very busy, and then glances around at the boy with a sly look and a smile._] Ah, Timmie, lad, what would ye like to be havin', now? If you had the wish o' yer heart for yer Christmas dinner an' a good fairy to set it all afore ye? Ye'd be wishin' maybe, for a fine roast duck, to begin wid, in its own gravies an' some apple sauce to go wid it; an' ye'd be thinkin' o' a little bit o' pig nicely browned an' a plate of potaties; an' the little fairy woman would be bringin' yer puddin's an' nuts an' apples an' a dish o' the swatest tay. [_The Boy smiles rather ruefully._]

THE WOMAN. But, mother, you're not gettin' Tim something to ate.

THE BOY. She's makin' me mouth water all right. [_The Old Woman goes back to her search, but again turns about with a cunning look, and says to the boy:_]

THE OLD WOMAN. Maybe ye'll meet that little fairy woman out there in the counthry road where ye're takin' the roses! [_Nods her head knowingly, turning to the safe again._] Here's salt an' here's pepper an' here's mustard an' a crock full o' sugar, an', oh! Tim, here's some fine cold bacon--fine, fat, cold bacon--an' here's half a loaf o' white wheat bread! Why, Timmie, lad, that's just the food to make boys fat! Ye'll grow famously on it. 'Tis a supper, whin ye add to it a dhrop o' iligant milk, that's fit for a king. [_She bustles about with great show of being busy and having much to prepare. Puts the plate of cold bacon upon the table where stands the stunted bit of an evergreen-tree, then brings the half-loaf of bread and cuts it into slices, laying pieces of bacon on the slices of bread. Then she pours out a glass of milk from a dilapidated and broken pitcher in the safe and brings it to the table, the Boy all the while watching her hungrily. At last he says rather apologetically to the woman._]

THE BOY. I ain't had nothin' since a wienerwurst at eleven o'clock.

THE OLD WOMAN. Now, dhraw up, Timmie, boy, an' ate yer fill; ye're more thin welcome. [_The boy does not sit down, but stands by the table and eats a slice of bread and bacon, drinking from the glass of milk occasionally._]

THE WOMAN. Don't they niver give ye nothin' to ate at the gran' houses when ye'd be takin' the roses?

THE BOY. Not them. They'd as soon think o' feedin' a telephone or an automobile as me.

THE WOMAN. But don't they ask ye in to get warm whin ye've maybe come so far?

THE BOY. No, they don't seem to look at me 'zacly like a caller. They generally steps out long enough to sign the receipt-book an' shut the front door behin' 'em so as not to let the house get col' the length o' time I'm standin' there. Well, I'm awful much obleeged to ye. Now, I got to be movin' on.

THE OLD WOMAN. Sthop an' cilibrate the Christmas wid us. We ain't started to do nothin' yet because the girls haven't come--they know how [_nodding her head_]--an' they're goin' to bring things--all kinds o' good things to ate an' a branch of rowan berries--ah, boy, a great branch o' rowan wid scarlet berries shinin' [_gesticulating and with gleaming eyes_], an' we'll all be merry an' kape it up late into the night.

THE BOY [_in a little fear of her_]. I guess it's pretty late now. I got to make that trip an' I guess when I get home I'll be so sleepy I'll jus' tumble in. Ye've been awful good to me, an' it's the first time I been warm to-day. Good-by. [_He starts toward the door, but the Old Woman follows him and speaks to him coaxingly._]

THE OLD WOMAN. Ah, don't ye go, Michael, lad! Now, bide wid us a bit. [_The Boy, surprised at the name, looks queerly at the Old Woman, who then stretches out her arms to him, and says beseechingly:_] Ah, boy, ah, Mike, bide wid us, now ye've come! We've been that lonesome widout ye!

THE BOY [_frightened and shaking his head_]. I've got to be movin'.

THE OLD WOMAN. No, Michael, little lamb, no!

THE BOY [_almost terrified, watching her with staring eyes, and backing out_]. I got to go! [_The Boy goes out, and the Old Woman breaks into weeping, totters over to her old rocking-chair and drops into it, rocks to and fro, wailing to herself._]

THE OLD WOMAN. Oh, to have him come an' go again, my little Michael, my own little lad!

THE WOMAN. Don't ye, dearie; now, then, don't ye! 'Twas not Michael, but just our little neighbor boy, Tim. Ye know, poor lamb, now if ye'll thry to remember, that father an' Michael is gone to the betther land an' us is left.

THE OLD WOMAN. Nay, nay, 'tis the fairies that took thim an' have thim now, kapin' thim an' will not ever give thim back.

THE WOMAN. Whisht, mother! Spake not of the little folk on the Holy Night! [_Crosses herself._] Have ye forgot the time o' all the year it is? Now, dhry yer eyes, dearie, an' thry to be cheerful like 'fore the girls be comin' home. [_A noise is heard, the banging of a door and footsteps._] Thim be the girls now, shure they be comin' at last. [_But the sound of footsteps dies away._] But they'll be comin' soon. [_Wearily, but with the inveterate hope._]

[_The two women relapse into silence again, which is undisturbed for a few minutes. Then there is a knock at the door, and together in quavering, reedy voices, they call, "Come in," as before. There enters a tall, big, broad-shouldered woman with a cold, discontented, hard look upon the face that might have been handsome some years back; still, in her eyes, as she looks at the pallid woman on the bed, there is something that denotes a softness underneath it all._]

THE OLD WOMAN. Good avnin' to ye! We're that pleased to see our neighbors!

THE NEIGHBOR [_without paying any attention to the Old Woman, but entirely addressing the woman on the bed._] How's yer cough?

THE WOMAN. Oh, it's jist the same--maybe a little betther. If I could on'y get to the counthry! But the girls must be workin'--they haven't time to take me. Sit down, won't ye? [_The Neighbor goes to the bed and sits down on the foot of it._]

THE NEIGHBOR. I'm most dead, I'm so tired. I did two washin's to-day--went out and did one this mornin' and then my own after I come home this afternoon. I jus' got through sprinklin' it an' I'll iron to-morrow.

THE WOMAN. Not on Christmas Day!

THE NEIGHBOR [_with a sneer_]. Christmas Day! Did ye hear 'bout the Beckers? Well, they was all put out on the sidewalk this afternoon. Becker's been sick, ye know, an' ain't paid his rent an' his wife's got a two weeks' old baby. It sort o' stunned Mis' Becker, an' she sat on one of the mattresses out there an' wouldn't move, an' nobody couldn't do nothin' with her. But they ain't the only ones has bad luck--Smith, the painter, fell off a ladder an' got killed. They took him to the hospital, but it wasn't no use--his head was all mashed in. His wife's got them five boys an' Smith never saved a cent, though he warn't a drinkin' man. It's a good thing Smith's children is boys--they can make their livin' easier!

THE WOMAN [_smiling faintly_]. Ain't ye got no cheerful news to tell? It's Christmas Eve, ye know.

THE NEIGHBOR. Christmas Eve don't seem to prevent people from dyin' an' bein' turned out o' house an' home. Did ye hear how bad the dipthery is? They say as how if it gits much worse they'll have to close the school in our ward. Two o' the Homan children's dead with it. The first one wasn't sick but two days, an' they say his face all turned black 'fore he died. But it's a good thing they're gone, for the Homans ain't got enough to feed the other six. Did ye hear 'bout Jim Kelly drinkin' again? Swore off for two months, an' then took to it harder'n ever--perty near killed the baby one night.

THE WOMAN [_with a wan, beseeching smile_]. Won't you please not tell me any more? It just breaks me heart.

THE NEIGHBOR [_grimly_]. I ain't got no other kind o' news to tell. I s'pose I might's well go home.

THE WOMAN. No, don't ye go. I like to have ye here when ye're kinder.

THE NEIGHBOR [_fingering the bed clothes and smoothing them over the woman_]. Well, it's gettin' late, an' I guess ye ought to go to sleep.

THE WOMAN. Oh, no, I won't go to slape till the girls come. They'll bring me somethin' to give me strength. If they'd on'y come soon.

THE NEIGHBOR. Ye ain't goin' to set up 'til they git home?

THE OLD WOMAN. That we are. We're kapin' the cilebratin' till they come.

THE NEIGHBOR. What celebratin'?

THE OLD WOMAN. Why, the Christmas, to be shure. We're goin' to have high jinks to-night. In the ould counthry 'tis always Christmas Day, but here 'tis begun on Christmas Eve, an' we're on'y waitin' for the girls, because they know how to fix things betther nor Mary an' me.

THE NEIGHBOR [_staring_]. But ain't they workin' in the store?

THE OLD WOMAN. Yes, but they're comin' home early to-night.

THE NEIGHBOR [_laughing ironically_]. Don't ye fool yerselves. Why, they've got to work harder to-night than any in the whole year.

THE WOMAN [_wistfully_]. But they did say they'd thry to come home early.

THE NEIGHBOR. The store's all crowded to-night. Folks 'at's got money to spend never remembers it till the last minute. If they didn't have none they'd be thinkin' 'bout it long ahead. Well, I got to be movin'. I wouldn't stay awake, if I was you.

THE OLD WOMAN. Sthay and kape the Christmas wid us! We'll be havin' high jinks by an' by. Sthay, now, an' help us wid our jollity!

THE NEIGHBOR. Nay, I left my children in bed, an' I got to go back to 'em. An' I got to get some rest myself--I got that ironin' ahead o' me in the mornin'. You folks better get yer own rest. [_She rises and walks to the door._]

THE OLD WOMAN [_beamingly_]. David an' Michael's comin'. [_The Neighbor stands with her back against the door and her hand on the knob, staring at the Old Woman._]

THE OLD WOMAN [_smiling rapturously_]. Yis, we're goin' to have a gran' time. [_The Neighbor looks puzzled and fearful and troubled, first at the Woman and then at the Old Woman. Finally, without a word, she opens the door and goes out._]

THE OLD WOMAN [_going about in a tottering sort of dance_]. David an' Michael's comin' an' the shepherds for the fairies will show thim the way.

THE WOMAN. If the girls would on'y come! If they'd give me somethin' so as I wouldn't be so tired!

THE OLD WOMAN. There's niver a sthar an' there's nobody to give thim a kind word an' the counthry roads are dark an' foul, but they've got the little folk to guide thim! An' whin they reach the city--the poor, lonesome shepherds from the hills!--they'll find naught but coldness an' hardness an' hurry. [_Questioningly._] Will the fairies show thim the way? Fairies' eyes be used to darkness, but can they see where it is black night in one corner an' a blaze o' light in another? [_She goes to the window for the third time, opens it and leans far out for a long time, then turns about and goes on in her monotone, closing the window.--She seems by this time quite to have forgotten the presence of the pallid woman on the bed, who has closed her eyes, and lies like one dead._]

THE OLD WOMAN. Nay, there's niver a sthar, an' the clouds are hangin' heavier an' lower an' the flakes o' snow are fallin'. Poor little folk guidin' thim poor lost shepherds, leadin' thim by the hand so gently because there's no others to be kind to thim, an' bringin' thim to the manger o' the Blessed Babe. [_She comes over to her rocking-chair and again sits down in it, rocks slowly to and fro, nodding her head in time to the motion._] Poor little mite of a babe, so cold an' unwelcome an' forgotten save by the silly ould shepherds from the hills! The silly ould shepherds from the strength o' the hills, who are comin' through the darkness in the lead o' the little folk! [_She speaks slower and lower, and finally drops into a quiet crooning--it stops and the Old Woman has fallen asleep._]

[_Curtain._]

[_While the curtain is down the pallid, sick woman upon the bed dies, the Old Woman being asleep does not notice the slight struggle with death. The fire has gone out in the stove, and the light in the lamp, and the stage is in complete darkness when the two girls come stumbling in. They are too tired to speak, too weary to show surprise that the occupants of the room are not awake. They fumble about, trying to find matches in the darkness, and finally discover them and a candle in the safe. They light the candle and place it upon the table by the scraggy little evergreen-tree. They turn about and discern their grandmother asleep in the rocking-chair. Hurriedly they turn to the bed and discover their mother lying there dead. For a full minute they stand gazing at her, the surprise, wonder, awe, misery increasing in their faces; then with screams they run to the bed, throw themselves on their knees and bury their faces, sobbing, in the bedclothes at the Woman's feet._]

[_Curtain._]

ILE

A PLAY

BY EUGENE G. O'NEILL

All rights reserved.

CHARACTERS

BEN [_the cabin boy_]. THE STEWARD. CAPTAIN KEENEY. SLOCUM [_second mate_]. MRS. KEENEY. JOE [_a harpooner_]. _Members of the crew of the Atlantic Queen._

ILE was first produced by the Provincetown Players, New York City, on the night of November 30th, 1917, with the following cast:

BEN [_the cabin boy_] _Harold Conley_. THE STEWARD _Robert Edwards_. CAPTAIN KEENEY _H. Collins_. MR. SLOCUM [_second mate_] _Ira Remsen_. MRS. KEENEY _Clara Savage_. JOE [_the harpooner_] _Lewis B. Ell_.

Produced under the direction of MISS NINA MOISE. Scenery by MR. LEWIS B. ELL.

Reprinted from "The Moon of the Caribbees and Six Other Plays of the Sea" by special permission of Eugene O'Neill. The professional and amateur stage rights on this play are strictly reserved by the author. Applications for permission to produce the play should be made to Mr. Eugene G. O'Neill, Provincetown, Mass.

ILE

A PLAY BY EUGENE G. O'NEILL

[_SCENE: Captain Keeney's cabin on board the steam whaling ship Atlantic Queen--a small, square compartment about eight feet high with a skylight in the center looking out on the poop deck. On the left (the stern of the ship) a long bench with rough cushions is built in against the wall. In front of the bench a table. Over the bench, several curtained port-holes._

_In the rear left, a door leading to the captain's sleeping quarters. To the right of the door a small organ, looking as if it were brand new, is placed against the wall._

_On the right, to the rear, a marble-topped sideboard. On the sideboard, a woman's sewing basket. Farther forward, a doorway leading to the companion-way, and past the officers' quarters to the main deck._

_In the center of the room, a stove. From the middle of the ceiling a hanging lamp is suspended. The walls of the cabin are painted white._

_There is no rolling of the ship, and the light which comes through the sky-light is sickly and faint, indicating one of those gray days of calm when ocean and sky are alike dead. The silence is unbroken except for the measured tread of some one walking up and down on the poop deck overhead._

_It is nearing two bells--one o'clock--in the afternoon of a day in the year 1895._

* * * * *

_At the rise of the curtain there is a moment of intense silence. Then The Steward enters and commences to clear the table of the few dishes which still remain on it after the Captain's dinner. He is an old, grizzled man dressed in dungaree pants, a sweater, and a woolen cap with ear flaps. His manner is sullen and angry. He stops stacking up the plates and casts a quick glance upward at the skylight; then tiptoes over to the closed door in rear and listens with his ear pressed to the crack. What he hears makes his face darken and he mutters a furious curse. There is a noise from the doorway on the right and he darts back to the table._

_Ben enters. He is an over-grown gawky boy with a long, pinched face. He is dressed in sweater, fur cap, etc. His teeth are chattering with the cold and he hurries to the stove where he stands for a moment shivering, blowing on his hands, slapping them against his sides, on the verge of crying._]

THE STEWARD [_in relieved tones--seeing who it is_]. Oh, 'tis you, is it? What're ye shiverin' 'bout? Stay by the stove where ye belong and ye'll find no need of chatterin'.

BEN. It's c-c-cold. [_Trying to control his chattering teeth--derisively._] Who d'ye think it were--the Old Man?

THE STEWARD [_makes a threatening move--Ben shrinks away_]. None o' your lip, young un, or I'll learn ye. [_More kindly._] Where was it ye've been all o' the time--the fo'c's'tle?

BEN. Yes.

THE STEWARD. Let the Old Man see ye up for'ard monkeyshinin' with the hands and ye'll get a hidin' ye'll not forget in a hurry.

BEN. Aw, he don't see nothin'. [_A trace of awe in his tones--he glances upward._] He jest walks up and down like he didn't notice nobody--and stares at the ice to the no'the'ard.

THE STEWARD [_the same tone of awe creeping into his voice_]. He's always starin' at the ice. [_In a sudden rage, shaking his fist at the skylight._] Ice, ice, ice! Damn him and damn the ice! Holdin' us in for nigh on a year--nothin' to see but ice--stuck in it like a fly in molasses!

BEN [_apprehensively_]. Ssshh! He'll hear ye.

THE STEWARD [_raging_]. Aye, damn, and damn the Arctic seas, and damn this rotten whalin' ship of his, and damn me for a fool to ever ship on it! [_Subsiding as if realizing the uselessness of this outburst--shaking his head--slowly, with deep conviction._] He's a hard man--as hard a man as ever sailed the seas.

BEN [_solemnly_]. Aye.

THE STEWARD. The two years we all signed up for are done this day! Two years o' this dog's life, and no luck in the fishin', and the hands half starved with the food runnin' low, rotten as it is; and not a sign of him turnin' back for home! [_Bitterly._] Home! I begin to doubt if ever I'll set foot on land again. [_Excitedly._] What is it he thinks he's goin' to do? Keep us all up here after our time is worked out till the last man of us is starved to death or frozen? We've grub enough hardly to last out the voyage back if we started now. What are the men goin' to do 'bout it? Did ye hear any talk in the fo'c's'tle?

BEN [_going over to him--in a half whisper_]. They said if he don't put back south for home to-day they're goin' to mutiny.

THE STEWARD [_with grim satisfaction_]. Mutiny? Aye, 'tis the only thing they can do; and serve him right after the manner he's treated them--'s if they weren't no better nor dogs.

BEN. The ice is all broke up to s'uth'ard. They's clear water s'far 's you can see. He ain't got no excuse for not turnin' back for home, the men says.

THE STEWARD [_bitterly_]. He won't look nowheres but no'the'ard where they's only the ice to see. He don't want to see no clear water. All he thinks on is gettin' the ile--'s if it was our fault he ain't had good luck with the whales. [_Shaking his head._] I think the man's mighty nigh losin' his senses.

BEN [_awed_]. D'you really think he's crazy?

THE STEWARD. Aye, it's the punishment o' God on him. Did ye ever hear of a man who wasn't crazy do the things he does? [_Pointing to the door in rear._] Who but a man that's mad would take his woman--and as sweet a woman as ever was--on a rotten whalin' ship to the Arctic seas to be locked in by the ice for nigh on a year, and maybe lose her senses forever--for it's sure she'll never be the same again.

BEN [_sadly_]. She useter be awful nice to me before--[_His eyes grow wide and frightened._] she got--like she is.

THE STEWARD. Aye, she was good to all of us. 'Twould have been hell on board without her; for he's a hard man--a hard, hard man--a driver if there ever was one. [_With a grim laugh._] I hope he's satisfied now--drivin' her on till she's near lost her mind. And who could blame her? 'Tis a God's wonder we're not a ship full of crazed people--with the ice all the time, and the quiet so thick you're afraid to hear your own voice.

BEN [_with a frightened glance toward the door on right_]. She don't never speak to me no more--jest looks at me 's if she didn't know me.

THE STEWARD. She don't know no one--but him. She talks to him--when she does talk--right enough.

BEN. She does nothin' all day long now but sit and sew--and then she cries to herself without makin' no noise. I've seen her.

THE STEWARD. Aye, I could hear her through the door a while back.

BEN [_tiptoes over to the door and listens_]. She's cryin' now.

THE STEWARD [_furiously--shaking his fist_]. God send his soul to hell for the devil he is!

[_There is the noise of some one coming slowly down the companion-way stairs. The Steward hurries to his stacked-up dishes. He is so nervous from fright that he knocks off the top one which falls and breaks on the floor. He stands aghast, trembling with dread. Ben is violently rubbing off the organ with a piece of cloth which he has snatched from his pocket. Captain Keeney appears in the doorway on right and comes into the cabin, removing his fur cap as he does so. He is a man of about forty, around five-ten in height but looking much shorter on account of the enormous proportions of his shoulders and chest. His face is massive and deeply lined, with gray-blue eyes of a bleak hardness, and a tightly-clenched, thin-lipped mouth. His thick hair is long and gray. He is dressed in a heavy blue jacket and blue pants stuffed into his sea-boots. He is followed into the cabin by the Second Mate, a rangy six-footer with a lean weather-beaten face. The Mate is dressed about the same as the captain. He is a man of thirty or so._]

KEENEY [_comes toward The Steward with a stern look on his face. The Steward is visibly frightened and the stack of dishes rattles in his trembling hands. Keeney draws back his fist and The Steward shrinks away. The fist is gradually lowered and Keeney speaks slowly_]. 'Twould be like hitting a worm. It is nigh on two bells, Mr. Steward, and this truck not cleared yet.

THE STEWARD [_stammering_]. Y-y-yes, sir.

KEENEY. Instead of doin' your rightful work ye've been below here gossipin' old women's talk with that boy. [_To Ben, fiercely._] Get out o' this you! Clean up the chart room. [_Ben darts past the Mate to the open doorway._] Pick up that dish, Mr. Steward!

THE STEWARD [_doing so with difficulty_]. Yes, sir.

KEENEY. The next dish you break, Mr. Steward, you take a bath in the Behring Sea at the end of a rope.

THE STEWARD [_trembling_]. Yes, sir.

[_He hurries out. The Second Mate walks slowly over to the Captain._]

MATE. I warn't 'specially anxious the man at the wheel should catch what I wanted to say to you, sir. That's why I asked you to come below.

KEENEY [_impatiently_]. Speak your say, Mr. Slocum.

MATE [_unconsciously lowering his voice_]. I'm afeared there'll be trouble with the hands by the look o' things. They'll likely turn ugly, every blessed one o' them, if you don't put back. The two years they signed up for is up to-day.

KEENEY. And d'you think you're tellin' me something new, Mr. Slocum? I've felt it in the air this long time past. D'you think I've not seen their ugly looks and the grudgin' way they worked?

[_The door in rear is opened and Mrs. Keeney stands in the doorway. She is a slight, sweet-faced little woman, primly dressed in black. Her eyes are red from weeping and her face drawn and pale. She takes in the cabin with a frightened glance and stands as if fixed to the spot by some nameless dread, clasping and unclasping her hands nervously. The two men turn and look at her._]

KEENEY [_with rough tenderness_]. Well, Annie?

MRS. KEENEY [_as if awakening from a dream_]. David, I--

[_She is silent. The Mate starts for the doorway._]

KEENEY [_turning to him--sharply_]. Wait!

MATE. Yes, sir.

KEENEY. D'you want anything, Annie?

MRS. KEENEY [_after a pause during which she seems to be endeavoring to collect her thoughts_]. I thought maybe--I'd go up on deck, David, to get a breath of fresh air.

[_She stands humbly awaiting his permission. He and The Mate exchange a significant glance._]

KEENEY. It's too cold, Annie. You'd best stay below. There's nothing to look at on deck--but ice.

MRS. KEENEY [_monotonously_]. I know--ice, ice, ice! But there's nothing to see down here but these walls.

[_She makes a gesture of loathing._]

KEENEY. You can play the organ, Annie.

MRS. KEENEY [_dully_]. I hate the organ. It puts me in mind of home.

KEENEY [_a touch of resentment in his voice_]. I got it jest for you!

MRS. KEENEY [_dully_]. I know. [_She turns away from them and walks slowly to the bench on left. She lifts up one of the curtains and looks through a porthole; then utters an exclamation of joy._] Ah, water! Clear water! As far as I can see! How good it looks after all these months of ice! [_She turns round to them, her face transfigured with joy._] Ah, now I must go up on deck and look at it, David!

KEENEY [_frowning_]. Best not to-day, Annie. Best wait for a day when the sun shines.

MRS. KEENEY [_desperately_]. But the sun never shines in this terrible place.

KEENEY [_a tone of command in his voice_]. Best not to-day, Annie.

MRS. KEENEY [_crumbling before this command--abjectly_]. Very well, David.

[_She stands there, staring straight before her as if in a daze.--The two men look at her uneasily._]

KEENEY [_sharply_]. Annie!

MRS. KEENEY [_dully_]. Yes, David.

KEENEY. Me and Mr. Slocum has business to talk about--ship's business.

MRS. KEENEY. Very well, David.

[_She goes slowly out, rear, and leaves the door three-quarters shut behind her._]

KEENEY. Best not have her on deck if they's goin' to be any trouble.

MATE. Yes, sir.

KEENEY. And trouble they's going to be. I feel it in my bones. [_Takes a revolver from the pocket of his coat and examines it._] Got your'n?

MATE. Yes, sir.

KEENEY. Not that we'll have to use 'em--not if I know their breed of dog--jest to frighten 'em up a bit. [_Grimly._] I ain't never been forced to use one yit; and trouble I've had by land and by sea s'long as I kin remember, and will have till my dyin' day, I reckon.

MATE [_hesitatingly_]. Then you ain't goin'--to turn back?

KEENEY. Turn back! Mr. Slocum, did you ever hear o' me pointin' s'uth for home with only a measly four hundred barrel of ile in the hold?

MATE [_hastily_]. But the grub's gittin' low.

KEENEY. They's enough to last a long time yit, if they're careful with it; and they's plenty of water.

MATE. They say it's not fit to eat--what's left; and the two years they signed on fur is up to-day. They might make trouble for you in the courts when we git home.

KEENEY. Let them make what law trouble they kin! I don't give a damn 'bout the money. I've got to git the ile! [_Glancing sharply at the Mate._] You ain't turnin' no sea lawyer, be you, Mr. Slocum?

MATE [_flushing_]. Not by a hell of a sight, sir.

KEENEY. What do the fools want to go home fur now? Their share o' the four hundred barrel wouldn't keep them in chewin' terbacco.

MATE [_slowly_]. They wants to git back to their old folks an' things, I s'pose.

KEENEY [_looking at him searchingly_]. 'N you want to turn back too. [_The Mate looks down confusedly before his sharp gaze._] Don't lie, Mr. Slocum. It's writ down plain in your eyes. [_With grim sarcasm._] I hope, Mr. Slocum, you ain't agoin' to jine the men agin me.

MATE [_indignantly_]. That ain't fair, sir, to say sich things.

KEENEY [_with satisfaction_]. I warn't much afeard o' that, Tom. You been with me nigh on ten year and I've learned ye whalin'. No man kin say I ain't a good master, if I be a hard one.

MATE. I warn't thinkin' of myself, sir--'bout turnin' home, I mean. [_Desperately._] But Mrs. Keeney, sir--seems like she ain't jest satisfied up here, ailin' like--what with the cold an' bad luck an' the ice an' all.

KEENEY [_his face clouding--rebukingly, but not severely_]. That's my business, Mr. Slocum. I'll thank you to steer a clear course o' that. [_A pause._] The ice'll break up soon to no'the'ard. I could see it startin' to-day. And when it goes and we git some sun Annie'll pick up. [_Another pause--then he bursts forth._] It ain't the damned money what's keepin' me up in the Northern seas, Tom. But I can't go back to Homeport with a measly four hundred barrel of ile. I'd die fust. I ain't never come back home in all my days without a full ship. Ain't that true?

MATE. Yes, sir; but this voyage you been ice-bound, an'--

KEENEY [_scornfully_]. And d'you s'pose any of 'em would believe that--any o' them skippers I've beaten voyage after voyage? Can't you hear 'em laughin' and sneerin'--Tibbots n' Harris n' Simms and the rest--and all o' Homeport makin' fun o' me? "Dave Keeney, what boasts he's the best whalin' skipper out o' Homeport, comin' back with a measly four hundred barrel of ile!" [_The thought of this drives him into a frenzy and he smashes his fist down on the marble top of the sideboard._] I got to git the ile, I tell you! How could I figger on this ice? It's never been so bad before in the thirty year I been acomin' here. And now it's breakin' up. In a couple o' days it'll be all gone. And they's whale here, plenty of 'em. I know they is and I ain't never gone wrong yit. I got to git the ile! I got to git it in spite of all hell, and by God, I ain't agoin' home till I do git it!

[_There is the sound of subdued sobbing from the door in rear. The two men stand silent for a moment, listening. Then Keeney goes over to the door and looks in. He hesitates for a moment as if he were going to enter--then closes the door softly. Joe, the harpooner, an enormous six-footer with a battered, ugly face, enters from right and stands waiting for the Captain to notice him._]

KEENEY [_turning and seeing him_]. Don't be standin' there like a hawk, Harpooner. Speak up!

JOE [_confusedly_]. We want--the men, sir--they wants to send a depitation aft to have a word with you.

KEENEY [_furiously_]. Tell 'em to go to--[_Checks himself and continues grimly._] Tell 'em to come. I'll see 'em.

JOE. Aye, aye, sir.

[_He goes out._]

KEENEY [_with a grim smile_]. Here it comes, the trouble you spoke of, Mr. Slocum, and we'll make short shift of it. It's better to crush such things at the start than let them make headway.

MATE [_worriedly_]. Shall I wake up the First and Fourth, sir? We might need their help.

KEENEY. No, let them sleep. I'm well able to handle this alone, Mr. Slocum.

[_There is the shuffling of footsteps from outside and five of the crew crowd into the cabin, led by Joe. All are dressed alike--sweaters, sea boots, etc. They glance uneasily at the Captain, twirling their fur caps in their hands._]

KEENEY [_after a pause_]. Well? Who's to speak fur ye?

JOE [_stepping forward with an air of bravado_]. I be.

KEENEY [_eyeing him up and down coldly_]. So you be. Then speak your say and be quick about it.

JOE [_trying not to wilt before the Captain's glance and avoiding his eyes_]. The time we signed up for is done to-day.

KEENEY [_icily_]. You're tellin' me nothin' I don't know.

JOE. You ain't p'intin' fur home yit, far s'we kin see.

KEENEY. No, and I ain't agoin' to till this ship is full of ile.

JOE. You can't go no further no'the with the ice before ye.

KEENEY. The ice is breaking up.

JOE [_after a slight pause, during which the others mumble angrily to one another_]. The grub we're gittin' now is rotten.

KEENEY. It's good enough fur ye. Better men than ye are have eaten worse.

[_There is a chorus of angry exclamations from the crowd._]

JOE [_encouraged by this support_]. We ain't agoin' to work no more less you puts back for home.

KEENEY [_fiercely_]. You ain't, ain't you?

JOE. No; and the law courts'll say we was right.

KEENEY. To hell with your law courts! We're at sea now and I'm the law on this ship! [_Edging up toward the harpooner._] And every mother's son of you what don't obey orders goes in irons.

[_There are more angry exclamations from the crew. Mrs. Keeney appears in the doorway in rear and looks on with startled eyes. None of the men notice her._]

JOE [_with bravado_]. Then we're agoin' to mutiny and take the old hooker home ourselves. Ain't we, boys?

[_As he turns his head to look at the others, Keeney's fist shoots out to the side of his jaw. Joe goes down in a heap and lies there. Mrs. Keeney gives a shriek and hides her face in her hands. The men pull out their sheath knives and start a rush, but stop when they find themselves confronted by the revolvers of Keeney and the Mate._]

KEENEY [_his eyes and voice snapping_]. Hold still! [_The men stand huddled together in a sullen silence. Keeney's voice is full of mockery._] You's found out it ain't safe to mutiny on this ship, ain't you? And now git for'ard where ye belong, and--[_He gives Joe's body a contemptuous kick._] drag him with you. And remember, the first man of ye I see shirkin' I'll shoot dead as sure as there's a sea under us, and you can tell the rest the same. Git for'ard now! Quick! [_The men leave in cowed silence, carrying Joe with them. Keeney turns to the Mate with a short laugh and puts his revolver back in his pocket._] Best get up on deck, Mr. Slocum, and see to it they don't try none of their skulkin' tricks. We'll have to keep an eye peeled from now on. I know 'em.

MATE. Yes, sir.

[_He goes out, right. Keeney hears his wife's hysterical weeping and turns around in surprise--then walks slowly to her side._]

KEENEY [_putting an arm around her shoulder--with gruff tenderness_]. There, there, Annie. Don't be feared. It's all past and gone.

MRS. KEENEY [_shrinking away from him_]. Oh, I can't bear it! I can't bear it any longer!

KEENEY [_gently_]. Can't bear what, Annie?

MRS. KEENEY [_hysterically_]. All this horrible brutality, and these brutes of men, and this terrible ship, and this prison cell of a room, and the ice all around, and the silence.

[_After this outburst she calms down and wipes her eyes with her handkerchief._]

KEENEY [_after a pause during which he looks down at her with a puzzled frown_]. Remember, I warn't hankerin' to have you come on this voyage, Annie.

MRS. KEENEY. I wanted to be with you, David, don't you see? I didn't want to wait back there in the house all alone as I've been doing these last six years since we were married--waiting, and watching, and fearing--with nothing to keep my mind occupied--not able to go back teaching school on account of being Dave Keeney's wife. I used to dream of sailing on the great, wide, glorious ocean. I wanted to be by your side in the danger and vigorous life of it all. I wanted to see you the hero they make you out to be in Homeport. And instead [_Her voice grows tremulous_] all I find is ice and cold--and brutality! [_Her voice breaks._]

KEENEY. I warned you what it'd be, Annie. "Whalin' ain't no ladies' tea party," I says to you, "and you better stay to home where you've got all your woman's comforts." [_Shaking his head._] But you was so set on it.

MRS. KEENEY [_wearily_]. Oh, I know it isn't your fault, David. You see, I didn't believe you. I guess I was dreaming about the old Vikings in the story books and I thought you were one of them.

KEENEY [_protestingly_]. I done my best to make it as cozy and comfortable as could be. [_Mrs. Keeney looks around her in wild scorn._] I even sent to the city for that organ for ye, thinkin' it might be soothin' to ye to be playin' it times when they was calms and things was dull like.

MRS. KEENEY [_wearily_]. Yes, you were very kind, David. I know that. [_She goes to left and lifts the curtains from the porthole and looks out--then suddenly bursts forth_]: I won't stand it--I can't stand it--pent up by these walls like a prisoner. [_She runs over to him and throws her arms around him, weeping. He puts his arm protectingly over her shoulders._] Take me away from here, David! If I don't get away from here, out of this terrible ship, I'll go mad! Take me home, David! I can't think any more. I feel as if the cold and the silence were crushing down on my brain. I'm afraid. Take me home!

KEENEY [_holds her at arm's length and looks at her face anxiously_]. Best go to bed, Annie. You ain't yourself. You got fever. Your eyes look so strange like. I ain't never seen you look this way before.

MRS. KEENEY [_laughing hysterically_]. It's the ice and the cold and the silence--they'd make any one look strange.

KEENEY [_soothingly_]. In a month or two, with good luck, three at the most, I'll have her filled with ile and then we'll give her everything she'll stand and p'int for home.

MRS. KEENEY. But we can't wait for that--I can't wait. I want to get home. And the men won't wait. They want to get home. It's cruel, it's brutal for you to keep them. You must sail back. You've got no excuse. There's clear water to the south now. If you've a heart at all you've got to turn back.

KEENEY [_harshly_]. I can't, Annie.

MRS. KEENEY. Why can't you?

KEENEY. A woman couldn't rightly understand my reason.

MRS. KEENEY [_wildly_]. Because it's a stubborn reason. Oh, I heard you talking with the second mate. You're afraid the other captains will sneer at you because you didn't come back with a full ship. You want to live up to your silly reputation even if you do have to beat and starve men and drive me mad to do it.

KEENEY [_his jaw set stubbornly_]. It ain't that, Annie. Them skippers would never dare sneer to my face. It ain't so much what any one'd say--but--[_He hesitates, struggling to express his meaning_] you see--I've always done it--since my first voyage as skipper. I always come back--with a full ship--and--it don't seem right not to--somehow. I been always first whalin' skipper out o' Homeport, and--don't you see my meanin', Annie? [_He glances at her. She is not looking at him, but staring dully in front of her, not hearing a word he is saying._] Annie! [_She comes to herself with a start._] Best turn in, Annie, there's a good woman. You ain't well.

MRS. KEENEY [_resisting his attempts to guide her to the door in rear_]. David! Won't you please turn back?

KEENEY [_gently_]. I can't, Annie--not yet awhile. You don't see my meanin'. I got to git the ile.

MRS. KEENEY. It'd be different if you needed the money, but you don't. You've got more than plenty.

KEENEY [_impatiently_]. It ain't the money I'm thinkin' of. D'you think I'm as mean as that?

MRS. KEENEY [_dully_]. No--I don't know--I can't understand. [_Intensely._] Oh, I want to be home in the old house once more, and see my own kitchen again, and hear a woman's voice talking to me and be able to talk to her. Two years! It seems so long ago--as if I'd been dead and could never go back.

KEENEY [_worried by her strange tone and the far-away look in her eyes_.] Best go to bed, Annie. You ain't well.

MRS. KEENEY [_not appearing to hear him_]. I used to be lonely when you were away. I used to think Homeport was a stupid, monotonous place. Then I used to go down on the beach, especially when it was windy and the breakers were rolling in, and I'd dream of the fine, free life you must be leading. [_She gives a laugh which is half a sob._] I used to love the sea then. [_She pauses; then continues with slow intensity._] But now--I don't ever want to see the sea again.

KEENEY [_thinking to humor her_]. 'Tis no fit place for a woman, that's sure. I was a fool to bring ye.

MRS. KEENEY [_after a pause--passing her hand over her eyes with a gesture of pathetic weariness_]. How long would it take us to reach home--if we started now?

KEENEY [_frowning_]. 'Bout two months, I reckon, Annie, with fair luck.

MRS. KEENEY [_counts on her fingers--then murmurs with a rapt smile_]. That would be August, the latter part of August, wouldn't it? It was on the twenty-fifth of August we were married, David, wasn't it?

KEENEY [_trying to conceal the fact that her memories have moved him--gruffly_]. Don't you remember?

MRS. KEENEY [_vaguely--again passes her hand over her eyes_]. My memory is leaving me--up here in the ice. It was so long ago. [_A pause--then she smiles dreamily._] It's June now. The lilacs will be all in bloom in the front yard--and the climbing roses on the trellis to the side of the house--they're budding--

[_She suddenly covers her face with her hands and commences to sob._]

KEENEY [_disturbed_]. Go in and rest, Annie. You're all worn out cryin' over what can't be helped.

MRS. KEENEY [_suddenly throwing her arms around his neck and clinging to him_]. You love me, don't you, David?

KEENEY [_in amazed embarrassment at this outburst_]. Love you? Why d'you ask me such a question, Annie?

MRS. KEENEY [_shaking him fiercely_]. But you do, don't you, David? Tell me!

KEENEY. I'm your husband, Annie, and you're my wife. Could there be aught but love between us after all these years?

MRS. KEENEY [_shaking him again--still more fiercely_]. Then you do love me. Say it!

KEENEY [_simply_]. I do, Annie.

MRS. KEENEY [_gives a sigh of relief--her hands drop to her sides. Keeney regards her anxiously. She passes her hand across her eyes and murmurs half to herself_]: I sometimes think if we could only have had a child--[_Keeney turns away from her, deeply moved. She grabs his arm and turns him around to face her--intensely._] And I've always been a good wife to you, haven't I, David?

KEENEY [_his voice betraying his emotion_]. No man has ever had a better, Annie.

MRS. KEENEY. And I've never asked for much from you, have I, David? Have I?

KEENEY. You know you could have all I got the power to give ye, Annie.

MRS. KEENEY [_wildly_]. Then do this, this once, for my sake, for God's sake--take me home! It's killing me, this life--the brutality and cold and horror of it. I'm going mad. I can feel the threat in the air. I can't bear the silence threatening me--day after gray day and every day the same. I can't bear it. [_Sobbing._] I'll go mad, I know I will. Take me home, David, if you love me as you say. I'm afraid. For the love of God, take me home!

[_She throws her arms around him, weeping against his shoulder. His face betrays the tremendous struggle going on within him. He holds her out at arm's length, his expression softening. For a moment his shoulders sag, he becomes old, his iron spirit weakens as he looks at her tear-stained face._]

KEENEY [_dragging out the words with an effort_]. I'll do it, Annie--for your sake--if you say it's needful for ye.

MRS. KEENEY [_with wild joy--kissing him_]. God bless you for that, David!

[_He turns away from her silently and walks toward the companion-way. Just at that moment there is a clatter of footsteps on the stairs and the Second Mate enters the cabin._]

MATE [_excitedly_]. The ice is breakin' up to no'the'ard, sir. There's a clear passage through the floe, and clear water beyond, the lookout says.

[_Keeney straightens himself like a man coming out of a trance. Mrs. Keeney looks at the Mate with terrified eyes._]

KEENEY [_dazedly--trying to collect his thoughts_]. A clear passage? To no'the'ard?

MATE. Yes, sir.

KEENEY [_his voice suddenly grim with determination_]. Then get her ready and we'll drive her through.

MATE. Aye, aye, sir.

MRS. KEENEY [_appealingly_]. David! David!

KEENEY [_not heeding her_]. Will the men turn to willin' or must we drag 'em out?

MATE. They'll turn to willin' enough. You put the fear o' God into 'em, sir. They're meek as lambs.

KEENEY. Then drive 'em--both watches. [_With grim determination._] They's whale t'other side o' this floe and we're agoin' to git 'em.

MATE. Aye, aye, sir.

[_He goes out hurriedly. A moment later there is the sound of scuffling feet from the deck outside and the Mate's voice shouting orders._]

KEENEY [_speaking aloud to himself--derisively_]. And I was agoin' home like a yaller dog!

MRS. KEENEY [_imploringly_]. David!

KEENEY [_sternly_]. Woman, you ain't adoin' right when you meddle in men's business and weaken 'em. You can't know my feelin's. I got to prove a man to be a good husband for ye to take pride in. I got to git the ile, I tell ye.

MRS. KEENEY [_supplicatingly_]. David! Aren't you going home?

KEENEY [_ignoring this question--commandingly_]. You ain't well. Go and lay down a mite. [_He starts for the door._] I got to git on deck.

[_He goes out. She cries after him in anguish, "David!" A pause. She passes her hand across her eyes--then commences to laugh hysterically and goes to the organ. She sits down and starts to play wildly an old hymn, "There is rest for the weary." Keeney reenters from the doorway to the deck and stands looking at her angrily. He comes over and grabs her roughly by the shoulder._]

KEENEY. Woman, what foolish mockin' is this? [_She laughs wildly and he starts back from her in alarm._] Annie! What is it? [_She doesn't answer him. Keeney's voice trembles._] Don't you know me, Annie?

[_He puts both hands on her shoulders and turns her around so that he can look into her eyes. She stares up at him with a stupid expression, a vague smile on her lips. He stumbles away from her, and she commences softly to play the organ again._]

KEENEY [_swallowing hard--in a hoarse whisper, as if he had difficulty in speaking_]. You said--you was agoin' mad--God!

[_A long wail is heard from the deck above, "Ah, bl-o-o-o-ow!" A moment later the Mate's face appears through the skylight. He cannot see Mrs. Keeney._]

MATE [_in great excitement_]. Whales, sir--a whole school of 'em--off the star-b'd quarter 'bout five miles away--big ones!

KEENEY [_galvanized into action_]. Are you lowerin' the boats?

MATE. Yes, sir.

KEENEY [_with grim decision_]. I'm acomin' with ye.

MATE. Aye, aye, sir. [_Jubilantly._] You'll git the ile now right enough, sir.

[_His head is withdrawn and he can be heard shouting orders._]

KEENEY [_turning to his wife_]. Annie! Did you hear him? I'll git the ile. [_She doesn't answer or seem to know he is there. He gives a hard laugh which is almost a groan._] I know you're foolin' me, Annie. You ain't out of your mind--[_Anxiously._] be you? I'll git the ile now right enough--jest a little while longer, Annie--then we'll turn home'ard. I can't turn back now, you see that, don't you? I've got to git the ile. [_In sudden terror._] Answer me! You ain't mad, be you?

[_She keeps on playing the organ, but makes no reply. The Mate's face appears again through the skylight._]

MATE. All ready, sir.

[_Keeney turns his back on his wife and strides to the doorway, where he stands for a moment and looks back at her in anguish, fighting to control his feelings._]

MATE. Comin', sir?

KEENEY [_his face suddenly grows hard with determination_]. Aye.

[_He turns abruptly and goes out. Mrs. Keeney does not appear to notice his departure. Her whole attention seems centered in the organ. She sits with half-closed eyes, her body swaying a little from side to side to the rhythm of the hymn. Her fingers move faster and faster and she is playing wildly and discordantly as the_

_Curtain falls._]

THE NURSERY MAID OF HEAVEN

A MIRACLE PLAY

BY THOMAS WOOD STEVENS

Based on a story by Vernon Lee. Copyright, 1920, by Thomas Wood Stevens. All rights reserved.

THE NURSERY MAID OF HEAVEN was first produced by the School of the Drama, Carnegie Institute of Technology, Pittsburgh, Pa., on the night of November 14, 1919, with the following cast:

SISTER BENVENUTA _Hazel Beck_. SISTER GRIMANA _Alicia S. Guthrie_. SISTER ROSALBA _Grey McAuley_. THE ABBESS _Dorothy Rubinstein_. THE SISTER SACRISTAN _Inez D. R. Hazel_. ATALANTA BADOER [_a novice_] _Carolyn McCampbell_. ABBE FILOSI _Wm. R. Dean_. THE PUPPET MAN _Lawrence Paquin_. BEELZEBUBB SATANASSO _James S. Church_.

## SCENE I: The Chapter-Room of the Convent of Our Lady of the

Rosebush, Cividale.

## SCENE II: Benvenuta's cell.

## SCENE III: The Chapter-Room.

TIME: _Early in the eighteenth century. Some days elapse between scenes_.

Stage settings and properties by ALEXANDER WYCKOFF and DAVID S. GAITHER.

Lightning by ARLEIGH B. WILLIAMSON.

Costumes by SARA E. BENNETT and LELA MAY AULTMAN.

Music by CHARLES PEARSON.

The amateur and professional stage rights to THE NURSERY MAID OF HEAVEN are reserved by the author. Applications for permission to produce the play should be addressed to Frank Shay, Stewart & Kidd Company, Cincinnati, Ohio. No performance may be given without his consent.

THE NURSERY MAID OF HEAVEN

A MIRACLE PLAY BY THOMAS WOOD STEVENS

[_SCENE I: Atalanta, the novice, sits, rebellious and sullen, on the steps of the Mother Superior's dais. From time to time nuns and novices pass across the stage to the left, on their way to the refectory. Sister Grimana, an old nun, comes down to Atalanta purposefully._]

GRIMANA. Sulking again, are you? Waiting for Sister Benvenuta, are you?

[_Atalanta is silent._]

Remembering things that are really no concern of yours; and thinking they concern you because you remember them--doubtless quite inaccurately. I know. It's a way of the Badoer family--and of the Loredani, too, for that matter. When you were a child there was confiture with the bread--and you threw away the crust; and they let you do it, and now you can't find your vocation.

[_She taps her foot impatiently._]

Well--well--will you come?

[_Atalanta is still silent, her face hard with resolution._]

I might mention it to the Sister Sacristan. She'd fetch you.

[_Atalanta gives her a look of scornful disgust._]

It's as well you didn't say that in so many words, Sister.

[_Atalanta looks straight before her, a statue of silence._]

Perhaps there is some one you would prefer to have me call, before the Sister Sacristan comes to fetch you? Sister Rosalba?

[_No response._]

So it must be Sister Benvenuta, must it?

ATALANTA. I would speak with her.

GRIMANA. Oho! You would speak with her! And so you shall--for the love I bore your mother when we were children together. But what good she can do you, with her chatter and laughing--childish laughing and chatter--I can't see. I'll send her to you. And meantime, count your buttons. That's my advice. Count your buttons.

[_She comes close and speaks more confidentially._]

That helps greatly--it did when I was your age.

[_Grimana goes off. Atalanta mechanically runs her fingers over the buttons of her novice's cape; as she arrives at the end of the row, she mutters._]

ATALANTA. Even you, Benvenuta!

[_At the second word she rises abruptly, her hands on the veil._]

Heaven forgive me!

[_She tears off the veil just as Benvenuta enters from the left. Benvenuta limps down around the Mother Superior's throne, and on seeing Atalanta with her veil off, bursts into laughter._]

ATALANTA. Even you, Benvenuta! What amuses you so?

BENVENUTA. It's your hair. It's so funny--it's so long since I've seen your hair, Atalanta, dear.

ATALANTA [_sullenly_]. It's not that I want to talk to you about. You needn't have laughed.

BENVENUTA. I know, dear. I shouldn't have laughed, but I always do. I'm so unworthy. I can't seem to help it, though I tell myself, often and often, that it's trifling and worldly to laugh so much, and undignified, too, before the children and novices. I will try not to laugh, Atalanta. Sister Grimana said you wanted me. What is it, dear?

[_She looks at Atalanta and smothers another laugh._]

Put on your veil, child.

ATALANTA. Don't call me child--I'm only three years younger than you, and I'm taller.

[_She puts on the veil again, still sullen._]

BENVENUTA. You're only a novice and I call you a child--very properly, too. And if you want me to talk to you, you must listen--like a good child.

[_A step is heard approaching and a rattle of keys; Atalanta pulls at Benvenuta's dress as if to draw her down beside her._]

ATALANTA. It's the Sister Sacristan. Now she'll make me go, and there's something you must tell me--you must--I beg of you.

[_The Sister Sacristan comes in and goes straight to Atalanta, ignoring Benvenuta. Her keys are audible as she walks._]

THE SISTER SACRISTAN. Well, Mistress Perverse and Disobedient? Not come to reason yet?

BENVENUTA. Pray you, Sister Sacristan, pardon her. Let me speak with her a little while--only a little while. Her tasks can wait--

SISTER SACRISTAN. Her tasks! Praise the Blessed Mother, in this noble house we need not depend on the novices for anything. It's not that--it's the discipline in the pigeon cot. The Mother Abbess will be displeased--

BENVENUTA. Pray you, Sister Sacristan. This novice has asked of me some spiritual admonition. She is my kinswoman, and I cannot refuse it. So I ask you for a little time with her, to speak to her of spiritual things, and perhaps bring her some comfort, to the end that her holy vocation may the sooner come. I ask it in humility, Sister Sacristan.

SISTER SACRISTAN [_crossing to the closet, which she unlocks_]. Admonition, eh?

[_She takes out some vestments, which she hangs over her arm, closing the door._]

BENVENUTA. I ask you to remember, Sister, that last Thursday I took upon myself the vexed matter of the hair of the two new novices, and that it throve in my charge.

SISTER SACRISTAN. Yes--throve. You so coddled them that they cried for you each night after, and are more trouble to the lay sisters than ever. But since she's your kinswoman--have it as you will. I look for little effect from your admonitions, I may as well tell you.

[_She removes her keys and goes out, without locking the closet._]

ATALANTA. That was good of you, Benvenuta. Now, listen to me. I am unworthy. I am unhappy. I feel no call. Tell me--tell me about the world, Sister Benvenuta--I beg you, tell me--

BENVENUTA. I will tell you of God's love, and of this holy life--

ATALANTA [_leading her to the stairway, where she sits down_]. Yes--I know. But first, tell me about the world.

BENVENUTA. I only tell you by way of admonition--that you may see how hollow is the world, and full of delusion--

ATALANTA. I understand you. Go on.

[_She draws Benvenuta down beside her._]

BENVENUTA. You must know then, that I--even I, Sister Benvenuta, was a most worldly little girl. I can remember so clearly how I used to run madly through the gardens, and roll on the grass like--like a wild puppy, and bury my face in the roses--till they scratched my nose and the warm scent made me dizzy. And then I would climb on the wall and watch the barges go by, with the strong men sculling them, and the women under the awnings sorting crabs and prawns.

ATALANTA. Tell me about the barge people.

BENVENUTA. That was all I saw of them. And then they would take me to my lady mother, of a forenoon, while she was having her hair powdered and curled; and there would be a black page bringing her chocolate, and her serving cavalier would be leaning beside her mirror taking snuff.

ATALANTA. Yes--tell me about the cavalier servant.

BENVENUTA. That was all I ever saw of him. But he was very worldly, I am sure.

ATALANTA. I wish you had seen more of him. And your mother? Did she have little children?

BENVENUTA. You know well I was the youngest of our family. That was why I was destined for the benefice we possessed in this high born convent.

ATALANTA. Tell me about your father?

BENVENUTA. I used only to see him once in a month, and I was much frightened of him--he was so noble and so just.

ATALANTA. Oh, he was a father of that sort, was he?

BENVENUTA. And when he did receive me, he had a handkerchief like a turban around his head, and horn spectacles on his nose, and he would be making gold with an astrologer, or putting devils in retorts. That was what he said he was doing, but I know now that he deceived me; he was a very worldly man, though he was so noble and just.

ATALANTA. Tell me, Benvenuta, when you were in the world, did you ever see mothers and babies--tiny babies--not old at all?

BENVENUTA. The only one was in the picture in our chapel--the panel in the center with the Blessed Mother and the little Child Christ. He was so sweet, and his eyes were as if they would open in a moment and then I should know what color of eyes they were.

ATALANTA [_glancing toward the Sacristy closet_]. And that's why you so love the Bambino they keep in the Sacristy closet?

BENVENUTA. Yes.

ATALANTA [_more passionately_]. And was it easy for you, Benvenuta--always easy in your heart, to give up the world?

BENVENUTA. I was destined for this, dear.

ATALANTA [_rising_]. I am not sure. I was not destined. I am--

BENVENUTA. Ssh! Dear Atalanta. Be quiet. Be calm. Yes, I was worldly, and I gave it up willingly--

ATALANTA. Yes, it was easy for you, and so you think it should be for me. You never even saw a little baby with her mother. You were destined, and you were the youngest--

BENVENUTA. It was for the best. I was unworthy, but I gave up the world willingly--

ATALANTA [_bitterly_]. Willingly--you were lame, and--

[_She stops, biting her lips. There is a pause._]

BENVENUTA. Yes. I was a little lame. But I was a worldly little girl.

ATALANTA. Forgive me, dear sister. I meant no hurt.

BENVENUTA. You did not hurt me. [_Another pause._]

ATALANTA. Dear Benvenuta, one thing I must tell you. I must. It happened just before I came here.

[_Benvenuta looks at her soberly._]

BENVENUTA. Are you sure it is to me you should tell it?

ATALANTA. It is not a sin--not something I could confess, dear. It was this. Just as you looked over the wall at the barges, it was. In our gardens there was a time when the old gardener brought a vinedresser to help him. And the vinedresser's wife came with his dinner and their baby. And I came on them eating under the ilex trees, very secretly, of course. And the baby was clambering over her. She was no older than I am now--the vinedresser's wife. And she fed the baby at her breast in the deep shade under the ilexes. And I talked to her. Then the old gardener came, and of course I walked away, very haughtily, as became a daughter of the house. But hear me, sister. I cannot forget her, the vinedresser's wife with the baby clambering over her, under the shade of the ilex trees, I cannot put her out of my thoughts.

BENVENUTA. I understand you, dear. I cannot put out of my thoughts the poor little Bambino in the Sacristy closet all the year around, shut up with the saint's bones and the spare vestments, and he with only a piece of stiff purple and gold stuff around his middle.

ATALANTA. I cannot think that the same. The vinedresser's baby was alive--so alive.

BENVENUTA. It is much the same, I think.

ATALANTA. Anyway, I am glad I told you, Benvenuta. Why can I not forget about it?

BENVENUTA [_laying her hand on Atalanta's head_]. It would be better if you could forget it, Atalanta. You must go now.

ATALANTA. One moment--don't take your hand away. I had to tell somebody.

[_Both look off in a sort of dreamy ecstasy, thinking of the two babies. Grimana enters again. Atalanta rises._]

ATALANTA. I am full of thankfulness, Sister Benvenuta. I will go to my task.

[_Atalanta bows her head and follows Grimana out. A muffled droning chorus is heard from the chapel. Benvenuta watches the others go off, and then speaks to the Bambino through the door of the Sacristy closet._]

BENVENUTA. My dear--my dear little Great One, can you hear my voice through the door? Dear little child Christ, I am so sorry for you, alone for days and days in the closet with the holy relics and the wax lights. And at night it must be very cold for you. I wish I might touch you, dear little Great One, with my hands.

[_She tries the door and, finding it unfastened, draws back from it a moment._]

It is open; the Sister Sacristan has left it unlocked. For this I am thankful, for I am sure you put it into her mind to leave it so--or that you by your divine power and foresight put it out of her mind to lock it as she intended.

[_She opens the door and looks in._]

If only I could get appointed Sacristan! But I am too young and being lame would prevent my getting on to the step-ladders, as a Sacristan must. But I would never leave you alone among the relics in their cotton-wool, little Great One. And now--just for a moment lest the Sister Sacristan come back--I will take you out of the closet.

[_She brings out the Bambino._]

I will show you the chapter room, for while you have seen all places, and the high heavens and all the hells, it will be pleasant to you to see the chapter room, after so long in the closet. See, yonder is the seat of the Mother Abbess. She is very great, and very holy, and of the high house of the Morosini. And that way is to the refectory and the work room. And that way is to the chapel--up the stairs. And up that way are our cells, where I sleep and where I pray to dream of you, little Great One. Touch my cheek, I pray you.... How cold your hands are!... Touch my cheek as she said the vinedresser's babe touched his mother's--

[_She stops suddenly, and then reverently returns the Bambino to his place. She kneels before the open door._]

Forgive me, dear little Child Christ. I spoke not in vain glory. But all my life I have waited, not knowing for what ... but happy ... dreaming that sometime.... If it be a sin I will confess it--I will.

[_Again the rattle of keys is heard. Benvenuta stands up hurriedly and speaks in a half whisper._]

She is coming back to lock the closet. But I will get you a coat for the cold nights. Your hands were so cold. I will get you a warm coat--that I promise, dear little Great One.

[_She closes the door and stands before it looking consciously innocent, as the Sister Sacristan enters. The Sister Sacristan is not deceived, however._]

SISTER SACRISTAN. By your leave, Sister Benvenuta.

[_She ostentatiously locks the closed door._]

BENVENUTA. Sister Sacristan, I trust the novice you left in my charge has returned to her task.

SISTER SACRISTAN. I trust she has.

BENVENUTA [_after a pause_]. I wish I might help you with your duties sometimes, Sister.

SISTER SACRISTAN. I do not need you, little sister.

BENVENUTA. I am sorry.

[_Mechanically she counts her buttons._]

[_Enter the Abbess._]

THE ABBESS [_to the Sacristan_]. Sister, go into the chapel and tell the Reverend Father that the Bolognese puppet man is waiting, and say that I wish to see him here; and bid the Reverend Father bring the manuscript of his poem for Shrove Tuesday.

[_The Sister Sacristan goes out. Benvenuta remains, waiting patiently for a word from the Abbess._]

Well, my little sister?

BENVENUTA. I pray you, Mother.

ABBESS. I listen, little sister.

BENVENUTA. It is about the little Child Christ. I pray you that a coat may be made for him--a warm coat of soft silk; for at Christmas he lies out in the draughty manger before the altar, and even at other times he is very cold at night here in the Sacristy closet. And I pray you, Mother?

ABBESS. I listen.

[_Reenter the Sister Sacristan._]

BENVENUTA. That I may help with the making of the coat, for all that I sew so badly.

ABBESS [_smiling_]. Truly, our little sister Benvenuta Loredan was born to be the nursery-maid of Heaven.

SISTER SACRISTAN. Is it for me to know also, Mother?

ABBESS. Our little sister wishes that a coat of warm silk be made for the little Bambino, against next Christmas in the cold of the chapel.

SISTER SACRISTAN. I suspected something of that kind.

ABBESS. You do not approve, sister?

SISTER SACRISTAN. No, mother. It would be taking the time and money from the redressing of the skeleton of Saint Prosdoscimus, which is a most creditable relic, of unquestioned authenticity, with real diamond loops in his eye holes; this skeleton ought to be made fit to exhibit for veneration. And besides, this Bambino never had any clothes, and so far as I know never wanted any. The purple sash is only for modesty's sake. And as for such a new-fangled proposal coming from Sister Benvenuta--that alone--

ABBESS. That will do. Fie, fie, little sister. The Sacred Bambino is not your serving Cavalier, that you should wish to cover him with silk and velvet. Is the Reverend Father coming?

SISTER SACRISTAN. Immediately, mother. He only stayed to gather his manuscript.

ABBESS. Call in the man with the puppets.

[_Exit Sister Sacristan._]

And now, little sister, you may go. You see it is not wise, ... your thought for the Bambino.

BENVENUTA. No, mother. I see it is not wise.

[_Benvenuta goes up the staircase and off at the left.--The Abbess seats herself in the chair of State. The Father Confessor comes in from the Chapel._]

ABBESS. You are welcome, Father.

ABBE FILOSI [_bowing very low_]. Happy greetings, Reverendissima.

ABBESS. I have sent for you because the puppet man, the Bolognese one you sent for, has come to make his bargain for the Shrove-tide play, and I wished you to be present, lest he fail to serve your inspiration worthily.

ABBE FILOSI. I am grateful for your care in the matter, Reverendissima.

[_Enter Sister Sacristan._]

ABBESS. The fellow is waiting?

[_The Sister Sacristan bows._]

Show him in.

[_The Sister Sacristan goes out._]

And now, Father, I pray that you will make terms for your play, as you please.

ABBE FILOSI. Perhaps I had better not do that, Reverendissima. Poets are proverbially improvident--

ABBESS. That does not matter in the least. Whatever he charges, I shall beat him down.

[_The Sister Sacristan brings in the Puppet Man, who carries a bag of his puppets on his arm. He bows extravagantly to the Abbess._]

PUPPET MAN. Excellenza Reverendissima, my prayers shall in the future be lightened by the memory of your presence. Reverend Father, I am humbly your servant.

[_The Abbess nods to Father Filosi._]

ABBE FILOSI. You have been summoned here, sir, with regard to the Shrove Tuesday play which her Excellenza condescends to give for the edification of the friends of this noble convent. She has commissioned me to write the poem, and she graciously proposes to allow you to perform it with your puppets.

PUPPET MAN. I am honored, and in me all my craft is honored.

ABBE FILOSI. I have here the manuscript of my poor device.

PUPPET MAN. I cannot have so excellent a work so slightly spoken of.

ABBE FILOSI. A trifle ... a trifle. But I trust, when you have done your part, it may amuse the novices and the ladies--noble guests of Our Lady of the Rosebush.

PUPPET MAN. Is it from the gospels, or a saint's story?

ABBE FILOSI. Humbly, it is the story of Judith.

PUPPET MAN. Humbly, as an artist, I am filled with delight. And I have for it just the figures you could wish. A Judith, lovely beyond the power of song, and a Prince, heavy with gold, and a cavalier for the lady--

ABBE FILOSI. That will not serve. In my play she goes with only her maid-servant to the tent of the Holophernes.

PUPPET MAN. It is not usual, in Venice. Will it not be deemed strange by the ladies present?

ABBE FILOSI. Better so, than its author be deemed ignorant by the learned Reverendissima, who will grace your performance personally.

PUPPET MAN [_stiffly_]. I bow to your learning, Reverend Father.

ABBE FILOSI. My poem will require of you some artistry, and not all of the stale and accustomed sort.

[_The Puppet Man bows._]

I shall require, for example, that the head of the Holophernes be actually and visibly severed.

PUPPET MAN. I will undertake it, and moreover, I will promise a goodly flow of red blood from the corpus of the Holophernes.

ABBE FILOSI. Excellent. Further, there is required a Triumph of Judith, in a car of state, and a figure of Time, speaking, and a Religion, out of the clouds, who speaks some verse in praise of the Reverendissima and of the noble house of the Morosini. All this must be carried out precisely.

PUPPET MAN. All this I undertake, seeing how famous is this convent, and of how illustrious a house is its Abbessa. Suffer me to inquire if the entire poem is of a lofty and tragic nature.

ABBE FILOSI. Certainly.

PUPPET MAN. This is a great honor to me, but a ruinous one as well. For I see I shall have no opportunity to bring on my most potent figures--my Harlequino with the seven wires, and--

ABBE FILOSI. Harlequino does not appear in the poem.

PUPPET MAN. But might he not appear in an interlude? Let me suggest, in all humility, that I might perform an interlude between the Harlequino and the serving-wench of Judith, after the death of the Holophernes?

ABBE FILOSI. Dio, dio--what a profanation!

ABBESS. Come, come, your Reverence, I see no profanation in it. We must not be too severe--too lofty. Think of our guests, and of the novices, mere children in heart--who will be witnessing our play. Let there be something in it for the liking of all, I should say.

ABBE FILOSI. But, Reverendissima--

PUPPET MAN. I could assure you of the success of the poem, if you would permit it.

ABBESS. I am sure it will be permitted. And now, sir, there are some other matters to be settled. First, we shall require that you bring here your puppets, in advance of the play, for our inspection, lest there be anything ungodly and unfit about them.

PUPPET MAN. It is the custom. I have brought some; and you shall have the others when I have conned the reverend Father's poem, and know which ones shall be required.

[_Opens his bag and takes out puppets._]

Here is a lady who might serve for Judith. And here a Prince, though I have a richer one, better perhaps for the Holophernes. And here a devil--a Satanasso, and here--

ABBESS. Leave them all on the table. I will have them examined at leisure. Now, sir, tell me what you expect to be paid for this performance?

PUPPET MAN [_fingering his manuscript_]. Reverendissima, considering the difficulties of the poem, and the Holophernes to be visibly beheaded, and the great fame of this convent, that is said to require of every novice sixteen quarterings to her crest and a thousand ducats of dowry, and considering the illustrious family of which the Abbessa herself descends--I will perform the poem in the best manner for twelve ducats.

ABBESS. Considering just the matters you mention, and the honor to you to bring your puppets into this convent at all, you shall have five ducats.

PUPPET MAN. Five ducats--Reverendissima, I cannot have heard you aright--five ducats.

ABBESS. Five ducats.

PUPPET MAN. Mercy of the Saints! Five ducats for Shrove Tuesday, and a Holophernes to be visibly beheaded--in a most illustrious convent, too. It is ruin to me, Reverendissima--black ruin.

ABBESS. Five ducats you shall have.

PUPPET MAN [_starting to put his puppets back in the bag_]. It is not possible, Reverendissima. No one of my craft could do it--even the worst of them would ask more than I have. Mere jugglers and bunglers from Padua would ask twenty ducats. And the fame of this convent! I see I have been deceived,--

ABBESS. Be silent, sir. You cannot trifle with me. Put down your trinkets. Do you know who I am, and of what family in the world? Well, sir?

PUPPET MAN [_slowly putting down his puppets again_]. Maybe it will profit me in the sight of the Saints--

ABBESS. I need not warn you further. Be prepared for the performance in the best style against Shrove Tuesday. And if all goes well, I may add a ducat to your fee.

[_She taps a gong on the table, and the Sister Sacristan enters. The Puppet Man, dismissed, bows himself out, clutching the manuscript to his breast. The Sacristan follows him out, returning at once._]

Now, Father, since the play is yours, it shall also be yours to pass on the propriety of the figures.

ABBE FILOSI. I do not seek the responsibility, Reverendissima. Will you not excuse me?

ABBESS. You have some intention in this, Father?

ABBE FILOSI. Will you not excuse me?

ABBESS [_smiling_]. Certainly not. What troubles you about it?

ABBE FILOSI. Reverendissima, I would gladly have passed it in silence. Your wisdom in matters of the world--and of the Church--is greater than mine. But look you now. This Judith I think shows more of her bosom than is seemly.

ABBESS [_with asperity_]. I will instruct you. By the laws on the serene Republic, a Venetian lady may show one-half of her bosom and no more, and there is no immodesty in the proceeding. This law the lady Judith obeys.

ABBE FILOSI. I do not dissent from your wisdom, nor from the law of Venice. Still, it seems to me there would be more propriety in it if we were to have a collarette of tissue pinned about her--the eyes of all the novices, remember--

ABBESS. I remember also our guests, many of them ladies of the first houses, who would certainly take it amiss, and as a reflection upon themselves--

ABBE FILOSI. I wish with all my heart, Reverendissima, you had excused me.

ABBESS [_turning to Sister Sacristan_]. I will ask the Sisters Grimana Emo and Rosalba Foscarini to examine the puppets.

[_The Sister Sacristan goes out._]

Their learning in theology may not be profound, but they know the world's judgment, coming as they do of the first families.

[_The Abbe Filosi bows low._]

ABBE FILOSI. I shall be at your service, Reverendissima.

ABBESS. I thank you enough for the poem. Farewell.

[_He bows himself out, at right, as Sister Grimana and Sister Rosalba enter left._]

GRIMANA. You have sent for us, Mother?

ABBESS. In the matter of the Shrove Tuesday play--yes. The puppets will be brought in advance, as usual. These few the show-man has already left.

GRIMANA. You wish them to be looked over, as usual?

ABBESS. Not quite as usual. This year they are to appear in a play or poem which the Father Confessor has written for us--dealing with the story of Judith. Now the good Abbe, though a man of great learning and a graceful poet withal, has not the advantage of family that some of our sisters--

GRIMANA. And some of our guests--

ROSALBA. I remember once, at a fete in the gardens of my uncle, the Doge--

ABBESS. I need instruct you no further. I do not wish anything ungodly or unfit to appear; nor do I wish anything in the play to suggest that there is any impropriety in the illustrious audience.

GRIMANA. I understand, Mother. It is chiefly a question of the dressing of the ladies.

ABBESS. Precisely. I shall leave it in your charge. Remembering, Sister Grimana, the laws of Venice and the customs of the house of your father, the most illustrious Admiral, and you Sister Rosalba, the fetes in the gardens of your uncle, the Doge--surely it will be properly cared for.

[_Exit the Abbess._]

GRIMANA. All this because we have been given a bourgeois Confessor--

ROSALBA. No matter for that, Sister. I love puppets. We had once a puppet festival, when they played the whole history of the Serene Republic, and there were great ships with puppet sailors--

[_They begin to separate the puppets with their wires and strings. Enter Sister Benvenuta._]

BENVENUTA. Oh, the joy! Are these for the Shrove Tuesday play? If only we could show them to--

[_She glances toward the Sacristy closet, stops, and goes on._]

Sister Rosalba, can you make them dance?

GRIMANA. Dance, forsooth--to what music, sister?

ROSALBA. You might sing for them, Sister.

GRIMANA. Aye, so I might.--Time was when I knew tunes enough.

BENVENUTA. There is a lute in the cloister--left from the musical mass. And my cousin Atalanta can play it--I should like to hear some music here.

[_She glances at the closet._]

I'll fetch her.

[_She goes off to find Atalanta._]

GRIMANA. What personages have we here? This lady for Judith?

ROSALBA. That can scarcely be, Judith was black haired.

GRIMANA. Nothing of the sort. She had hair of a dark red--a smoldering color.

ROSALBA. Was she not of the tribe?--

GRIMANA. What matters the tribe? In her picture by Titian, in the great hall of my father's house--

ROSALBA. We had a Judith also--by Jacopo Bellini. He was Titian's master. Her hair was black.

GRIMANA. You may be right. In our picture by Titian, now I remember it, the head was so covered with a wonderful jeweled crown that we could see little of the hair.

[_Rosalba is somewhat put down by the splendor of Grimana's Titian. Benvenuta comes back with Atalanta, who carries a lute. As she appears Grimana untangles and holds up another puppet--the Beelzebubb._]

GRIMANA. Here's a personage of terror.

[_She turns the figure and moves it threateningly toward Benvenuta, who looks at Beelzebubb and is instantly seized with a wild fit of laughter._]

Saint Mark preserve us! You are queerly pleased, Sister. It's not many that laugh at this figure.

ROSALBA [_reading the figure's label_]. He's Beelzebubb Satanasso, Prince of all Devils.

BENVENUTA. I pray your pardon. I could not keep from laughing. I can never look at a devil without laughing. He seems so anxious to understand, and so important with the responsibility of being Prince of all Devils.

ROSALBA. You may laugh if you like, but you should remember how ready he is to slip away with the unwary souls of people who laugh at him. How he is always in wait, by day and by night, for a wavering thought or a rift in one's faith--

GRIMANA. See here the pouch he carries to put your soul in. Truly, Sister, he might pluck you off like a cherry.

ATALANTA [_shuddering_]. Dear Sister Grimana--I beg of you--

GRIMANA. And he comes at the call of the secret thought--that's what makes him look so anxious--lest he should not be listening when you call him, and the Saints come to your soul first, and warn it--

ATALANTA. Sister Grimana!

BENVENUTA. Still, I can never look at him without laughing. He is droll. Atalanta, the lute.

[_Atalanta brings forward the lute and tries the strings. Rosalba takes up the puppet of the lady._]

I saw the show-man. He was a most ill-favored man. Sister Rosalba, do you think he was excommunicate.

ROSALBA. Of course not. And if he were, that would not make his puppets excommunicate.

GRIMANA. What if it did? A noble convent has privileges. It would not matter to us.

ATALANTA. What shall I play?

GRIMANA. Can you play? [_She sings_]:

Go visto una colomba el cielo andare Che la svolava su per un giardino In mezzo 'l peto la gavea do ale E in boca la tegniva un zenzamino!

ATALANTA. I do not know the air. But I can play a furlana.

BENVENUTA. That will be gay, Atalanta. Play a furlana, I beg you.

GRIMANA. That will serve, Sister Rosalba, your prince.

[_As Atalanta plays, Grimana manipulates the Judith and Rosalba the Prince. They are unskillful and the puppets dance crudely, but Benvenuta looks on in ecstasy, falling slowly back until she stands by the door of the closet. As she does so two or three more nuns and novices come furtively in at the back and stand watching the performance. As the dance of the puppets grows more animated the Abbess enters with the Sister Sacristan. For a moment the others do not see her, and the play continues. Then she speaks coldly and evenly._]

ABBESS. Sisters, is this the solemn judgment I bespoke on these trinkets? Sister Grimana!

[_Grimana lays down the puppets and comes forward._]

Sister Rosalba!

[_Rosalba also comes forward._]

I will consider this, and will give out the penances in chapter.

GRIMANA. Yes, Mother.

[_Rosalba stands with her head bowed and her fingers run along the buttons of her cape._]

ABBESS. There has been too much playing of lutes, too much worldly anticipation and imagining among us. So I have decided that all the holy relics shall be re-furbished, and all the vestments mended and cleaned, against Shrove Tuesday. And all other work, whether of embroidery or of whatever nature, shall wait till this be done. Sister Sacristan, let the tasks be set at once.

[_The sisters bow their heads and go out, the Sister Sacristan following Rosalba and Grimana off. Benvenuta stands still in an attitude of deep humility._]

Well, little Sister?

BENVENUTA. Holy Mother, I am waiting for my penance.

ABBESS. Your penance, Benvenuta?

BENVENUTA. The fault was mine. I brought Atalanta with her lute. I was to blame for it all. I am heedless, and unworthy, and stained with worldliness, Mother.

ABBESS. There, there, my child. I will overlook it.

[_Benvenuta turns away, weeping furtively._]

Come here, little Sister. Why should you weep? I have said I will overlook it.

BENVENUTA. I weep because I am unworthy to be penanced. I am nothing.

ABBESS. You are nothing? Is not this the very essence of humility? Little Sister, when I forgave you your fault, did you doubt my wisdom?

BENVENUTA. Yes, holy Mother. Oh, I have sinned in vain glory. I doubted. But I did not mean to doubt.

ABBESS [_smiling_]. Come hither, little Sister. If I must set you a penance, what would you have it be?

BENVENUTA. I would have it ... no....

[_She hesitates._]

ABBESS. Speak, Sister.

BENVENUTA. I would have you set me to the making of a coat for the Holy Bambino, as I asked of you before.

ABBESS. That would hardly be a penance. And, besides, you sew so badly.

BENVENUTA. Yes, Mother. I sew badly. And it would not really be a penance.

[_The Sister Sacristan comes in and takes from the closet some cloth and a reliquary or two. She lays them on the table, preparing them for work._]

ABBESS. I will speak of this another time. Another time, little Sister.

[_Benvenuta stands very still. The Abbess turns to the Sister Sacristan._]

What have you there?

SISTER SACRISTAN. The fine lawn for the surplices for His Eminence.

ABBESS. That can wait. I do not think it wise to leave the workroom alone while the relics are being done over.

[_She stands in the doorway. The Sister Sacristan is about to follow, but notices Benvenuta and goes over ostentatiously to lock the closet; then she goes out after the Abbess. Benvenuta stands still and her eyes go from the closet to the cloth and takes up a piece of lawn, and carries it with her to the closet door._]

BENVENUTA. Dear little Great One, I see no way but this to keep my promise. I do not understand what the Holy Mother means. But I will do my penance when she determines it. I do sew very badly, dear little Great One, but I will make the stitches slowly, night by night in my cell, and every one of them, no matter how far askew, shall have all the love of my heart drawn tight in it. I have promised you a coat, little Great One, and I will surely keep my promise.

[_She steals upstairs in the gathering darkness. The organ in the chapel is heard, faintly at first, then swelling in exultation. Slowly, after she disappears, the door of the closet opens of itself, and from within a golden light glows across the room and up the stair. The Curtain Falls._]

[_SCENE II. In her white-walled cell, with its one high window looking over the tree tops into the night sky, Benvenuta sits alone, sewing, with great labor and difficulty, by the light of a candle. There is a soft knock, and Atalanta slips in, bringing something concealed under her cape._]

BENVENUTA. Have you brought it, dear?

ATALANTA. I've got the coat of the gardener's child, but I fear it is not what you wanted.

BENVENUTA. I'm sure it will serve. Why do you fear for it?

ATALANTA. Because it's the little girl's coat. The boy's I could not get, for he has but the one, and the nights are so cold.

BENVENUTA. So they are--and we wouldn't have the poor lad shivering. Perhaps the girl's will serve. Did you get the thread of gold?

ATALANTA. Yes, dear.

[_There is a pause._]

You wouldn't be happier telling me all about it? Or letting me help you, perhaps?

BENVENUTA. What good were there in that? You sew as badly as I do, child.

ATALANTA. It's not kind of you to say so.

BENVENUTA. I'm sorry, Atalanta, dear. And it's most ungrateful of me--for you are helping me--helping me very much. And as for my telling you--it's a great secret, and you should be content to know as much as you do of it.

ATALANTA. I'm afraid I know too much of it now. I'm afraid I ought to be confessing what I know already.

BENVENUTA. Confessing it. Oh, no; Atalanta, dear--

ATALANTA. I'm afraid I ought--unless you tell me more.

BENVENUTA. Oh, I see. Now, listen, my child. This matter is one concerning my devotions--a private matter surely, and needing no confessions from you.

ATALANTA. Then why these secret messages, and the gold thread, and the gardener's child's coat to be got by stealth?

BENVENUTA. For what I am doing, I would call for help from you--or from any one--from the Evil One himself, if it would serve. But it is surely no sin--though it might get you into trouble to help me with it, Atalanta, dear.

ATALANTA. Prt! That's not what I mind.

BENVENUTA. You--you love me enough to be troubled for my sake, a little, dear?

ATALANTA [_breaking out_]. I would flout the Mother Abbess to her face for you, Benvenuta. It's that you try to keep me in the dark that I mind about it. I'm going.

[_Atalanta turns sharply and goes. Benvenuta lays out the little coat of the gardener's child, and lays her lawn, already cut, upon it. She seems discouraged, turns it over, and tries again. Then with an air of resolution, she takes it up and sews fiercely, pricking her fingers, stopping to put them to her mouth, and going on doggedly._]

BENVENUTA. I promised it, dear little Great One, and I would give my soul to keep my promise, but I fear me it will never comfort you.

[_She sews for a minute in silence. Then lifts her head with a sudden thought, and says aloud with a firm resolution_]:

I would give my soul.

[_She waits. After a moment there is a light tapping of footsteps; then a marked rapping, as of hoofs on a pavement; she shivers, and starts up in sudden terror, as Beelzebubb Satanasso confronts her. He is like the Devil Puppet in every respect, but the size of a small man. He bows low in a mechanical sort of way as if jointed. She gazes at him in wonder, laughs nervously and suppresses her laughter._]

BEELZEBUBB [_in a voice like a Jews' harp_]. Sister Benvenuta, did I hear you call for me, or wish for me to come?

BENVENUTA. Yes, I called you.

BEELZEBUBB. You wished me to help you?

BENVENUTA. Yes.

BEELZEBUBB. You know who I am.

[_He points to his label._]

BENVENUTA. I know. You are Beelzebubb Satanasso, Prince of all Devils.

[_She suppresses a laugh._]

BEELZEBUBB. You have made a promise, and you cannot keep it, so you call for help. I come, for I am always ready. Now tell me precisely what it is you want.

BENVENUTA. I have promised a coat to the little Child--

BEELZEBUBB. That will do. It were better not to speak the name. What sort of a coat do you wish?

BENVENUTA. May I have just what I like?

BEELZEBUBB. Certainly you may, my dear--if you are ready to pay for it.

BENVENUTA. I am ready. And I should like a little coat like the one on the second of the Magi in the Adoration by Bellini that is over the altar in our chapel at home--in the house of the Duke Loredano.

BEELZEBUBB. Let me understand exactly. The coat is to be like the coat on the second figure to the left from the center of the picture?

BENVENUTA. Yes--no, there's a Saint Joseph also at the back. He would be the third--from the Holy--

BEELZEBUBB. I pray you, keep the names of these people out of it.

BENVENUTA. These people!

[_Benvenuta's hand moves as if she were about to cross herself._]

BEELZEBUBB. And let your hand fall. You were about to make--to make some sort of sign with it. These practices are very distasteful to me. I cannot help you--or even stay for an interview--if you persist in them.

BENVENUTA. I beg your forgiveness. I had no intention--

BEELZEBUBB. I believe that--it is merely a habit you have learned--but it is distasteful to me.

BENVENUTA. I will not offend you again.

BEELZEBUBB. Now to business. You wish of me a coat, a rich coat like that on the third figure from the center of the picture that is in your father's chapel at Venice. And the size--

BENVENUTA. To fit the little Child--

BEELZEBUBB [_interrupting sharply_]. I beg of you! I understand. The coat is of what color?

BENVENUTA. It is the coat of the second of the Magi--

[_He puts up his hand, and she checks herself._]

It is of carmine silk damask with gold thread, and the inner vest is of white lawn. I wish it precisely like the picture, since you promise so much.

BEELZEBUBB. It shall be so. I will undertake to bring you the coat. And in exchange I ask only that you sign your name here.

[_He takes out a parchment contract, with a great red seal on it._]

I regret that ink will not do. You must prick one of your fingers. I am very sorry, but there is no other way.

BENVENUTA. Prick my finger? Once?

BEELZEBUBB. Only once, to secure the drop of blood. I am sorry to ask it, but--

BENVENUTA. As though it never happened to me before!

[_She pricks her finger and squeezes out a drop of Blood. He whips out a quill pen, and deftly wets it with the blood._]

BEELZEBUBB. You will sign here.

BENVENUTA. And what does it say? I should be loath to sign anything unworthy of my family, or of this noble convent--

BEELZEBUBB. There is nothing novel about it--the form is quite usual, and has been signed, I assure you, by many of the highest families in Venice. It merely binds me at once to furnish you the rich coat, and you to give me your little flame of a soul--when I come for it. That is all.

BENVENUTA. Give me the pen.

[_She signs the contract. He passes his hand thrice across the pouch and then takes from it the coat, and lays it across her lap. He steps back and bows stiffly, folding the contract and smiling._]

BEELZEBUBB. My dear young lady--my dear little sister.

[_He bows again, and vanishes; again the organ is heard, and Benvenuta is left, her face glowing in ecstasy, the carmine coat across her knees._]

[_Curtain._]

[SCENE III: _The Chapter Room. Night. The Abbess giving orders to Grimana, Rosalba, the Sister Sacristan and others, about the midnight office._]

ABBESS. All are to be present. None are to be indulged. I beg you, so inform the sisters.

[_Rosalba goes out._]

And the novices are all to be in their places. I know the hour is late for them, and many are young, but this is an exceptional night. Stay.--The novice Atalanta Badoer--I shall require her apart from the others. She will be needed with her lute.

GRIMANA. I will look to it, Reverend Mother.

[_She sets about to gather her embroidery._]

ABBESS. Now in the matter of the relics and vestments?

SISTER SACRISTAN. The relics are all re-furbished and repacked in new cotton-wool, Reverend Mother.

ABBESS. And the vestments?

SISTER SACRISTAN. The vestments are all in order--

[_She is about to mention something about the vestments, but stops herself._]

ABBESS. Go on.

SISTER SACRISTAN. I must report, as a matter of duty, Reverend Mother, that certain goods--a piece of fine lawn--cannot be found. It was laid out here to be used for the new surplice for His Eminence.

ABBESS. I do not like this. Tell me what you know of it.

SISTER SACRISTAN. This is all I know. Except that when I returned here, the door to the Sacristy Closet was open--

ABBESS. Who was here at the time?

SISTER SACRISTAN. Sister Benvenuta was left here. When I returned she was gone, and the closet was open, and the lawn--

GRIMANA [_interceding_]. I beg you, Reverend Mother--

ABBESS. Sister Grimana, I have given you your task. Be about it.

[_Grimana touches the buttons of her cape one by one, and then turns and goes out._]

Sister, remember that the Sister Benvenuta comes of the noble house of the Loredani. Guard your tongue.

[_The Sister Sacristan stands gloomily biting her lips._]

If she has removed the cloth to some other place, it does not matter. Remember who she is, and that she is after all a child in mind, in heart. We will speak no more of this.

SISTER SACRISTAN. No, Reverend Mother.

ABBESS. Send Sister Rosalba to me.

SISTER SACRISTAN. She is coming now, Reverend Mother.

[_Rosalba comes in and the Sister Sacristan goes out._]

ABBESS. I wish to speak with Benvenuta, Sister.

ROSALBA. I will fetch her, Reverend Mother.

ABBESS. One moment. You have observed her of late?

ROSALBA. Yes, Mother.

ABBESS. She seems pale, and not so strong as she was. And her mind--but then she was always a simple child.

ROSALBA. Of course, I do not know the cause of her pallor. Perhaps a penance she is undergoing secretly.

[_The suggestion is half a question as are those of the Abbess as well._]

She is still very young, Reverend Mother.

ABBESS. She has confided nothing to you, nor to Grimana?

ROSALBA. Not to me, Mother. Shall I call Sister Grimana?

ABBESS. No. Send Benvenuta to me. And ask Grimana to send the novice Atalanta also--a little later.

[_Rosalba goes out. The Abbess goes over and examines the Sacristy Closet door, tries the lock, finds it fast, and returns to her chair. Benvenuta enters. She is more pale than before, and looks frailer, and her limp is more apparent, but her eyes are wide, and rove about the room, and her expression is of one who has found her happiness. The Abbess speaks to her kindly._]

ABBESS. My child, I have called you to me because you have seemed so pale, and I fear you have burdened yourself beyond your strength.

BENVENUTA. No, Reverend Mother. I am not burdened.

ABBESS. You are not performing any secret penance?

BENVENUTA. None, Mother.

ABBESS. Answer me truly, Benvenuta. You have not been contemplating some penance, and so been filled with anxiety.

BENVENUTA. I look for no penance in this life, Reverend Mother, beyond such as may be imposed upon me.

ABBESS. Nothing beyond your strength will be imposed. If you have need of more sleep, I would be willing to relax for you, for a time.

BENVENUTA. I do not need it, Reverend Mother.

[_Atalanta enters, sees the Abbess, and stands waiting._]

ABBESS. If you should find yourself overburdened, little Sister, come to me. That will do. Atalanta, one moment.

[_Atalanta steps forward. Benvenuta starts to go, but lingers._]

I shall need your help with the lute to-night. I know you play it well. The best lute player among the lay sisters is ill. You can play from notes?

ATALANTA. If it be not too difficult, Reverend Mother.

ABBESS. It is simple. But I will have them give you the music, against the time when you will be needed.

[_The Abbess goes out toward the Chapel. Benvenuta comes down to Atalanta._]

BENVENUTA. Atalanta, dear!

ATALANTA. Yes, Benvenuta.

BENVENUTA. There is something I must talk to you about. I have put it off because I have been deep in my own thoughts. You told me not so long ago that you could not find your call, that the world still beckoned you.

ATALANTA. Yes, it did. But I have been calmer since we spoke of it. There was a thing in my heart that had to be spoken out--

BENVENUTA. Yes.

ATALANTA. I spoke it out to you, and since then it has not troubled me.

BENVENUTA. It was about the vinedresser's baby in your father's garden?

ATALANTA. Yes.

BENVENUTA. You told me about it here--in this room, was it not?

ATALANTA. Yes. Surely it was here. How strangely you speak, Benvenuta. Have you forgotten? It was after that you asked me to get the gold thread, and the child's coat.

BENVENUTA. So I did. I had almost forgotten it.

ATALANTA. It was a great comfort to me to tell you, Sister--and to serve you. Why have you asked nothing more of me?

BENVENUTA. I have all the help I need, now.

[_A pause. Atalanta looks at Benvenuta wonderingly._]

The vinedresser's baby--did you ever hold him in your arms?

ATALANTA. No.

BENVENUTA. Nor ever felt his lips soft and moist against your cheek, nor his fingers warm on your neck?

ATALANTA. No. I only saw the child, as I told you.

BENVENUTA. I remember now. You only saw him.

[_Another pause. Benvenuta is looking toward the Sacristy closet._]

Atalanta, dear, do you know that we can only be happy by pleasing those we love most--that is what people live for, I think. And dear, remember this: the happiness you saw on the face of the vinedresser's wife was as torment beside the joy that is glowing in me.

[_Her eyes meet Atalanta's for a moment._]

Don't, dear--don't think it too strange. Everything is strange, after all.

ATALANTA. Your face was like hers, then.

BENVENUTA. Please don't say that, dear. It's--it's foolish--isn't it? But I told you once I was waiting for something--all my life waiting. And now--and now!

[_She touches Atalanta's head, lightly, and goes off upstairs toward her cell. Atalanta is left looking after her. Grimana comes in._]

GRIMANA. Well, mistress. Prideful over not sitting with the novices this night, eh? The lute-playing comes in well at last, does it?

ATALANTA. Oh, Sister Grimana, I--

[_She stops, confused._]

GRIMANA. What is it, child?

ATALANTA. It's Benvenuta. Have you seen her? Have you?--

GRIMANA. Yes, dear, I've seen. She's young. These times come to all of us, I suppose. But they pass. Calm, child. Count your buttons.

ATALANTA. I was frightened, Sister Grimana.

GRIMANA. Aye, you'll frighten the novices just so in your turn. But just the same, I wish she wouldn't--

[_The Abbess reenters, as a bell strikes from the chapel. Rosalba comes on from the left, with two or three sisters._]

ABBESS. It is time. Let us all proceed to the chapel.

[_The Sister Sacristan carrying the lute and some music, enters from the chapel._]

Are all the sisters assembled?

SISTER SACRISTAN. All save those who are here, and Sister Benvenuta.

ABBESS. Please you, Sister Grimana, go for Benvenuta.

[_Grimana goes up the stairs._]

SISTER SACRISTAN. Here is the lute, Atalanta Badoer. The notes are clear, and the times you are to play them are written there.

ATALANTA. My hands tremble so. I'm afraid I shall fail in it.

ABBESS. Courage, child. I know it is the first time, but you will do well--I am sure you will do well. Come, let us take our places.

[_Grimana enters on the steps, in great trouble of mind. She carries in her hand the puppet of the Beelzebubb, twisted and shattered and singed with fire._]

GRIMANA. Reverend Mother, forgive me. I have seen--I have seen--

[_She clasps and unclasps her hands, unable to speak._]

ABBESS. What was it, Grimana?

GRIMANA. I scarcely know, Mother. Mary be my shield!

ABBESS. Speak, Sister.

GRIMANA. There was a great light through every crevice of the door of her cell. And music in the air--like harps and viols d'amour. And on the floor outside I found this--shattered and half burnt--this puppet. And from within, sounds--

ABBESS. Tell me all, Sister.

GRIMANA [_her fingers on the buttons of her cape_]. Sounds as of a mother and her babe, cooing and kissing and caressing each other.

ABBESS. Call the Father Confessor.

[_The Sister Sacristan goes out toward the chapel._]

We must look to this. If her mind have broken under some penance--

ATALANTA. Let me go--

ABBESS. No. She was so pale--

[_The Sister Sacristan returns with the Abbe Filosi._]

Reverend Father, the little sister of the house of Loredan--

[_Then, the upper corridor is filled with a growing light--the same radiant gold that streamed from the Sacristy closet. The sisters bless themselves and most of them fall on their knees. In the light Benvenuta appears walking erect, her lameness gone, and holding before her the Christ Child, in a wondrous robe of carmine silk damask. She laughs softly with the babe as she passes, and when she has passed off toward the chapel, whence the organ is again heard, the light fades._]

ABBE FILOSI [_in a hushed voice_]. A miracle!

ABBESS. She is healed! A miracle of the Holy Child. Blessed Mother--thy Holy Child in our house.

[_Atalanta goes swiftly up the steps and off after Benvenuta._]

ABBE FILOSI. Let there be a special service of thanksgiving.

ABBESS. Let all hearts be uplifted!

[_Atalanta returns, trailing her lute behind her, and sinks down at the head of the stairway, sobbing._]

[_Curtain._]

THREE TRAVELERS WATCH A SUNRISE

A PLAY

BY WALLACE STEVENS

Copyright, 1916, by Wallace Stevens.

All rights reserved.

Reprinted from "Poetry" (Chicago) by permission of Mr. Wallace Stevens and Miss Harriet Monroe. Applications for permission to produce this play should be addressed to Mr. Wallace Stevens, 125 Trumbull Street, Hartford, Conn.

THREE TRAVELERS WATCH A SUNRISE

A PLAY BY WALLACE STEVENS

[_The characters are three Chinese, two negroes and a girl._

_The scene represents a forest of heavy trees on a hilltop in eastern Pennsylvania. To the right is a road, obscured by bushes. It is about four o'clock of a morning in August, at the present time._

_When the curtain rises, the stage is dark. The limb of a tree creaks. A negro carrying a lantern passes along the road. The sound is repeated. The negro comes through the bushes, raises his lantern and looks through the trees. Discerning a dark object among the branches, he shrinks back, crosses stage, and goes out through the wood to the left._

_A second negro comes through the bushes to the right. He carries two large baskets, which he places on the ground just inside of the bushes. Enter three Chinese, one of whom carries a lantern. They pause on the road,_]

SECOND CHINESE. All you need, To find poetry, Is to look for it with a lantern. [_The Chinese laugh._]

THIRD CHINESE. I could find it without, On an August night, If I saw no more Then the dew on the barns.

[_The Second Negro makes a sound to attract their attention. The three Chinese come through the bushes. The first is short, fat, quizzical, and of middle age. The second is of middle height, thin and turning gray; a man of sense and sympathy. The third is a young man, intent, detached. They wear European clothes._]

SECOND CHINESE [_glancing at the baskets_]. Dew is water to see, Not water to drink: We have forgotten water to drink. Yet I am content Just to see sunrise again. I have not seen it Since the day we left Pekin. It filled my doorway, Like whispering women.

FIRST CHINESE. And I have never seen it. If we have no water, Do find a melon for me In the baskets.

[_The Second Negro, who has been opening the baskets, hands the First Chinese a melon._]

FIRST CHINESE. Is there no spring?

[_The negro takes a water bottle of red porcelain from one of the baskets and places it near the Third Chinese._]

SECOND CHINESE [_to Third Chinese_]. Your porcelain water bottle.

[_One of the baskets contains costumes of silk, red, blue and green. During the following speeches, the Chinese put on these costumes, with the assistance of the negro, and seat themselves on the ground._]

THIRD CHINESE. This fetches its own water.

[_Takes the bottle and places it on the ground in the center of the stage._]

I drink from it, dry as it is, As you from maxims, [_To Second Chinese._] Or you from melons. [_To First Chinese._]

FIRST CHINESE. Not as I, from melons. Be sure of that.

SECOND CHINESE. Well, it is true of maxims.

[_He finds a book in the pocket of his costume, and reads from it._]

"The court had known poverty and wretchedness; humanity had invaded its seclusion, with its suffering and its pity."

[_The limb of the tree creaks._]

Yes: it is true of maxims, Just as it is true of poets, Or wise men, or nobles, Or jade.

FIRST CHINESE. Drink from wise men? From jade? Is there no spring?

[_Turning to the negro, who has taken a jug from one of the baskets._]

Fill it and return.

[_The negro removes a large candle from one of the baskets and hands it to the First Chinese; then takes the jug and the lantern and enters the trees to the left. The First Chinese lights the candle and places it on the ground near the water bottle._]

THIRD CHINESE. There is a seclusion of porcelain That humanity never invades.

FIRST CHINESE [_with sarcasm_]. Porcelain!

THIRD CHINESE. It is like the seclusion of sunrise, Before it shines on any house.

FIRST CHINESE. Pooh!

SECOND CHINESE. This candle is the sun; This bottle is earth: It is an illustration Used by generations of hermits. The point of difference from reality Is this: That, in this illustration, The earth remains of one color-- It remains red, It remains what it is. But when the sun shines on the earth, In reality It does not shine on a thing that remains What it was yesterday. The sun rises On whatever the earth happens to be.

THIRD CHINESE. And there are indeterminate moments Before it rises, Like this, [_With a backward gesture._] Before one can tell What the bottle is going to be-- Porcelain, Venetian glass, Egyptian ... Well, there are moments When the candle, sputtering up, Finds itself in seclusion, [_He raises the candle in the air._] And shines, perhaps, for the beauty of shining. That is the seclusion of sunrise Before it shines on any house. [_Replacing the candle._]

FIRST CHINESE [_wagging his head_]. As abstract as porcelain.

SECOND CHINESE. Such seclusion knows beauty As the court knew it. The court woke In its windless pavilions, And gazed on chosen mornings, As it gazed On chosen porcelain. What the court saw was always of the same color, And well shaped, And seen in a clear light. [_He points to the candle._] It never woke to see, And never knew, The flawed jars, The weak colors, The contorted glass. It never knew The poor lights. [_He opens his book significantly._] When the court knew beauty only, And in seclusion, It had neither love nor wisdom. These came through poverty And wretchedness, Through suffering and pity. [_He pauses._] It is the invasion of humanity That counts.

[_The limb of the tree creaks. The First Chinese turns, for a moment, in the direction of the sound._]

FIRST CHINESE [_thoughtfully_]. The light of the most tranquil candle Would shudder on a bloody salver.

SECOND CHINESE [_with a gesture of disregard_]. It is the invasion That counts. If it be supposed that we are three figures Painted on porcelain As we sit here, That we are painted on this very bottle, The hermit of the place, Holding this candle to us, Would wonder; But if it be supposed That we are painted as warriors, The candle would tremble in his hands; Or if it be supposed, for example, That we are painted as three dead men, He could not see the steadiest light, For sorrow. It would be true If an emperor himself Held the candle. He would forget the porcelain For the figures painted on it.

THIRD CHINESE [_shrugging his shoulders_]. Let the candle shine for the beauty of shining. I dislike the invasion And long for the windless pavilions. And yet it may be true That nothing is beautiful Except with reference to ourselves, Nor ugly, Nor high, [_Pointing to the sky._] Nor low. [_Pointing to the candle._] No: not even sunrise. Can you play of this [_Mockingly to First Chinese._] For us? [_He stands up._]

FIRST CHINESE [_hesitatingly_]. I have a song Called _Mistress and Maid_. It is of no interest to hermits Or emperors, Yet it has a bearing; For if we affect sunrise, We affect all things.

THIRD CHINESE. It is a pity it is of women. Sing it.

[_He takes an instrument from one of the baskets and hands it to the First Chinese, who sings the following song, accompanying himself, somewhat tunelessly, on the instrument. The Third Chinese takes various things out of the basket for tea. He arranges fruit. The First Chinese watches him while he plays. The Second Chinese gazes at the ground. The sky shows the first signs of morning._]

FIRST CHINESE. The mistress says, in a harsh voice, "He will be thinking in strange countries Of the white stones near my door, And I--I am tired of him." She says sharply, to her maid, "Sing to yourself no more."

Then the maid says, to herself, "He will be thinking in strange countries Of the white stones near her door; But it is me he will see At the window, as before.

"He will be thinking in strange countries Of the green gown I wore. He was saying good-by to her." The maid drops her eyes and says to her mistress, "I shall sing to myself no more."

THIRD CHINESE. That affects the white stones, To be sure. [_They laugh._]

FIRST CHINESE. And it affects the green gown.

SECOND CHINESE. Here comes our black man.

[_The Second Negro returns, somewhat agitated, with water but without his lantern. He hands the jug to the Third Chinese. The First Chinese from time to time strikes the instrument. The Third Chinese, who faces the left, peers in the direction from which the negro has come._]

THIRD CHINESE. You have left your lantern behind you. It shines, among the trees, Like evening Venus in a cloud-top.

[_The Second Negro grins but makes no explanation. He seats himself behind the Chinese to the right._]

FIRST CHINESE. Or like a ripe strawberry Among its leaves. [_They laugh._] I heard to-night That they are searching the hill For an Italian. He disappeared with his neighbor's daughter.

SECOND CHINESE [_confidently_]. I am sure you heard The first eloping footfall, And the drum Of pursuing feet.

FIRST CHINESE [_amusedly_]. It was not an elopement. The young gentleman was seen To climb the hill, In the manner of a tragedian Who sweats. Such things happen in the evening. He was _Un miserable_.

SECOND CHINESE. Reach the lady quickly.

[_The First Chinese strikes the instrument twice as a prelude to his narrative._]

FIRST CHINESE. There are as many points of view From which to regard her As there are sides to a round bottle.

[_Pointing to the water bottle._]

She was represented to me As beautiful.

[_They laugh. The First Chinese strikes the instrument, and looks at the Third Chinese, who yawns._]

FIRST CHINESE [_reciting_]. She was as beautiful as a porcelain water bottle.

[_He strikes the instrument in an insinuating manner._]

FIRST CHINESE. She was represented to me As young. Therefore my song should go Of the color of blood.

[_He strikes the instrument. The limb of the tree creaks. The First Chinese notices it and puts his hand on the knee of the Second Chinese, who is seated between him and the Third Chinese, to call attention to the sound. They are all seated so that they do not face the spot from which the sound comes. A dark object, hanging to the limb of the tree, becomes a dim silhouette. The sky grows constantly brighter. No color is to be seen until the end of the play._]

SECOND CHINESE [_to First Chinese_]. It is only a tree Creaking in the night wind.

THIRD CHINESE [_shrugging his shoulders_]. There would be no creaking In the windless pavilions.

FIRST CHINESE [_resuming_]. So far the lady of the present ballad Would have been studied By the hermit and his candle With much philosophy; And possibly the emperor would have cried, "More light!" But it is a way with ballads That the more pleasing they are The worse end they come to; For here it was also represented That the lady was poor-- The hermit's candle would have thrown Alarming shadows, And the emperor would have held The porcelain in one hand ... She was represented as clinging To that sweaty tragedian, And weeping up the hill.

SECOND CHINESE [_with a grimace_]. It does not sound like an elopement.

FIRST CHINESE. It is a doleful ballad, Fit for keyholes.

THIRD CHINESE. Shall we hear more?

SECOND CHINESE. Why not?

THIRD CHINESE. We came for isolation, To rest in sunrise.

SECOND CHINESE [_raising his book slightly_]. But this will be a part of sunrise, And can you tell how it will end?-- Venetian, Egyptian, Contorted glass ...

[_He turns toward the light in the sky to the right, darkening the candle with his hands._]

In the meantime, the candle shines, [_Indicating the sunrise._] As you say, [_To the Third Chinese._] For the beauty of shining.

FIRST CHINESE [_sympathetically_]. Oh! it will end badly. The lady's father Came clapping behind them To the foot of the hill. He came crying, "Anna, Anna, Anna!" [_Imitating._] He was alone without her, Just as the young gentleman Was alone without her: Three beggars, you see, Begging for one another.

[_The First Negro, carrying two lanterns, approaches cautiously through the trees. At the sight of him, the Second Negro, seated near the Chinese, jumps to his feet. The Chinese get up in alarm. The Second Negro goes around the Chinese toward the First Negro. All see the body of a man hanging to the limb of the tree. They gather together, keeping their eyes fixed on it. The First Negro comes out of the trees and places the lanterns on the ground. He looks at the group and then at the body._]

First Chinese [_moved_]. The young gentleman of the ballad.

THIRD CHINESE [_slowly, approaching the body_]. And the end of the ballad. Take away the bushes.

[_The negroes commence to pull away the bushes._]

SECOND CHINESE. Death, the hermit, Needs no candle In his hermitage.

[_The Second Chinese snuffs out the candle. The First Chinese puts out the lanterns. As the bushes are pulled away, the figure of a girl, sitting half stupefied under the tree, suddenly becomes apparent to the Second Chinese and then to the Third Chinese. They step back. The negroes move to the left. When the First Chinese sees the girl, the instrument slips from his hands and falls noisily to the ground. The girl stirs._]

SECOND CHINESE [_to the girl_]. Is that you, Anna?

[_The girl starts. She raises her head, looks around slowly, leaps to her feet and screams._]

SECOND CHINESE [_gently_]. Is that you, Anna?

[_She turns quickly toward the body, looks at it fixedly and totters up the stage._]

ANNA [_bitterly_]. Go. Tell my father: He is dead.

[_The Second and Third Chinese support her. The First Negro whispers to the First Chinese, then takes the lanterns and goes through the opening to the road, where he disappears in the direction of the valley._]

FIRST CHINESE [_to Second Chinese_]. Bring up fresh water From the spring.

[_The Second Negro takes the jug and enters the trees to the left. The girl comes gradually to herself. She looks at the Chinese and at the sky. She turns her back toward the body, shuddering, and does not look at it again._]

ANNA. It will soon be sunrise.

SECOND CHINESE. One candle replaces Another.

[_The First Chinese walks toward the bushes to the right. He stands by the roadside, as if to attract the attention of any one passing._]

ANNA [_simply_]. When he was in his fields, I worked in ours-- Wore purple to see; And when I was in his garden I wore gold ear-rings. Last evening I met him on the road. He asked me to walk with him To the top of the hill. I felt the evil, But he wanted nothing. He hanged himself in front of me.

[_She looks for support. The Second and Third Chinese help her toward the road.--At the roadside, the First Chinese takes the place of the Third Chinese. The girl and the two Chinese go through the bushes and disappear down the road. The stage is empty except for the Third Chinese. He walks slowly across the stage, pushing the instrument out of his way with his foot. It reverberates. He looks at the water bottle._]

THIRD CHINESE. Of the color of blood ... Seclusion of porcelain ... Seclusion of sunrise ...

[_He picks up the water bottle._]

The candle of the sun Will shine soon On this hermit earth. [_Indicating the bottle._] It will shine soon Upon the trees, And find a new thing [_Indicating the body._] Painted on this porcelain, [_Indicating the trees._] But not on this. [_Indicating the bottle._]

[_He places the bottle on the ground. A narrow cloud over the valley becomes red. He turns toward it, then walks to the right. He finds the book of the Second Chinese lying on the ground, picks it up and turns over the leaves._]

Red is not only The color of blood, Or [_Indicating the body._] Of a man's eyes, Or [_Pointedly._] Of a girl's. And as the red of the sun Is one thing to me And one thing to another, So it is the green of one tree [_Indicating._] And the green of another, Which without it would all be black. Sunrise is multiplied, Like the earth on which it shines, By the eyes that open on it, Even dead eyes, As red is multiplied by the leaves of trees.

[_Toward the end of this speech, the Second Negro comes from the trees to the left, without being seen. The Third Chinese, whose back is turned toward the negro, walks through the bushes to the right and disappears on the road. The negro looks around at the object on the stage. He sees the instrument, seats himself before it and strikes it several times, listening to the sound. One or two birds twitter. A voice, urging a horse, is heard at a distance. There is the crack of a whip. The negro stands up, walks to the right and remains at the side of the road._]

[_The Curtain Falls Slowly._]

SHAM

A SOCIAL SATIRE

BY FRANK G. TOMPKINS

Copyright, 1920, by Stewart & Kidd Co. All rights reserved.

THREE PEOPLE

CHARLES, _the Householder_. CLARA, _his Wife_. THE THIEF.

Originally produced by Sam Hume as the dedicatory piece of the new Arts & Crafts Theater, Detroit, and by Maurice Browne of the Chicago Art Theater.

Reprinted from "The Stewart-Kidd Modern Plays," edited by Frank Shay. The professional and amateur stage rights on this play are strictly reserved by the author. Applications for permission to produce this play should be made to Mr. Frank Shay, care Stewart & Kidd Co., Cincinnati, U. S. A.

SHAM

A SOCIAL SATIRE BY FRANK G. TOMPKINS

[_SCENE: A darkened room. After a moment the door opens, admitting a streak of light. A man peers in cautiously. As soon as he is sure that the room is unoccupied, he steps inside and feels along the wall until he finds the switch which floods the room with light. He is dressed in impeccable taste--evidently a man of culture. From time to time he bites appreciatively on a ham sandwich as he looks about him, apparently viewing the room for the first time. Nothing pleases him until a vase over the mantel catches his eye. He picks it up, looks at the bottom, puts it down hard, and mutters, "Imitation." Other articles receive the same disdainful verdict. The whole room is beneath his notice. He starts to sit down before the fire and enjoy his sandwich. Suddenly he pauses to listen, looks about him hurriedly for some place to hide, thinks better of it, and takes his stand opposite the door, smiling pleasantly and expectantly. The door opens and a young woman enters with a man at her heels. As she sees the thief she stifles a scream and retreats, backing the man out behind her. The thief smiles and waits. Soon the door opens again, and the man enters with the woman clinging to him. They stand opposite the thief and stare at him, not sure what they ought to say or do._]

THIEF [_pleasantly_]. Good evening! [_Pause._] Good evening, good evening. You surprised me. Can't say I expected you home so soon. Was the play an awful bore? [_Pause._] We-e-ell, can't one of you speak. I CAN carry on a conversation alone, but the question-and-answer method is usually preferred. If one of you will ask me how I do, we might get a step farther.

CLARA [_breathlessly_]. You--you--[_With growing conviction._] You're a thief!

THIEF. Exactly. And you, madame? The mistress of the house, I presume. Or are you another thief? The traditional one that it takes to catch the first?

CLARA. This--this is OUR house. Charles, why don't you do something? Don't stand there like a--Make him go away! Tell him he mustn't take anything. [_Advancing toward the thief and speaking all in one sentence._] What have you taken? Give it to me instantly. How dare you! Charles, take it away from him.

CHARLES [_apparently not afraid, a little amused, but uncertain what to do, finally adopting the bullying tone._] I say, old man, you'd better clear out. We've come home. You know you can't--come now, give it up. Be sensible. I don't want to use force--

THIEF. I don't want you to.

CHARLES. If you've got anything of ours--We aren't helpless, you know. [_He starts to draw something black and shiny from his overcoat pocket. It might be a pistol, but he does not reveal its shape._]

THIEF. Let's see those glasses. Give them here. [_Takes them from the uncertain Charles._] Perhaps they're better than mine. Fine cases. [_Tries them._] Humph! Window glass! Take them back. You're not armed, you know. I threw your revolver down the cold-air shaft. Never carry one myself--in business hours. Yours was in the bottom of your bureau drawer. Bad shape, those bureau drawers were in. Nice and neat on top; rat's nest below. Shows up your character in great shape, old man. Always tell your man by his bureau drawers. Didn't it ever occur to you that a thief might drop in on you some night? What would he think of you?

CHARLES. I don't think--

THIEF. You should. I said to myself when I opened that drawer: "They put up a great surface, but they're shams. Probably streak that runs through everything they do." You ought to begin with real neatness. This other sort of thing is just a form of dishonesty.

CLARA. You! Talking to US about honesty--in our house!

THIEF. Just the place for honesty. Begin at home. Let's--

CLARA. Charles, I won't stand this? Grab hold of him. Search him. You hold him. I'll telephone.

THIEF. You can't.

CLARA. You've cut the wires.

THIEF. Didn't have to. Your telephone service has been cut off by the company. I found that out before I came. I suspect you neglected the bill. You ought not to, makes no end of trouble. Inconvenienced me this evening. Better get it put in right away.

CLARA. Charles, do I have to stand here and be insulted?

THIEF. Sit down. Won't you, please! This is your last ham-sandwich, so I can't offer you any, but there's plenty of beer in the cellar, if you care for it. I don't recommend it, but perhaps you're used to it.

CLARA [_almost crying_]. Charles, are you going to let him preach to us all night! I won't have it. Being lectured by a thief!

CHARLES. You can't stop a man's talking, my dear, especially this sort of man. Can't you see he's a born preacher? Old man, while advice is going round, let me tell you that you've missed your calling. Why don't you go in for reform? Ought to go big.

CLARA. Oh, Charles! Don't talk to him. You're a good deal bigger than he is.

THIEF. Maybe I'll jiu-jitsu him.

CLARA. He's insulting you now, Charles. Please try. I'll hold his feet.

THIEF. No doubt you would. But that wouldn't stop my talking. You'd be taking an unfair advantage, too; I couldn't kick a lady, could I? Besides, there are two of you. You leave it to Charles and me. Let's have fair play, at least.

CLARA. Fair play? I'd like to know--

THIEF. Ple-e-ase, don't screech! My head aches and your voice pierces so. Let's sit down quietly and discuss the situation like well-bred people, and when we've come to some understanding, I'll go.

CLARA. Yes, after you've taken everything in the house and criticized everything else you can't take, our manners and our morals.

CHARLES. But he isn't taking anything now, is he? Let the poor chap criticize, can't you? I don't suppose he often meets his--er--customers socially. He's just dying for a good old visit. Lonesome profession, isn't it, old man?

CLARA. If you WON'T do anything, I'll call the neighbors.

THIEF. No neighbors to call. Nearest one a block away, and he isn't at home. That comes of living in a fashionable suburb. Don't believe you can afford it, either. WON'T you sit down, madame? I can't till you do. Well, then I shall have to stand, and I've been on my feet all day. It's hardly considerate [_plaintively_]. I don't talk so well on my feet, either. It will take me much longer this way. [_Clara bounces into a chair, meaningfully._] Thank you, that's better [_sighs with relief as he sinks into the easy chair_]. I knew I could appeal to your better nature. Have a cigarette? [_Charles accepts one from his beautiful case._] And you, madame?

CLARA [_puts out her hand, but withdraws it quickly_]. Thank you, I don't care to smoke--with a thief.

THIEF. Right. Better not smoke, anyway. I'm so old-fashioned, I hate to see women smoke. None of the women in my family do it. Perhaps we're too conventional--

CLARA. I don't know that I care to be like the women of your family. I _will_ have one, if you please. No doubt you get them from a man of taste.

THIEF. Your next-door neighbor. This is--was--his case. Exquisite taste. Seen this case often, I suppose? [_He eyes them closely._] Great friends? Or perhaps you don't move in the same circles. [_Clara glares at him._] Pardon me. Tactless of me, but how could I guess? Well, here's your chance to get acquainted with his cigarettes. Will you have one now?

CLARA. I don't receive stolen goods.

THIEF. That's a little hard on Charles, isn't it? He seems to be enjoying his.

CHARLES. Bully cigarette. Hempsted's a connoisseur. Truth is--we don't know the Hempsteds. They've never called.

THIEF. That's right, Charles. Tell the truth and shame [_with a jerk of his head toward Clara_]--you know who.

CLARA. Charles, there isn't any reason, I'm sure--

THIEF. Quietly, please. Remember my head. I'm sorry, but I must decline to discuss your social prospects with you, and also your neighbors' shortcomings, much as we should all enjoy it. There isn't time for that. Let's get down to business. The question we've got to decide and decide very quickly is, What would you like to have me take?

CLARA [_aghast_]. What would we--what would we like to have you take? Why--why--you can't take anything now; we're here. Of all the nerve! What would we like--

THIEF. It gains by repetition, doesn't it?

CHARLES. You've got me, old man. You'll have to come again. I may be slow, but I don't for the moment see the necessity for your taking anything.

THIEF. I was afraid of this. I'll have to begin farther back. Look here now, just suppose I go away and don't take anything [_with an air of triumph_]. How would you like that?

CHARLES. Suits me to a "T." How about you, my dear? Think you can be firm and bear up under it?

THIEF. Don't be sarcastic. You're too big. Only women and little men should be sarcastic. Besides, it isn't fair to me, when I'm trying to help you. Here am I, trying to get you out of a mighty ticklish situation, and you go and get funny. It isn't right.

CHARLES. Beg pardon, old man. Try us in words of one syllable. You see this is a new situation for us. But we're anxious to learn.

THIEF. Listen, then. See if you can follow this. Now there's nothing in your house that I want; nothing that I could for a moment contemplate keeping without a good deal of pain to myself.

CLARA. We're trying to spare you. But if you care to know, we had the advice of Elsie de Wolfe.

THIEF [_wonderingly_]. Elsie de Wolfe? Elsie, how could you! Now, if you had asked me to guess, I should have said--the Pullman Company. I shudder to think of owning any of this bric-a-brac myself. But it must be done. Here am I offering to burden myself with something I don't want, wouldn't keep for worlds, and couldn't sell. [_Growing a little oratorical._] Why do I do this?

CHARLES. Yes, why do you?

CLARA. Hush, Charles; it's a rhetorical question; he wants to answer it himself.

THIEF. I do it to accommodate you. Must I be even plainer? Imagine that I go away, refusing to take anything in spite of your protests. Imagine it's to-morrow. The police and the reporters have caught wind of the story. Something has been taken from every house in Sargent Road--except one. The nature of the articles shows that the thief is a man of rare discrimination. To be quite frank--a connoisseur.

CLARA. A connoisseur of what? Humph!

THIEF. And a connoisseur of such judgment that to have him pass your Rubens by is to cast doubt upon its authenticity. I do not exaggerate. Let me tell you that from the Hempsteds--[_Clara leans forward, all interest._]--but that would take too long. [_She leans back._] The public immediately asks, Why did the thief take nothing from 2819 Sargent Road? The answer is too obvious: There is nothing worth taking at 2819 Sargent Road.

CHARLES [_comprehendingly_]. Um-hu-m!

THIEF. The public laughs. Worse still, the neighbors laugh. What becomes of social pretensions after that? It's a serious thing, laughter is. It puts anybody's case out of court. And it's a serious thing to have a thief pass you by. People have been socially marooned for less than that. Have I made myself clear? Are you ready for the question? What would you like to have me take?

CHARLES. Now, old man, I say that's neat. Sure you aren't a lawyer?

THIEF. I have studied the law--but not from that side.

CLARA. It's all bosh. Why couldn't we claim we'd lost something very valuable, something we'd never had?

THIEF [_solemnly_]. That's the most shameless proposal I've ever heard. Yes, you could _lie_ about it. I can't conceal from you what I think of your moral standards.

CHARLES. I can't imagine you concealing anything unpleasant.

CLARA. It's no worse than--

THIEF. Your moral sense is blunted. But I can't attend to that now. Think of this: Suppose, as I said, I should take nothing and you should publish that bare-faced lie, and then I should get caught. Would I shield you? Never. Or suppose I shouldn't get caught. Has no one entered your house since you have been here? Doesn't your maid know what you have? Can you trust her not to talk? No, no, it isn't worth the risk. It isn't even common sense, to say nothing of the moral aspects of the case. Why do people never stop to think of the practical advantages of having things stolen! Endless possibilities! Why, a woman loses a $5 brooch and it's immediately worth $15. The longer it stays lost, the more diamonds it had in it, until she prays God every night that it won't be found. Look at the advertising she gets out of it. And does she learn anything from it? Never. Let a harmless thief appear in her room and she yells like a hyena instead of saying to him, like a sensible woman: "Hands up; I've got you right where I want you; you take those imitation pearls off my dresser and get to hell out of here. If I ever see you or those pearls around here again, I'll hand you over to the police." That's what she ought to say. It's the chance of her life. But unless she's an actress, she misses it absolutely. A thief doesn't expect gratitude, but it seems to me he might at least expect understanding and intelligent cooeperation. Here are you facing disgrace, and here am I willing to save you. And what do I get? Sarcasm, cheap sarcasm!

CHARLES. I beg your pardon, old man. I'm truly sorry. You're just too advanced for us. Clara, there's an idea in it. What do you think?

CLARA. It has its possibilities. Now if he'll let me choose--Isn't there a joker in it somewhere? Let me think. We might let you have something. What do you want?

THIEF [_indignantly_]. What do I want? I--don't want--anything. Can't you see that? The question is, What do you want me to have? And please be a little considerate. Don't ask me to take the pianola or the ice-box. Can't you make up your minds? Let me help you. Haven't you got some old wedding gifts? Everybody has. Regular white elephants, yet you don't dare get rid of them for fear the donors will come to see you and miss them. A discriminating thief is a godsend. All you have to do is write: "Dear Maude and Fred: Last night our house was broken into, and of course the first thing that was taken was that lovely Roycroft chair you gave us." Or choose what you like. Here's opportunity knocking at your door. Make it something ugly as you please, but something genuine. I hate sham.

CLARA. Charles, it's our chance. There's that lovely, hand-carved--

THIEF. Stop! I saw it [_shuddering_]. It has the marks of the machine all over it. Not that. I can't take that.

CLARA. Beggars shouldn't be--

THIEF. Where's my coat? That settles it.

CLARA. Oh, don't go! I didn't mean it. Honestly I didn't. It just slipped out. You mustn't leave us like this--

THIEF. I don't have to put up with such--

CLARA. Oh, please stay, and take something! Haven't we anything you want? Charles, hold him; don't let him go. No, that won't do any good. Talk to him--

CHARLES. Don't be so sensitive, old man. She didn't mean it. You know how those old sayings slip out--just say themselves. She only called you a little beggar anyway. You ought to hear what she calls me sometimes.

THIEF. I don't want to. I'm not her husband. And I don't believe she does it in the same way, either. But I'm not going to be mean about this. I'll give you another chance. Trot out your curios.

CHARLES. How about this? Old luster set of Clara's grandmother's. I'm no judge of such things myself, but if you could use it, take it. Granddad gave it to her when they were sweethearts, didn't he, Clara?

THIEF. That! Old luster? That jug won't be four years old its next birthday. Don't lay such things to your grandmother. Have some respect for the dead. If you gave more than $3.98 for it, they saw you coming.

CLARA. You don't know anything about it. You're just trying to humiliate us because you know you have the upper hand.

THIEF. All right. Go ahead. Take your own risks.

CLARA. There's this Sheffield tray?

THIEF. No.

CHARLES. Do you like Wedgewood?

THIEF. Yes, where is it? [_Looks at it._] No.

CLARA. This darling hawthorne vase--

THIEF. Please take it away. It isn't hawthorne.

CHARLES. I suppose Cloisonne--

THIEF. If they were any of them what you call them. But they aren't.

CHARLES. Well, if you'd consider burnt wood. That's a genuine burn.

THIEF. Nothing short of cremation would do it justice. Of course I've got to take one of them, if they're all you've got. But honestly, there isn't one genuine thing in this house, except Charles--and--and the ham sandwich.

CLARA [_takes miniature from cabinet_]. I wonder if you would treasure this as I do. It's very dear to me. It's grandmother--

THIEF [_suspiciously_]. Grandmother again?

CLARA. As a little girl. Painted on ivory. See that quaint old coral necklace. And those adorable yellow curls. And the pink circle comb. Would you like it?

THIEF. Trying to appeal to my sympathy. I've a good notion to take it to punish you. I wonder if it IS your grandmother. There isn't the slightest family resemblance. Look here!--it is!--it's a copy of the Selby miniature! Woman, do you know who that IS? It's Harriet Beecher Stowe at twelve. What have you done with my overcoat?

CHARLES. I give up. Here it is. Clara, that was too bad.

CLARA. I wanted to see if he'd know.

CHARLES. There's no use trying to save us after this. We'll just have to bear the disgrace.

THIEF. Charles, you're a trump! I'll even take that old daub for YOU. Give it to me.

CHARLES. Wait a minute. You won't have to. Say, Clara, where is that old picture of Cousin Paul? It's just as bad as it pretends to be, if genuineness is all you want.

THIEF [_suspiciously_]. Who is Cousin Paul? Don't try to ring in Daniel Webster on me.

CHARLES. Cousin of mine. Lives on a farm near Madison, Wisconsin.

THIEF. You don't claim the picture is by Sargent or Whistler?

CLARA. It couldn't be--

THIEF [_ignoring her pointedly_]. Do you, Charles?

CHARLES. Certainly not. It's a water color of the purest water, and almost a speaking likeness.

THIEF. I'll take Cousin Paul. Probably he has human interest.

CHARLES. That's the last thing I should have thought of in connection with Cousin Paul.

THIEF. Bring him, but wrapped, please. My courage might fail me if I saw him face to face.

CHARLES [_leaving room for picture_]. Mine always does.

THIEF. While Charles is wrapping up the picture, I want to know how you got back so early. Your maid said you were going to the Garrick.

CLARA. We told her so. But we went to the moving pictures.

THIEF. You ought not to go to the movies. It will destroy your literary taste and weaken your minds.

CLARA. I don't care for them myself, but Charles won't see anything else.

THIEF. You ought to make him. Men only go to the theater anyway because their wives take them. They'd rather stay at home or play billiards. You have a chance right there. Charles will go where you take him. By and by he will begin to like it. Now to-night there was a Granville Barker show at the Garrick, and you went to the movies to see a woman whose idea of cuteness is to act as if she had a case of arrested mental development.

CHARLES [_entering, doing up picture_]. Silly old films, anyway. But Clara will go. Goes afternoons when I'm not here, and then drags me off again in the evening. Here's your picture, as soon as I get it tied up. Can't tell you how grateful we are. Shall we make it unanimous, Clara?

CLARA. I haven't the vote, you know. Clumsy! give me the picture.

THIEF. Don't try to thank me. If you'll give up this shamming I'll feel repaid for my time and trouble [_looking at watch_]. By Jove! it's far too much time. I must make tracks this minute. I'll feel repaid if you'll take my advice about the theater for one thing, and--why don't you bundle all this imitation junk together and sell it and get one genuine good thing?

[_Clara leaves, apparently for more string._]

CHARLES. Who'd buy them?

THIEF. There must be other people in the world with taste as infallibly bad as yours.

CHARLES. Call that honest?

THIEF. Certainly. I'm not telling you to sell them as relics. You couldn't in the first place, except to a home for the aged and indigent blind. But I know a man who needs them. They'd rejoice his heart. They'd be things of beauty to him. I wish I could help you pick out something with your money. But I don't dare risk seeing you again.

CLARA [_reentering, with the picture tied_]. Why not? There's honor among thieves.

THIEF. There _is_. If you were thieves, I'd know just how far to trust you. Now, I'd be willing to trust Charles as man to man. Gentleman's agreement. But [_looking at Clara_] I don't know--

CHARLES. Clara is just as honest as we are--with her own class. But your profession puts you outside the pale with her; you're her natural enemy. You haven't any rights. But you've been a liberal education for us both.

THIEF. I've been liberal. You meet me--listen!--there are footsteps on the porch. I--I've waited too long. Here I've stood talking--

CHARLES. Well, stop it now, can't you? I don't see how you've ever got anywhere. Hide!

THIEF. No, it can't be done. If you'll play fair, I'm safe enough here in this room, safer than anywhere else. Pretend I'm a friend of yours. You will? Gentleman's agreement? [_He shakes hands with Charles._]

CHARLES. Gentleman's agreement. My word of honor.

CLARA [_offers her hand as Charles starts for the door_]. Gentleman's agreement, but only in this. I haven't forgiven you for what you've said. If I ever get you in a tight place--look out.

THIEF [_taking her hand_]. Don't tell more than one necessary lie. It's so easy to get started in that sort of thing. Stick to it that I'm a friend of the family and that I've been spending the evening. God knows I have!

CLARA. I'll try to stick to that. But can't I improvise a little? It's such fun!

THIEF. Not a bit. Not one little white lie.

CHARLES [_entering with a young man behind him_]. It's a man from the _News_. He says he was out here on another story and he's got a big scoop. There's been some artistic burglary in the neighborhood and he's run onto it. I told him we hadn't lost anything and that we don't want to get into the papers; but he wants us to answer a few questions.

REPORTER. Please do. I need some stuff about the neighborhood.

CLARA. I don't know, Charles, but that it's our duty. [_She smiles wickedly at the thief._] Something we say may help catch the thieves. Perhaps we owe it to law and order.

REPORTER. That's right. Would you object if I used your name?

[_Charles and the thief motion to Clara to keep still, but throughout the rest of the conversation she disregards their frantic signals, and sails serenely on._]

CLARA. I don't know that we should mind if you mention us nicely. Will the Hempsteds be in? I shan't mind it, if they don't.

REPORTER. Good for you. Now, have you--

CLARA. We have missed something. We haven't had time to look thoroughly, but we do know that one of our pictures is gone.

[_The men are motioning to her, but she goes on sweetly._]

REPORTER. A-a-ah! Valuable picture. He hasn't taken anything that wasn't best of its class. Remarkable chap. Must be the same one that rifled the Pierpont collection of illuminated manuscripts. Culled the finest pieces without a mistake.

THIEF [_interested_]. He made one big mistake. He--[_stops short_].

REPORTER. Know the Pierponts?

THIEF. Er--ye-es. I've been in their house. [_Retires from the conversation. Clara smiles._]

REPORTER. Well, believe me, if he's taken anything, your reputation as collectors is made. Picture, eh? Old master, I suppose?

CLARA. A family portrait. We treasured it for that. Associations, you know.

REPORTER. Must have been valuable, all right. Depend on him to know. He doesn't run away with any junk. Who was the artist?

CLARA. We don't know--definitely.

REPORTER. Never heard it attributed to anybody?

CLARA. We don't care to make any point of such things. But there have been people who have thought--it was not--a--a Gilbert Stuart.

CHARLES. Clara!

CLARA. I don't know much about such things myself. But our friend [_nods toward the thief_], Mr.--Mr. Hibbard--who has some reputation as a collector, has always said that it was--not. In spite of that fact, he had offered to take it off our hands.

CHARLES. Clara, you're going too far--

REPORTER. She's quite right. You're wrong, Mr. Hibbard. You may be good, but this fellow KNOWS. Too bad you didn't take it while the taking was good. This fellow never sells. Of course he can't exhibit. Just loves beautiful things. No, sir, it was real.

THIEF [_between his teeth_]. It wasn't. Of all the--

CLARA [_smiling_]. You take your beating so ungracefully, Mr. Hibbard. The case, you see, is all against you.

THIEF. Be careful. The picture may be found at any minute. Don't go too far.

CLARA. I hardly think it will be found unless the thief is caught. And I have such perfect confidence in his good sense that I don't expect that.

REPORTER. Lots of time for a getaway. When was he here?

CLARA. He was gone when we came from the theater. But we must almost have caught him. Some of our finest things were gathered together here on the table ready for his flight. How he must have hated to leave them, all the miniatures and the cloisonne. I almost feel sorry for him.

CHARLES. I do.

CLARA. You see, we went to the Garrick for the Granville Barker show. Mr. Hibbard took us [_she smiles sweetly at him_]. I'm devoted to the best in drama and I always insist that Charles and Mr. Hibbard shall take me only to the finest things. And now we come home to find our--you're sure it was a Gilbert Stuart?--gone.

THIEF. I've got to be getting out of here! Can't stay a minute longer! Charles, I wish you luck in that reform we were speaking of, but I haven't much hope [_looking at Clara_]. There is such a thing as total depravity. Oh, here! [_taking package from under his arm_]. What am I thinking of? I was running away with your package [_hands it to Clara_].

CLARA [_refusing it_]. Oh, but it's yours, Mr. Hibbard. I couldn't think of taking it. Really, you must keep it to remember us by. Put it among your art treasures at home, next to your lovely illuminated manuscripts, and whenever you look at it remember us and this delightful evening, from which we are all taking away so much. You must keep it--that's part of the bargain, isn't it? And now are we even?

THIEF. Even? Far from it. I yield you your woman's right to the last word, and I admit it's the best [_stoops and kisses her hand_]. Good-night, Clara. [_To the reporter._] May I give you a lift back to town?

REPORTER. Thanks. As far as the Hempsteds' corner. Good-night. Thank you for this much help. [_Exeunt._]

CHARLES. Thank goodness, they've gone. What relief! That pace is too rapid for me. You had me running round in circles. But he's got the picture, and we're safe at last. But don't you think, Clara, you took some awful risks. You goaded him pretty far.

CLARA. I had to. Did you hear him call me Clara?

CHARLES [_chuckling_]. He doesn't know our name. But he wasn't a bad fellow, was he? I couldn't help liking him in spite of his impudence.

CLARA. You showed it. You took sides with him against me all the time the reporter was here. But, you know, he was right about our house. It's all wrong. The Hempsteds would see it in a minute. I believe I'll clear out this cabinet and have this room done over in mahogany.

CHARLES. Too expensive this winter.

CLARA. Birch will do just as well--nobody knows the difference. Listen! is he coming back?

REPORTER [_in the doorway_]. Excuse me--listen. Mr. Hibbard says you've given him the wrong package. He says you need this to go with the picture of your grandmother. And he says, sir, that you need to get wise to your own family. He's waiting for me. Good-night! [_Exit._]

CHARLES [_angrily_]. Get wise to my own family? He may know all about art [_undoing the picture_], but I guess I know my own relatives. [_Holds up picture so that audience can see it, but he can't._] And if that isn't a picture of my own cousin Paul, I'll eat--[_sees Clara laughing_]. What the devil! [_Looks at picture, which represents George Washington._] Clara! you did that! [_laughs uproariously_]. You little cheat!

[_Curtain._]

THE MEDICINE SHOW

A COMEDY

BY STUART WALKER

Copyright, 1917, by Stewart & Kidd Company. All rights reserved.

THE MEDICINE SHOW was first produced by Stuart Walker's Portmanteau Theatre, with the following cast:

LUT'ER _Williard Webster_. GIZ _Edgar Stehli_. DR. STEV'N VANDEXTER _Lew Medbury_.

CHARACTERS

LUT'ER. GIZ. DR. STEV'N VANDEXTER.

_THE SCENE is on the south bank of the Ohio River. An old soap box, a log and a large stone are visible. The river is supposed to flow between the stage and the audience. In the background, at the lop of the "grade," is the village of Rock Springs._

Reprinted from "Portmanteau Plays" published by Stewart & Kidd Company, Cincinnati, Ohio, by special permission of Stewart and Kidd. The professional and amateur stage rights are strictly reserved by Mr. Stuart Walker.

THE MEDICINE SHOW

A COMEDY BY STUART WALKER

[_PROLOGUE: This is only a quarter of a play. Its faults are many. Come, glory in them with us._

_You are a little boy once more lying on your rounded belly on the cool, damp sands beside the beautiful river. You are still young enough to see the wonder that everywhere touches the world; and men are in the world--all sorts of men. But you can still look upon them with the shining eyes of brotherhood. You can still feel the mystery that is true understanding. Everywhere about you men and things are reaching for the infinite, each in his own way, be it big or little, be it the moon or a medicine show; and you yourself are not yet decided whether to reach for the stars or go a-fishing. Brother!_

_Lut'er enters or rather oozes in._

_He is a tall, expressionless, uncooerdinated person who might be called filthy were it not for the fact that the dirt on his skin and on his clothes seems an inherent part of him. He has a wan smile that--what there is of it--is not displeasing. Strangely enough, his face is always smooth-shaven. He carries a fishing pole made from a tree twig and equipped with a thread knotted frequently and a bent pin for hook._

_Lut'er looks about and his eyes light on the stone. He attempts to move it with his bare foot to the water's edge, but it is too heavy for him. Next he looks at the log, raises his foot to move it, then abandons the attempt because his eyes rest on the lighter soap box. This he puts in position, never deigning to touch it with his hands. Then he sits calmly and drawing a fishing worm from the pocket of his shirt fastens it on the pin-hook and casts his line into the water. Thereafter he takes no apparent interest in fishing._

_After a moment Giz enters._

_Giz is somewhat dirtier than Lut'er but the dirt is less assimilated and consequently less to be condoned. Besides he is fuzzy with a beard of long standing. He may have been shaved some Saturdays ago--but quite ago._

_Giz doesn't speak to Lut'er and Lut'er doesn't speak to Giz, but Lut'er suggests life by continued chewing and he acknowledges the proximity of Giz by spitting and wiping his lips with his hand. Giz having tried the log and the rock finally chooses the rock and acknowledges Lut'er's salivary greeting by spitting also; but he wipes his mouth on his sleeve._

_After a moment he reaches forward with his bare foot and touches the water._]

GIZ. 'Tis warm as fresh milk.

[_Lut'er, not to be wholly unresponsive, spits. A fresh silence falls upon them._]

GIZ. 'S Hattie Brown came in?

[_Lut'er spits and almost shakes his head negatively._]

She's a mighty good little steam-boat.

LUT'ER. She's water-logged.

GIZ. She ain't water-logged.

LUT'ER. She is.

GIZ. She ain't.

LUT'ER. She is.

GIZ. She ain't.

[_The argument dies of malnutrition. After a moment of silence Giz speaks._]

GIZ. 'S river raisin'?

LUT'ER. Nup!

[_Silence._]

GIZ. Fallin'?

LUT'ER. Nup!

GIZ. Standin' still?

LUT'ER. Uh!

[_The conversation might continue if Giz did not catch a mosquito on his leg._]

GIZ. Gosh! A galler-nipper at noonday!

[_Lut'er scratches back of his ear warily._]

GIZ. An' look at the whelp!

[_Giz scratches actively, examines the wound and anoints it with tobacco juice._

_The Play would be ended at this moment for lack of varied action if Dr. Stev'n Vandexter did not enter._

_He is an eager, healthy-looking man with a whitish beard that long washing in Ohio River water has turned yellowish. He wears spectacles and his clothes and general appearance are somewhat an improvement upon Lut'er and Giz. Furthermore he wears what were shoes and both supports of his suspenders are fairly intact. He is whittling a piece of white pine with a large jack-knife._

_Seeing Lut'er and Giz he draws the log between them and sits._

_After a moment in which three cuds are audibly chewed, Dr. Stev'n speaks._]

DOCTOR. What gits me is how they done it.

[_For the first time Lut'er turns his head as admission that some one is there. Giz looks up with a dawn of interest under his beard. Silence._]

DOCTOR. I traded a two-pound catfish for a box of that salve: an' I don't see how they done it.

[_Lut'er having turned his head keeps it turned. Evidently Dr. Stev'n always has something of interest to say._]

GIZ. Kickapoo?

DOCTOR. Ye'. Kickapoo Indian Salve. I don't think no Indian never seen it.

[_He looks at Giz for acquiescence._]

GIZ. Y'ain't never sure about nothin' these days.

[_Dr. Stev'n looks at Lut'er for acquiescence also, and Lut'er approving turns his head forward and spits assent._]

DOCTOR. I smelled it an' it smelled like ker'sene. I biled it an' it biled over an' burnt up like ker'sene.... I don't think it was nothin' but ker'sene an' lard.

GIZ. Reckon 't wuz common ker'sene?

DOCTOR. I don't know whether 't wuz common ker'sene but I know 't wuz ker'sene.... An' I bet ker'sene'll cure heaps o' troubles if yer use it right.

GIZ. That air doctor said the salve ud cure most anything.

LUT'ER [_as though a voice from the grave, long forgotten_]. Which doctor?

GIZ. The man doctor--him with the p'inted musstash.

LUT'ER. I seen him take a egg outer Jimmie Weldon's ear--an' Jimmie swore he didn't have no hen in his head.

DOCTOR. But the lady doctor said it warn't so good--effie-cacious she called it--withouten you took two bottles o' the buildin' up medicine, a box o' the liver pills an' a bottle o' the hair fluid.

GIZ. She knowed a lot. She told me just how I felt an' she said she hated to trouble me but I had a internal ailment. An' she said I needed all their medicine jus' like the Indians used it. But I told her I didn't have no money so she said maybe the box o' liver pills would do if I'd bring 'em some corn for their supper.

DOCTOR. Y' got the liver pills?

GIZ. Uh-huh.

LUT'ER. Took any?

GIZ. Nup, I'm savin' 'em.

LUT'ER. What fur?

GIZ. Till I'm feelin' sicker'n I am now.

DOCTOR. Where are they?

GIZ. In m' pocket.

[_They chew in silence for a minute._]

DOCTOR. Yes, sir! It smelled like ker'sene ter me--and ker'sene 't wuz.... Ker'sene'll cure heaps o' things if you use it right.

[_He punctuates his talk with covert glances at Giz. His thoughts are on the pills._]

DOCTOR. Which pocket yer pills in, Giz?

GIZ [_discouragingly_]. M' hip pocket.

[_Again they chew._]

DOCTOR. The Family Medicine Book where I learned ter be a doctor said camphor an' ker'sene an' lard rubbed on flannel an' put on the chest 'ud cure tizic, maybe. [_He looks at Giz._]

DOCTOR. An' what ud cure tizic ought ter cure anything, I think.... I'd 'a' cured m' second wife if the winder hadn't blowed out an' she got kivered with snow. Atter that she jus' wheezed until she couldn't wheeze no longer. An' so when I went courtin' m' third wife, I took a stitch in time an' told her about the camphor an' ker'sene an' lard. [_Ruefully._] She's a tur'ble healthy woman. [_His feelings and his curiosity having overcome his tact, he blurts out._] Giz, why'n th' hell don't yer show us yer pills!

GIZ. Well--if yer wanner see 'em--here they air.

[_He takes the dirty, mashed box out of his hip pocket and hands it to the Doctor. The Doctor opens the box and smells the pills._]

DOCTOR. Ker'sene.... Smell 'em, Lut'er. [_He holds the box close to Luter's nose._]

LUT'ER [_with the least possible expenditure of energy_]. Uh!

DOCTOR. Ker'sene!... Well, I guess it's good for the liver, too.... Gimme one, Giz?

GIZ. I ain't got so many I can be givin' 'em ter everybody.

DOCTOR. Jus' one, Giz.

GIZ. She said I ought ter take 'em all fer a cure.

LUT'ER. What yer got, Giz? [_Calling a man by name is a great effort for Lut'er._]

GIZ. Mostly a tired feelin' an' sometimes a crick in th' back. [_Lut'er displays a sympathy undreamed of._]

LUT'ER. Gimme one, Giz.

GIZ. Gosh! You want th' whole box, don't yer?

LUT'ER. Keep yer pills. [_He spits._]

DOCTOR. What's ailin' _you_, Lut'er?

LUT'ER. Oh, a tired feelin'. [_There is a long moment of suspended animation, but the Doctor knows that the mills of the gods grind slowly--and he waits for Lut'er to continue._] An' a crick in m' back.

DOCTOR. I'll cure yer, Lut'er. [_Lut'er just looks._] If that Kickapoo doctor with the p'inted muss-tash kin cure yer, I guess I can.

GIZ [_who has been thinking pretty hard_]. Got any terbaccer, Doc?

DOCTOR. Yep.

GIZ. Well, here's a pill fer a chaw. [_He and the Doctor rise._]

[_Giz takes a pill out of the box and the Doctor takes his tobacco from his pocket, reaches out his hand for the pill and holds out the tobacco, placing his thumb definitely on the plug so that Giz can bite off so much and no more. Giz bites and the Doctor takes over the pill. Lut'er not to be outdone takes a battered plug of tobacco from his pocket and bites of an unlimited "chaw." The Doctor takes his knife from his pocket and cuts the pill, smelling it._]

DOCTOR. Ker'sene! [_He tastes it._] Ker'sene! Now I been thinkin' things over, Lut'er and Giz.... [_He tastes the pill again._] Ker'sene, sure! [_He sits down on the log once more, spits carefully and crosses his legs._] I got a business proposition to make. [_Silence. Lut'er spits and crosses his legs, and Giz just spits._]

DOCTOR. There ain't enough home industry here in Rock Springs. We got a canning fact'ry and a stea'mill; but here comes a medicine show from Ioway--a Kickapoo Indian Medicine Show from Ioway! Now--what we need in Rock Springs is a medicine show! [_He waits for the effect upon his audience._]

LUT'ER [_after a pause_]. How yer goin' ter git it?

DOCTOR. Well, here's my proposition. Ain't we got as much horse sense as them Ioway Indians?

LUT'ER. A damn sight more. [_That is the evident answer to the Doctor, but Lut'er develops a further idea._] We got the country from the Indians.

GIZ [_after a moment of accumulating admiration_]. By Golly, Lut'er, yer right.

DOCTOR. Now, I got some medicine science. I'd 'a' cured my second wife if it hadn't been for that busted winder.

GIZ. Yeh, but what come o' yer first wife?

DOCTOR. I could 'a' cured her, too, only I hadn't found the Family Medicine Book then.

LUT'ER. Well, what I wanter know is--what's yer proposition.... I'm in a hurry.... Here comes the Hattie Brown.

[_The Hattie Brown and the whistle of the steam-mill indicate noon. Lut'er takes in the line--removes the fishing worm and puts it in his pocket._]

DOCTOR. Well, I'll make the salve an' do the talkin'; Giz'll sort o' whoop things up a bit and Lut'er'll git cured.

LUT'ER. What'll I get cured of?

DOCTOR. Oh, lumbago an' tired feelin' ... crick in the back and tizic.

LUT'ER. But who'll take a egg out o' somebody's ear?

DOCTOR. Giz'll learn that.

LUT'ER [_with a wan smile that memory illuminates._] An' who'll play the pianny?

DOCTOR. Besteena, my daughter.

LUT'ER. Where we goin'?

DOCTOR. We'll go ter Lavanny first.

LUT'ER. How'll we git there?

DOCTOR. Walk--unless somebody give us a tote.

GIZ. We kin go in my John-boat.

LUT'ER. Who'll row? [_There is fear in his voice._]

GIZ. We'll take turns. [_Lut'er looks with terror upon Giz._]

LUT'ER. How fur is it?

DOCTOR. Three an' a half mile.... Will you go, Lut'er?

LUT'ER [_evidently thinking deeply_]. How fur is it?

GIZ. Three an' a half mile.

DOCTOR. Will yer go, Lut'er?

LUT'ER. Uh-h.

DOCTOR. Huh?

GIZ. He said, uh-huh.

[_Lut'er chews in silence._]

DOCTOR. I thought he said uh-uh.

GIZ. He said uh-huh.

DOCTOR. He didn't say nothin' o' the sort--he said uh-uh.

[_They turn to Lut'er questioningly. He is chewing intensely._]

LUT'ER [_after a pause_]. How fur did yer say it wuz?

DOCTOR. Three an' a half mile.

[_Silence._]

GIZ. We'll each take a oar.

[_Silence. A stentorian voice is heard calling "Stee'vun." The Doctor rises, hastily._]

DOCTOR. What d'yer say, Lut'er?

LUT'ER. It's three an' a half mile ter Lavanny--an' three an' a half mile back.... Pretty fur.

DOCTOR. We kin come back on the current.

LUT'ER. Three an' a half mile air three an' a half mile--current or no current.

[_Again the masterful female voice calls "Stee'vun." There is no mistaking its meaning. The Doctor is torn between home and business. Lut'er takes up his rod, rebaits the hook with the fishing-worm from his pocket and casts his line into the river._]

LUT'ER. I'll think it over ... but I ain't givin' yuh no hope.... Three an' a half mile one way air pretty fur ... but two ways--it's turruble.

DOCTOR. Come on, Giz. We'll talk it over.

[_The Doctor and Giz leave Lut'er to his problem. Lut'er is undecided. He is at a crisis in his life. He spits thoughtfully and looks after the retreating Doctor and Giz._]

LUT'ER. Three an' a half mile.... [_He takes in his line and removes the fishing-worm. He rises and looks again after the Doctor and Giz. He hesitates._] ... two ways.... [_He starts in the opposite direction, as he justifies himself to his inner self._] Rock Springs is fur enough fur me! [_When he disappears the play is over._]

[_Curtain._]

FOR ALL TIME

A PLAY

BY RITA WELLMAN

Copyright, 1918, by Rita Wellman. All rights reserved.

CHARACTERS

MONSIEUR ROBERT. NANETTE. DIANE BERTRAL. MADAME LE BARGY.

TIME: _France, 1915_.

Dedicated to MAURICE MAETERLINCK,

Whose essay in "The Wrack of the Storm" inspired this play.

Application for the right of performing FOR ALL TIME must be made to Rita Wellman, 142 East 18th Street, New York.

FOR ALL TIME

A PLAY BY RITA WELLMAN

[_SCENE: Sitting room in the house of Madame le Bargy. Furnished in excellent taste. Main entrance center, this leads into a hall. Another entrance left, back. French window right near back, near this stands a large wing chair. Couch left, well forward. Chairs near this. Nanette comes from the entrance left as Monsieur Robert comes into the room from entrance center. Nanette is a European old maid. Her dark eyes are full of fire and her lips are bitter. She speaks quickly and sharply and is always on the defensive. Monsieur Robert is well groomed, gentle, weak and likable. Nanette is in deep mourning. Monsieur Robert carries a small bunch of flowers which he holds awkwardly and fussily as if they embarrassed him._]

NANETTE. Monsieur Robert....

ROBERT [_coming forward_]. Nanette.... How are you, Nanette! You look thinner.

NANETTE. Yes, it's the mourning. It's unbecoming.

ROBERT. I shouldn't say that, Nanette. How is Madame? Tell me. [_Nanette gives an eloquent shrug._] I haven't dared to come before. You know how I hate anything--anything like a scene.

NANETTE [_sitting left_]. Sit down, Monsieur Robert. [_He sits in a chair forward right._] It was cowardly of you not to come to see Madame.

ROBERT. Yes, I know. I am such a coward. I cannot imagine how I came to be such a coward, Nanette. I am afraid to do anything any more. Yet my mind keeps so active. How do you account for that? It's my imagination. It seems to run ahead and do things in my place. In these times I am all over the world at once. Nanette, will you believe it, that I suffer actually with every man in the trenches?

NANETTE [_contemptuously_]. Oh, I daresay.

ROBERT. You don't understand my case. I am fifty-five. I have lived for my work always. Why should I give it up now that the world has gone mad? Some one must stay behind and keep things together. Some one must conduct the dull march of everyday life. We can't all be heroes.

NANETTE. Your work!

ROBERT. Well, to be at the head of a big charity. That is something. Countless lives, numberless families are in my care. I am sort of a father to them all, Nanette.

NANETTE. They could have a mother as well.

ROBERT [_with pained eagerness_]. Do you really think that?

NANETTE. I know it. There are many women as well fitted for your post as you--better fitted, in fact.

ROBERT. Oh, surely not. I have had the experience of years. I love my work so. I love my little people.

NANETTE. You have made a pleasure out of what should be only your duty. It isn't the poor who couldn't get along without you, Monsieur Robert. It's you who couldn't get along without the poor.

ROBERT. Well, are we all to live merely to do our duty? Is that what the Germans are going to teach us--to be machines like themselves?

NANETTE. I suppose after all, you are better off where you are.

ROBERT. How do you mean, Nanette?

NANETTE. You are more of a woman than a man after all.

ROBERT. You were always bitter against me, Nanette.

NANETTE. You were always superior with me, because I was not beautiful like Madame nor young like Maurice.

ROBERT. How did you say she was, Nanette?

NANETTE. You will find her greatly changed.

ROBERT. I wanted to come to her as soon as she came, from Aix les Bains. When she went to recover the body.

NANETTE [_in a tone of deep feeling_]. Yes, when we went hoping to find Maurice.

ROBERT [_softly_]. Tell me about his death.

NANETTE. There were terrible days in which we could learn nothing certain. Several times they gave up hope. What hope! It only made certainty more unbearable.

ROBERT. They found him at last.

NANETTE. Yes, they found Maurice.

ROBERT. The French. That was good.

NANETTE. No, the Germans.

ROBERT. But Madame wrote me....

NANETTE. That was a lie she told you. The Germans found him. It was they who had the privilege of putting him away to his final rest. He had just won his cross.

ROBERT. He won the cross!

NANETTE. Yes, didn't you hear? That very week. [_Almost overcome with emotion she rises._] We have it now. [_She goes out back a moment and returns with a small black box which she opens reverently._] Here is all that we have left of Maurice. [_She hands him a picture post card._] This was taken only the day before.... [_She hands him a letter._] This was the last letter ... you can see the date.... He was never so confident or full of life.... There is even a joke about me. He was always making fun of me. I don't know why. [_She hands him a revolver._] Here is his revolver. [_She takes out the small box with the cross of war and hesitates to give it to him._] This--this is what we have left in place of Maurice. [_With a violent look she opens the box and then suddenly hands it to him._]

ROBERT. You mustn't look on it in that way, Nanette.

NANETTE. I can't help it.

ROBERT [_reading_]. Maurice Paul le Bargy. Little Maurice! He was never meant for action either. Do you remember how we used to tease him? He hated to make any decision. He loved life's dreams and nuances.

NANETTE. He was nothing but a dreamer. Madame and I were talking only yesterday of his garden--did we ever tell you of the garden he had when he was a boy?

ROBERT [_handing her the box very carefully_]. No. Tell me about the garden.

NANETTE. He made himself a garden, everything in it was arranged as if for people only an inch high.

ROBERT. But there are no such people.

NANETTE. Of course not. That is why every one made fun of him. But he went on building it just the same. It was scaled so that he was a giant in it. There were little houses and little walks and little boats sailing on lakes two feet across. The geraniums were great trees, his pet turtle was like a prehistoric monster, and the hollyhocks pierced heaven itself. When people told him that no one could really enjoy such a garden he said that the ants could, and they ought to appreciate a little beauty because they were always so busy.

ROBERT. That was like Maurice. How vast the sky must have seemed to him who loved minute shadowy things!

NANETTE. He was always timid. Everything violent frightened him. They made him positively ill. And how he dreaded the sea! Do you remember how Madame tried to get him to swim?

ROBERT. But he did learn to swim finally.

NANETTE. Yes. But he told me one day--"Nanette, when I hear the surf my whole body shakes with fear. I feel as if some terrible giant were calling me. I hate the great sea."

ROBERT. And he fell into the sea, didn't he?

NANETTE. Two thousand feet.

ROBERT. What he must have endured all alone!

NANETTE. No one can know.

[_After a pause._]

ROBERT. You say Madame has changed?

NANETTE [_looking toward left before speaking_]. Yes.

ROBERT. Why do you look around like that? Is there anything wrong?

NANETTE. Yes, there is.

ROBERT. What do you mean? Is Madame very ill?

NANETTE. There has been a change.

ROBERT. What kind of a change?

NANETTE. Madame has changed. You wouldn't know her, Monsieur Robert.

ROBERT. You mean she has grown old? Madame was always so beautiful. Has her hair turned white?

NANETTE. No, it isn't that.

ROBERT. You mean she is so stricken she can't talk with me? She won't see me?

NANETTE. She will see you. But for your own peace of mind I advise you to go away. I will tell her that you came. That will be the best way.

ROBERT. A change, you say? You mean she has altered so....

NANETTE. Yes. The truth is, it is Madame's mind.

ROBERT. Her mind! No, no, don't tell me that. That is the worst of all. Do you mean that she is not clear in her mind? She wouldn't know me? She wouldn't be able to remember? Nanette, I can't believe it. I can't believe that this great and beautiful woman could give in like that. Everywhere you see the small ones breaking down. But the great spirits like hers--oh they must keep up. What else is there left for us if they give up, too?

NANETTE. If you could hear her talk, Monsieur Robert. The things she says.... Sometimes I have to run away and lock my door. I am afraid of her.

ROBERT. I cannot stay now, Nanette. I couldn't bear it. It was hard enough for me before. What can I say to her, Nanette, when my own grief finds no comfort? Maurice was like my own son. He was the fruit of my own soul. Into him went all the spiritual love I had for Madame, the love which for fourteen years....

NANETTE. Monsieur Robert!

ROBERT. Oh, Nanette, forget your piety for once and let me speak my heart out.

NANETTE [_with her strange, bitter coldness_]. No, Monsieur Robert, I can never forget what you call my--piety.

ROBERT. No, you never can. That is why I have never been able to talk to you. Your heart is closed to all but Maurice.

NANETTE. Yes, that is true. My heart has been like one of those vases of domestic use which the ancients buried with the dead in their tombs. All that was warm and beautiful in me is closed away forever with Maurice. Although I was never more to him than a familiar object which was a part of his everyday life. Only his old nurse.

ROBERT. How did he come to inspire such love in every one who came near him?

NANETTE. Because he was young and beautiful.

ROBERT. But that is simply a temporary state.

NANETTE. Maurice would always have been young and beautiful.

ROBERT. Yes, he made you believe that. When he talked with you you felt glad and young as if you'd heard music.

NANETTE. He loved life.

ROBERT. Yet he was a coward.

NANETTE. But he always dared to do what he was afraid to do.

ROBERT. Yes, that is where he was different from me. That is what I have never been able to do--to dare as far as I could imagine.

[_He goes slowly toward the back._]

NANETTE [_rising_]. You are going?

ROBERT. Yes. I can't see her. You see the state I am in. What could I say to her? I had better go.

NANETTE. Yes, it is the best way for you both.

[_Robert hesitates at the chair right. He tentatively puts a hand out to touch the arm of it, and regards it curiously._]

NANETTE [_unsteadily_]. What are you doing?

ROBERT. It is strange.... [_Suddenly he falls into the chair and buries his head in the cushions, sobbing and calling._] Maurice! Maurice!

NANETTE [_hoarsely_]. Monsieur Robert. [_As he does not answer--sharply and frightened._] Monsieur Robert!

ROBERT [_rises slowly, a little dazed, but calm_]. Yes, yes, I know. I am trying your nerves. Forgive me. I am going now, Nanette. Here--I was forgetting--The flowers I brought for Madame. You will give them to her, Nanette.

NANETTE. Monsieur Robert, why did you act in that way just now? Why did you go to that chair?

ROBERT. I don't know.

NANETTE. When we came home from Aix les Bains I thought Madame would go wild. She tore her clothes. She went striding about the house from room to room calling at the top of her voice--Maurice, Maurice. She went into all the rooms, into his room, looking into the closets--everywhere--Then she came running down here. She went back into the back sitting room where she is now--then back into this room. At last she came to that chair.

ROBERT. To that chair, Nanette? Are you sure?

NANETTE. To that very chair. Then she flung herself down into it and cried. That was the first time she had cried. I went away. When I came back she was still there. And then this strange and terrible change came over her.

ROBERT. How do you mean?

NANETTE. A peculiar quiet, an awful calm like death--only more terrible.

ROBERT. Yes, that is how I felt.

NANETTE. Just now in that chair?

ROBERT. Yes, just now.

NANETTE. A calm, you say?

ROBERT. Yes, like a hand pressed over my heart.

NANETTE. But you seemed happier, Monsieur Robert.

ROBERT. I am happier, Nanette. [_He goes toward back._] I am going.

[_He goes out at center. Nanette watches him dumbfounded. She then gets the black box, carefully puts away her keepsakes, and takes the box out center, returning almost at the same time that Diane Bertral enters. Diane Bertral is a beautiful woman of about twenty-eight. She is nervous and ill at ease, almost hysterical._]

DIANE. Does Madame le Bargy live here?

NANETTE. Yes, she does. Where can Julie be? Did the maid let you in?

DIANE. No, the gentleman who just went out ... he left the door open for me. He evidently thought I was a friend.

NANETTE. Did you want to see Madame le Bargy?

DIANE. Yes, very much. Could I see her, do you think?

NANETTE. She is back in her own sitting room. She isn't to be disturbed.

DIANE. No, I suppose not. I shouldn't have come.

NANETTE. If you wished to speak with her about anything important I can take the message.

DIANE [_absently_]. No--no....

NANETTE [_regarding her suspiciously_]. You know Madame le Bargy personally?

DIANE. No, no, I don't.

NANETTE. I thought not.

[_Sitting._]

DIANE. May I sit down here for a moment? I am so tired. I have walked all the way, or rather I have run most of it. I am all out of breath.

NANETTE. If you will let me know your message at once.... Otherwise there is a seat down at the concierge. I am very busy.

[_She goes toward back, with her lips set._]

DIANE [_rising_]. The truth is.... I can't tell you. It is something personal.

NANETTE. Something personal? Perhaps you are mistaken in the Madame le Bargy ... this is Madame Jeanne le Bargy--the writer....

DIANE. Yes, yes, I know. Mightn't I speak with her for a moment?

NANETTE. That is impossible. Since the death of her son Madame le Bargy has seen no one. No one at all.

DIANE. I might have known. Let me think. My mind has been so confused lately. I have been in such a state of mind--I don't know what to do. I came running here without any idea in my head. I felt that I would be all right if I could only see Madame le Bargy.

NANETTE [_tersely_]. Perhaps Mademoiselle had better see the doctor. At the end of the street--number 27--you will find an excellent physician.

DIANE. No physician on earth can cure me.

NANETTE [_after giving her an uneasy, distrustful look_]. Well, since you cannot see Madame le Bargy, and since you have no message for her, I must ask you please to excuse me. I am busy.

[_She stands waiting for Diane to go, regarding her with undisguised hostility._]

DIANE. Yes, I will go. Why did I ever come? It was a mad idea. I see now that the things which seem so simple and easy in the heat of your own mind are the hardest of all to accomplish when you meet the coldness of other minds. Don't trouble about me. I am going. I didn't come to harm you or Madame in any way.

[_As she goes toward the door she passes the chair at right and stops. She goes toward it curiously, then hopefully. Finally she flings herself into it as Robert has done, and sobs the name--"Maurice! Maurice!"_]

NANETTE [_horrified_]. Mademoiselle!

[_Diane rises slowly, looking about her in a dazed way. Then she suddenly leaves the chair._]

DIANE [_quietly_]. Forgive me. I will go quietly now.

NANETTE [_trembling_]. Mademoiselle. Just now--you spoke a name....

DIANE. Yes.

NANETTE. Was it--Maurice?

DIANE. Yes.

NANETTE [_drawing away, her face going black_]. I see.

DIANE [_going up to her curiously_]. Who are you?

NANETTE [_drawing herself up, showing the utmost contempt, hatred and fear of Diane_]. Who are _you_?

DIANE. My name is Diane Bertral.

NANETTE. Who _are_ you?

DIANE. Just that.

NANETTE [_as before_]. I see.

DIANE [_passionately_]. Madame, listen to me....

NANETTE. Mademoiselle....

DIANE. Mademoiselle--are you--Nanette?

NANETTE [_who seems to grow small with dread_]. Those who know me well call me that.

DIANE. He often spoke of you. He told me of you. You were his old nurse. You were very dear to him. He always said he was the only person to reach your heart. [_Seizing Nanette's hand._] Nanette! Let me call you Nanette! Let me touch you. Let me know that heart which he could waken. I am so in need of help. I am so in need of love.

NANETTE [_drawing away_]. Mademoiselle!

DIANE. You have lost Maurice. You know what I feel. Only you can know. Help me. Let us help each other! We can never be strangers for our hearts bear the same sorrow.

NANETTE. I don't understand. [_Growing stern with the realization._] Maurice! Can it be that Maurice.... No, that is impossible. He was not like that.

DIANE. Nanette. I loved Maurice. He loved me.

NANETTE [_recoiling as if at a great obscenity_]. Oh!

DIANE. Why do you speak like that? What could there be in our love for each other that was wrong? If you only knew what we were to each other. If you only knew, Nanette....

NANETTE [_hoarsely_]. Maurice.... I can scarcely believe it.

DIANE. Let me talk to you about him. Let me tell you about us. [_She sits on the couch left, and feverishly begins to talk._] I am an actress. We met at a supper party after the theater. You know how shy Maurice was. He was afraid of most people. I saw that. I drew him to one side and got him to talk. He was like a child when any one took a real interest in him. He told me all about himself at once, about you, and about Madame le Bargy....

NANETTE [_passionately_]. Oh, keep still!

DIANE [_not noticing Nanette's hostility_]. And about your house in the country, and his garden and books and his piano and all the things he loved. Then he went on and told me about his work, and how he wanted to be a great writer, how he wanted to carry on what was best in the French theater. He promised to show me his play.

NANETTE. His play!

DIANE. I told him to come to my house and read it to me. He came the next day. It was the twenty-first of March. I remember the date perfectly.

NANETTE. We always left town on that day, but we could not get Maurice to go, so we had to leave him behind. Now I understand.

DIANE. Yes. He stayed to lunch with me, and that afternoon I had him read his play to me. Do you remember how beautiful his voice was? It started in a sort of sing song, like a child singing itself to sleep, but as he went on his voice grew deeper and stronger, all your senses melted into his voice and he carried you along as if on a great wave of emotion, of ecstasy. Monsieur Laugier came later. He was my manager then. I had Maurice read the play to him. And later some other people came, and every one urged Monsieur Laugier to take the play. I begged him to read it. I will never forget it. It seemed to me the most important thing in the world. Well, as you know, Monsieur Laugier did produce Maurice's play. And, although they wouldn't let me be in it, I always considered it my play, too.

NANETTE. Then the story he told us of his meeting with Monsieur Laugier--that wasn't true?

DIANE. No. I invented that for him to tell you.

NANETTE. He lied to us!

DIANE. You would never have understood.

NANETTE. Let me think--Maurice's play was produced in September, 1913. That is two years ago. Two years.... Maurice lived here with us--day after day--saying nothing--telling us nothing--We never suspected. We never dreamed that he would deceive us.

DIANE. He did not deceive you. Not even the closest hearts can reveal everything.

NANETTE. But to continue to see you ... all that time! It is unthinkable.

DIANE. How could he explain what he didn't understand himself? How could he tell you of what was a mystery to him? From the first moment we met we lived and thought and felt as one being.

NANETTE [_vehemently_]. No! With us he was like that! He was like that with us.

DIANE. With me!

NANETTE. To think of it! A common actress!

DIANE [_jumping up_]. How could you?

NANETTE. If I had known of this affair I would have gone straight to you.

DIANE. And what could you have done?

NANETTE [_significantly_]. I could have found a way.

DIANE. You are a terrible old woman.

NANETTE. Am I terrible? I had to fight my way when I was your age--because I was not pretty. I had the choice of being a free drudge or some man's slave. So I chose to toil alone. In order to get along alone I had to stifle every drop of humanity in my being. I had to bind up my human instincts as they bind up the breasts of mothers who flow too bounteously with life-blood long after their babes have need of it. I had to become sharp and bitter because sweetness and softness get crushed under in the battle to live. I learned to fight and I forgot to feel. Then, when I was used up and hard I met Madame le Bargy and she took me into her house because I had one valuable thing left. I had learned that it is wiser to be honest. I was there when Maurice was born.

DIANE. You were with him from the very beginning then.

NANETTE. I was an old maid of thirty-five. I had always lived alone. I hadn't ever had a dog to care for. Then all at once I had this baby, this little baby. I had his baby cries to call me. I had his tiny hands to kiss. I used to press my lips against his throbbing head, against the soft fissure where life and death meet, and I would say to myself, "Here, with one pressure I can crush away life. Here, with one pressure is where immortal life must have entered."

DIANE. Then later--when he grew up....

NANETTE. Day by day I watched over him. Madame was busy. Even after her husband died she was in the world. She had her writing. She had her friends. Her heart was fed in a hundred different ways. While I--I had only Maurice.

DIANE. I understand.

NANETTE. I lived only for Maurice. When I saw that it was raining I thought of Maurice. When I saw that the sun shone I thought of Maurice. If I was awakened suddenly in the night his name was on my lips. It seemed to me I could not take a deep breath for fear of disturbing his image against my heart.

DIANE. Nanette! Can you believe that I have felt that way too?

NANETTE. You!

DIANE. Yes, yes, I have. Nanette, when he was little, when he was a boy growing up, did you never think of me?

NANETTE. Of you!

DIANE. Yes, of the woman who would eventually take your place. Didn't you think of what she would be like, didn't you plan her, didn't you pray that she might be fine and great and beautiful? I know you did. You must have! Well, I tried to mold myself that way. I tried to be worthy of every dream you could have had for him, that his mother could have had. That is how I loved him.

NANETTE. Do you know what I thought of when the idea of a woman for Maurice came into my mind? I thought that when she came--if she ever did--

[_She pauses, looking ahead of her._]

DIANE. Yes?

NANETTE [_turning and looking at Diane vindictively_]. I would kill her!

DIANE. Nanette, I would have killed myself rather than harm Maurice.

NANETTE. Then why did you allow him to throw himself away?

DIANE. Throw himself away! Nanette, I never knew what love was until Maurice came. I was older than he. I knew life better. I knew myself better. I had struggled. You say that you had to struggle because you weren't pretty. I had to struggle because I was. You can't know what it is to have every other man you meet want to possess you, not because he loves you, but because your face suggests love to him and he hasn't learned to know the difference. He finds that out later, and then he reproaches you for being beautiful.

NANETTE. To think that Maurice should fall so low!

DIANE. But I came to know things. I was determined to find love. From man to man, Nanette, I climbed up and up, picking my way, falling and getting up again. Only the truly educated can love. I loved Maurice with all the wisdom I had accumulated in years of suffering. I gave him a perfect gift I had molded in pain.

NANETTE. You! What had _you_ to give?

DIANE. Then the war broke out.

NANETTE. Yes, the war. Maurice was one of the first. He made up his mind at once.

DIANE. No, he did _not_ make up his mind at once.

NANETTE [_with a dreadful realization_]. Then it was....

DIANE. I made up his mind for him.

NANETTE [_vehemently_]. You did it! It was you then! You sent Maurice to war. After they excused him! After they gave him a post at home! You sent him to his death. Oh, I hated you before, but now....

DIANE. His mother and you clung to him. There was one excuse after the other. You made him believe that he was too delicate and sensitive. You used all of your influence. Madame le Bargy tried in every way to keep him. She even testified officially that Maurice was weak from birth and had dizzy spells and an unaccountable fear of the sea. And you testified under oath to a long and dangerous illness he had had in childhood.

NANETTE. I did that. And it was all a lie.

DIANE. But all the time I was urging him to go. We three women fought for mastery. But you see who won! I did! When he came to me at nights--in the country--to my little house where we had been so happy, there, there, in the very room where we were nearest, then I persuaded him. With my kisses, Nanette, with my arms, with all the power I had over him--then was when I thrust him away.

NANETTE [_triumphantly_]. You didn't love him then!

DIANE [_passionately_]. Could I love Maurice and see him stay behind? Could I really want him to save his body for me when thousands were giving theirs for France?

NANETTE. For France.... But what of us?

DIANE. Oh, the selfishness of those who have never really loved!

NANETTE. Never loved! How can you say that I have never loved?

DIANE. What can you know of my loss? Your love was a habit. It was the love you could have lavished on a dog, or a horse or anything. But with me--now that he is gone, I have lost everything. I have no place to turn. I haven't even memory, as you have. Your love always took on the color of memory, but mine was a living, flaming thing, necessary as food and drink--as life itself!

NANETTE [_white with passion_]. But my love was pure and yours was not. [_She crosses the room._] Good God, to think that this thing should ever have happened to us in this house! [_She covers her face with her hands and runs out back._]

[_After a moment Madame le Bargy enters, left. She is a handsome woman of fifty or more. She wears a long loose gown of white silk. Her voice is perfectly modulated and beautiful. There is about her a gentleness and nobility of perfect spiritual strength. She looks at Diane curiously for a moment, and then goes to her with hand outstretched. During the following the day is fast becoming dark, and the sun's setting is seen from the French window._]

MADAME LE BARGY. I heard Nanette's voice. She has a habit of keeping people from me, although I am always glad to see any one. May I know your name?

DIANE. My name is Diane Bertral.

MADAME LE BARGY. Diane Bertral. I have never heard of you.

DIANE. No. I am an actress. But I am not so very well known. Are you Madame le Bargy?

MADAME LE BARGY. Yes. Won't you sit down on the couch there? Why did you come to see me, Mademoiselle?

[_She sits at right forward._]

DIANE [_embarrassed_]. I came.... I don't know why I came, Madame le Bargy.

MADAME LE BARGY. You know some one I know, perhaps--some friend of us both.

DIANE. Yes, that is it. Some one we have both--lost.

MADAME LE BARGY [_with a quick look at Diane_]. A _dear_ friend?

DIANE. Yes, a very dear friend.

MADAME LE BARGY. Do you mean--Maurice?

DIANE. Yes.

MADAME LE BARGY. You knew him well?

DIANE. I loved him.

MADAME LE BARGY. Yes, I know.

DIANE [_astonished_]. You know!

MADAME LE BARGY. Yes, Maurice has told me.

DIANE. No, no; that I am sure of. I am sure he never has. He has never told a soul. That was our agreement. We were to keep it secret and sacred. Not even you were to know, not as long as we lived.

MADAME LE BARGY [_gently_]. But after...?

DIANE [_puzzled_]. After?

MADAME LE BARGY. How long did you know Maurice?

DIANE. It would be two years this March.

MADAME LE BARGY. You loved each other all that time?

DIANE. From the very first. We never had any of those preliminaries in which people have a chance to deceive each other. We came together directly and frankly and we never regretted it.

MADAME LE BARGY. Maurice was very young.

DIANE. He was twenty-four. He was eager for life. But you two had kept him back. You had warmed his heart with your kind of love until he had begun to think it was the only love which is worthy.

MADAME LE BARGY. And you believe that that isn't so?

DIANE [_simply_]. I believe that there can be no flame like the love between two young people who are one.

MADAME LE BARGY [_going to Diane and putting a hand on her shoulder_]. Poor little woman.

DIANE [_astounded_]. Madame!

MADAME LE BARGY. You have been suffering a great deal, Diane.

DIANE [_bursting into wild weeping_]. Oh, Madame, how good you are, how kind you are! [_Grasping Madame's arms, she trembles and sobs._] Oh, how can I ever tell you? Thank you, thank you! [_She jumps up and paces about the room._] What am I going to do with myself? How can I go on? I simply can't stand it. If I had only died with Maurice! If I could only have died in his place! Oh, the cruelty of it! Why did they have to pick out _my_ lover? Surely there are thousands of others. Why did it have to be just mine? Mine--when I needed him so! He might have been spared a little longer, to give me time to get used to it. That would have been better. But now! Just as he was beginning to be of service, too. Why he hadn't been there a year yet. Not even a year! [_Beating her hips violently._] I could tear myself to pieces. I hate myself for going on living. I detest myself for being alive when he is dead.

MADAME LE BARGY [_who has watched Diane with infinite pity--softly_]. Diane, do you think that I loved my son?

DIANE [_in surprise_]. Why, yes, Madame, I believe that you loved Maurice.

MADAME LE BARGY. You think that my love was not as great as yours?

DIANE. No, I don't think so. You had had your life. Maurice and I were only beginning ours.

MADAME LE BARGY. Which do you think is the greater love, Diane, the love which endures for the moment, or the love which endures for all time?

DIANE [_puzzled_]. For all time...?

MADAME LE BARGY. For all time.

DIANE. We have the dear lips to kiss, the dear head to caress, but when these are gone there is only memory--and that is torture.

MADAME LE BARGY. What if I should tell you that Maurice still lives, Diane?

DIANE [_rushing to her_]. Madame! My God, is this true?

MADAME LE BARGY [_gently_]. Maurice still lives, Diane. He talks with me every day.

DIANE [_slowly_]. He talks with you....

MADAME LE BARGY [_holding her gaze_]. Yes, Diane, he talks with me.

DIANE [_the hope dies out of her face and she turns away_]. I understand.

MADAME LE BARGY. You see, you did not love Maurice.

DIANE. How can you tell me that--that I didn't love him?

MADAME LE BARGY. Because you don't continue to do so.

DIANE. But how can I love what no longer exists?

MADAME LE BARGY. Oh, the selfishness of those who have never really loved!

DIANE. That is what I said to Nanette--and now you say the same thing to me.

MADAME LE BARGY. Diane, when I knew for certain that Maurice had fallen into the sea, that they had recovered his body, that he was buried in German soil, then I felt that I should never live another moment. I felt as you have felt. I wanted to die. I could not bear it. I came here to this house. I was mad for the sight of him, for the things that he had touched and loved. I flew into his room and dragged his clothes from the pegs and crushed them to me, but even the odor and touch of his personal belongings was not enough to calm me. I came into this room. Then I drew near that chair. Something--I don't know what--drove me to sit in it. I flung myself into it as if it were into his arms, and I wept out all my grief. Then, all at once, a great calm came over me. I looked upon my solemn black dress in amazement and distaste. I looked into my solemn and black heart with surprise and shame. I felt that Maurice was _alive_, that he was not _dead_, Diane. Then I remembered, as I sat there, that it was in this chair that he had sat when he came to say good-by. There he had sat talking happily and confidently--he had seemed filled with radiance. And so he has talked to me again and again. Every day, at the same time, at twilight, I have sat there and felt myself with Maurice. We have talked together, just as we always did. There is nothing weird or supernatural about it, Diane. He is just as we knew him, as we knew him in those swift, strange moments when, in a flash, the body seems to slip aside and spirit rushes out to meet spirit. That is all. People see me cheerful and smiling and they say that I am mad. The few to whom I have told of these talks pity me and are sure that I have lost my reason. Perhaps, in a worldly sense, I am mad. But I know this, Diane, that Maurice lives as usual, more truly, than he did six weeks ago. I know that his youth has not been sacrificed in vain. As the dead plant enriches the soil from which it grew and into which it finally falls, so will this young soul in all its bloom enrich the life out of which it sprang and from which it can never entirely disappear.

DIANE [_after a pause--rising_]. That is beautiful, but I cannot do it. [_Stretching out her arms._] My arms are aching with emptiness.

MADAME LE BARGY. You see that you did not really love, Diane.

DIANE. Perhaps not. But it was the greatest I was capable of.

[_She gets a scarf she has dropped and goes toward the back._]

MADAME LE BARGY [_softly_]. This is the time, Diane.

DIANE. When you talk with him?

MADAME LE BARGY. Yes.

[_Diane goes slowly and sinks into the chair wearily. Suddenly she flings her arms out, crying "Maurice, Maurice." Madame le Bargy rises and goes to her._]

DIANE. Maurice, come back to me! Dear God, give him back to me!

[_Nanette enters at back with her black box. She sees Diane in the chair. Suddenly she takes out the revolver and shoots Diane._]

NANETTE. Maurice! Forgive me!

MADAME LE BARGY. Nanette! Child! My child! [_She rushes to take Diane in her arms._] Nanette, what have you done, what have you done?

NANETTE. I have rid Maurice of a stain.

DIANE [_calling softly_]. Maurice, Maurice.... Oh, I knew you couldn't stay away. I knew you would come back to me. Now we will never be separated. We will be together like this for always--for all time.

MADAME LE BARGY [_softly_]. For all time, Diane.

NANETTE [_kneeling beside Diane--crossing herself_]. For all time.

[_Curtain._]

THE FINGER OF GOD

A PLAY

BY PERCIVAL WILDE

Copyright, 1915, by Percival Wilde. Professional stage and motion picture rights reserved.

THE FINGER OF GOD was produced by the Wisconsin Players at the Wisconsin Little Theatre, Milwaukee, Wis., March 28, 1916, and subsequently, with the following cast:

STRICKLAND _Frederick Irving Deakin_. BENSON _Harry V. Meissner_. A GIRL _Marjorie Frances Hollis_.

Under the direction of FREDERIC IRVING DEAKIN.

Reprinted from "Dawn, and Other One-Act Plays of Life To-day" by permission of, and special arrangement with, Mr. Wilde. The acting rights in this play are strictly reserved. Performances may be given by _amateurs_ upon payment to the author of a royalty of five dollars ($5.00) for each performance. Production by professional actors, without the written consent of the author, is forbidden. Persons who wish to produce this play should apply to Mr. Percival Wilde, in care of Walter H. Baker & Co., 5 Hamilton Place, Boston, Mass.

THE FINGER OF GOD

A PLAY BY PERCIVAL WILDE

[_The living room of Strickland's apartment. At the rear, a doorway, heavily curtained, leads into another room. At the left of the doorway, a bay window, also heavily curtained, is set into the diagonal wall. Near the center, an ornate writing desk, upon which is a telephone. At the right, the main entrance. The furnishings, in general, are luxurious and costly._

_As the curtain rises Strickland, kneeling, is burning papers in a grate near the main door. Benson, his valet, is packing a suitcase which lies open on the writing desk. It is ten-thirty; a bitterly cold night in winter._]

STRICKLAND. Benson!

BENSON. Yes, sir.

STRICKLAND. Close the window: it's cold.

BENSON [_goes to the window_]. The window _is_ closed, sir. It's been closed all evening.

STRICKLAND [_shivers and buttons his coat tightly_]. Benson.

BENSON. Yes, sir?

STRICKLAND. Don't forget a heavy overcoat.

BENSON. I've put it in already, sir.

STRICKLAND. Plenty of fresh linen?

BENSON. Yes, sir.

STRICKLAND. Collars and ties?

BENSON. I've looked out for everything, sir.

STRICKLAND [_after a pause_]. You sent off the trunks this afternoon?

BENSON. Yes, sir.

STRICKLAND. You're sure they can't be traced?

BENSON. I had one wagon take them to a vacant lot, and another wagon take them to the station.

STRICKLAND. Good!

BENSON. I checked them through to Chicago. Here are the checks. [_He hands them over._] What train do we take, sir?

STRICKLAND. _I_ take the midnight. You follow me some time next week. We mustn't be seen leaving town together.

BENSON. How will I find you in Chicago?

STRICKLAND. You won't. You'll take rooms somewheres, and I'll take rooms somewheres else till it's all blown over. When I want you I'll put an ad in the "Tribune."

BENSON. You don't know when that will be, sir?

STRICKLAND. As soon as I think it is safe. It may be two weeks. It may be a couple of months. But you will stay in Chicago till you hear from me one way or the other. You understand?

BENSON. Yes, sir.

STRICKLAND. Have you plenty of money?

BENSON. Not enough to last a couple of months.

STRICKLAND [_producing a large pocketbook_]. How much do you want?

BENSON. Five or six hundred.

STRICKLAND [_takes out a few bills. Stops_]. Wait a minute! I left that much in my bureau drawer.

[_He goes toward the door._]

BENSON. Mr. Strickland?

STRICKLAND. Yes?

BENSON. It's the midnight train for Chicago, isn't it?

STRICKLAND. Yes.

[_He goes into the next room._]

BENSON [_waits an instant. Then he lifts the telephone receiver, and speaks very quietly_]. Hello. Murray Hill 3500.... Hello. This Finley? This is Benson.... He's going to take the midnight train for Chicago. Pennsylvania. You had better arrest him at the station. If he once gets to Chicago you'll never find him. And, Finley, you won't forget _me_, will you?... I want five thousand dollars for it. Yes, five thousand. That's little enough. He's got almost three hundred thousand on him, and you won't turn in _all_ of that to Headquarters. Yes, it's cash. Large bills. [_Strickland's step is heard._] Midnight for Chicago.

[_Benson hangs up the receiver and is busy with the suitcase as Strickland enters._]

STRICKLAND. Here's your money, Benson. Count it.

BENSON [_after counting_]. Six hundred dollars, thank you, sir. [_He picks up the closed suitcase._] Shall I go now?

STRICKLAND. No. Wait a minute. [_He goes to the telephone._] Hello, Madison Square 7900 ... Pennsylvania? I want a stateroom for Chicago, midnight train. Yes, to-night.

BENSON. Don't give your own name, sir.

STRICKLAND. No. The name is Stevens.... Oh, you have one reserved in that name already? Well, this is _Alfred_ Stevens.... You have it reserved in that name? Then give me another stateroom.... What? You haven't any other? [_He pauses in an instant's thought. Then, decisively_]: Never mind, then. Good-by. [_He turns to Benson._] Benson, go right down to the Pennsylvania, and get the stateroom that is reserved for Alfred Stevens. You've got to get there before he does. Wait for me at the train gate.

BENSON. Yes, sir.

STRICKLAND. Don't waste any time. I'll see you later.

BENSON. Very well, sir.

[_He takes up the suitcase, and goes._]

STRICKLAND [_left alone, opens drawer after drawer of the desk systematically, dumping what few papers are still left into the fire. Outside a wintry gale whistles, and shakes the locked window. Suddenly there is a knock at the door. He pauses, very much startled. A little wait, and then the knock, a single knock, is repeated. He rises, goes to the door, opens it._] Who's there?

A GIRL. I, sir.

[_She enters. She is young: certainly under thirty: perhaps under twenty-five: possibly still younger. A somewhat shabby boa of some dark fur encircles her neck, and makes her pallid face stand out with startling distinctness from beneath a mass of lustrous brown hair. And as she steps over the threshold she gives a little shiver of comfort, for it is cold outside, and her thin shoulders have been shielded from the driving snow by a threadbare coat. She enters the warm room gracefully, and little rivulets of melted ice trickle to the floor from her inadequate clothing. Her lips are blue. Her hands tremble in their worn white gloves. A seat before a blazing fire, or perhaps, a sip of some strong cordial--this is what she needs. But Strickland has no time for such things. He greets her with a volley of questions._]

STRICKLAND. Who are you?

THE GIRL. Who, don't you remember me, sir?

STRICKLAND. No.

THE GIRL. I'm from the office, sir.

STRICKLAND. The office?

THE GIRL. _Your_ office. I'm one of your personal stenographers, sir.

STRICKLAND. Oh. I suppose I didn't recognize you on account of the hat. What do you want?

THE GIRL. There were some letters which came late this afternoon--

STRICKLAND [_interrupting harshly_]. And you're bothering me with them now? [_He crosses to the door, and holds it open.]_ I've got no time. Good night.

THE GIRL [_timidly_]. I thought you'd want to see these letters.

STRICKLAND. Plenty of time to-morrow.

THE GIRL. But you won't be here to-morrow, will you?

STRICKLAND [_starting violently_]. Won't be here? What do you mean?

THE GIRL. You're taking the train to Chicago to-night.

STRICKLAND. How did you know--[_He stops himself. Then, with forced ease._] Taking a train to Chicago? Of course not! What put that in your head?

THE GIRL. Why, you told me, sir.

STRICKLAND. _I_ told you?

THE GIRL. You said so this afternoon.

STRICKLAND [_harshly_]. I didn't see you this afternoon!

THE GIRL [_without contradicting him_]. No, sir? [_She produces a time-table._] Then I found this time-table.

[_She holds it out. He snatches it._]

STRICKLAND. Where did you find it?

THE GIRL. On your desk, sir.

STRICKLAND. On my desk?

THE GIRL. Yes, sir.

STRICKLAND [_suddenly and directly_]. You're lying!

THE GIRL. Why, Mr. Strickland!

STRICKLAND. That time-table never reached my desk! I lost it between the railroad station and my office.

THE GIRL. Did you, sir? But it's the same time-table: you see, you checked the midnight train. [_He looks at her suspiciously._] I reserved a stateroom for you.

STRICKLAND [_astonished_]. You reserved a stateroom?

THE GIRL [_smiling_]. I knew you'd forget it. You have your head so full of other things. So I telephoned as soon as you left the office.

STRICKLAND [_biting his lip angrily_]. I suppose you made the reservation in my own name?

THE GIRL. No, sir.

STRICKLAND [_immensely surprised_]. What?

THE GIRL. I thought you'd prefer some other name: you didn't want your trip to be known.

STRICKLAND. No, I didn't. [_A good deal startled, he looks at her as if he were about to ask, "How did you know that?" She returns his gaze unflinchingly. The question remains unasked. But a sudden thought strikes him._] What name did you give?

THE GIRL. Stevens, sir.

STRICKLAND [_thunderstruck_]. Stevens?

THE GIRL. Alfred Stevens.

STRICKLAND [_gasping_]. What made you choose that name?

THE GIRL. I don't know, sir.

STRICKLAND. You don't _know_?

THE GIRL. No, sir. It was just the first name that popped into my head. I said "Stevens," and when the clerk asked for the first name, I said "Alfred."

STRICKLAND [_after a pause_]. Have you ever _known_ anybody of that name?

THE GIRL. No, sir.

STRICKLAND [_with curious insistence_]. You are _sure_ you never knew anybody of that name?

THE GIRL. How can I be sure? I may have; I don't remember it.

STRICKLAND [_abruptly_]. How old are you? [_He gives her no time to answer._] You're not twenty, are you?

THE GIRL [_smiling_]. Do you think so?

STRICKLAND [_continuing the current of his thoughts_]. And I'm forty-seven. It was more than twenty-five years ago.... You couldn't have known.

THE GIRL [_after a pause_]. No, sir.

STRICKLAND [_looking at her with something of fear in his eye_]. What is your name?

THE GIRL. Does it matter? You didn't recognize my _face_ a few minutes ago; my _name_ can't mean much to you. I'm just one of the office force: I'm the girl who answers when you push the button three times. [_She opens a handbag._] These are the letters I brought with me.

STRICKLAND [_not offering to take them_]. What are they about?

THE GIRL [_opening the first_]. This is from a woman who wants to invest some money.

STRICKLAND. How much?

THE GIRL. Only a thousand dollars.

STRICKLAND. Why didn't you turn it over to the clerks?

THE GIRL. The savings of a lifetime, she writes.

STRICKLAND. What of it?

THE GIRL. She wrote that she had confidence in you. She says that she wants you to invest it for her yourself.

STRICKLAND. You shouldn't have bothered me with that. [_He pauses._] Did she inclose the money?

THE GIRL. Yes. A certified check.

[_She hands it over to him._]

STRICKLAND [_taking the check, and putting it in his pocketbook_]. Write her--oh, you know what to write: that I will give the matter my personal attention.

THE GIRL. Yes, sir. She says she doesn't want a big return on her investment. She wants something that will be perfectly safe, and she knows you will take care of her.

STRICKLAND. Yes. Of course. What else have you?

THE GIRL. A dozen other letters like it.

STRICKLAND. All from old women?

THE GIRL [_seriously_]. Some of them. Here is one from a young man who has saved a little money. He says that when he gets a little more he's going to open a store, and go into business for himself. Here is another from a girl whose father was an ironworker. He was killed accidentally, and she wants you to invest the insurance. Here is another from--but they're all pretty much alike.

STRICKLAND. Why did you bring them here?

THE GIRL. Every one of these letters asks you to do the investing yourself.

STRICKLAND. Oh!

THE GIRL. And you're leaving town to-night. Here are the checks. [_She passes them over._] Every one of them is made out to you personally; not to the firm.

STRICKLAND [_after a pause_]. You shouldn't have come here.... I haven't time to bother with that sort of thing. Every man who has five dollars to invest asks the head of the firm to attend to it himself. It means nothing. I get hundreds of letters like those.

THE GIRL. Still--

STRICKLAND. What?

THE GIRL. You must do something to deserve such letters or they wouldn't keep on coming in. [_She smiles._] It's a wonderful thing to inspire such confidence in people?

STRICKLAND. Do you think so?

THE GIRL. It is more than wonderful! It is magnificent! These people don't know you from Adam. Not one in a hundred has seen you: not one in a thousand calls you by your first name. But they've all heard of you: you're as real to them as if you were a member of their family. And what is even more real than you is your reputation! Something in which they rest their absolute confidence: something in which they place their implicit trust!

STRICKLAND [_slowly_]. So you think there are few honest men?

THE GIRL. No: there are many of them. But there is something about you that is different: something in the tone of your voice: something in the way you shake hands: something in the look of your eye, that is reassuring. There is never a doubt--never a question about you. Oh, it's splendid! Simply splendid! [_She pauses._] What a satisfaction it must be to you to walk along the street and know that every one you meet must say to himself, "There goes an honest man!" It's been such an inspiration to me!

STRICKLAND. To _you_?

THE GIRL. Oh, I know that I'm just one of the office force to you. You don't even know my name. But you don't imagine that any one can see you as I have seen you, can work with you as I have worked with you, without there being _some_ kind of an effect? You know, in my own troubles--

STRICKLAND [_interrupting_]. So _you_ have troubles?

THE GIRL. You don't pay me a very big salary, and there are others whom I must help. But I'm not complaining. [_She smiles._] I--I used to be like the other girls. I used to watch the clock. I used to count the hours and the minutes till the day's work was over. But it's different now.

STRICKLAND [_slowly_]. How--different?

THE GIRL. I thought it over, and I made up my mind that it wasn't right to count the minutes you worked for an honest man. [_Strickland turns away._] And there is a new pleasure in my work: I do my best--that's all I can do, but _you_ do your best, and it's the _least_ I can do.

STRICKLAND [_after a pause_]. Are you sure--I do my best? Are you sure I am an honest man?

THE GIRL. Don't you know it yourself, Mr. Strickland?

STRICKLAND [_after another pause_]. You remember--a few minutes ago, you spoke the name of Alfred Stevens?

THE GIRL. Yes.

STRICKLAND. Suppose I told you that there once _was_ an Alfred Stevens? [_The girl does not answer._] Suppose I told you that Stevens, whom I knew, stole money--stole it when there was no excuse for it--when he didn't need it. His people had plenty, and they gave him plenty. But the chance came, and he couldn't resist the temptation.... He was eighteen years old then.

THE GIRL [_gently_]. Only a boy.

STRICKLAND. Only a boy, yes, but he had the dishonest streak in him! Other boys passed by the same opportunity. Stevens didn't even know what to do with the money when he had stolen it. They caught him in less than twenty-four hours. It was almost funny.

THE GIRL. He was punished.

STRICKLAND [_nodding_]. He served a year in jail. God! What a year! His folks wouldn't do a thing for him: they said such a thing had never happened in the family. And they let him take the consequences. [_He pauses._] When he got out--[_stopping to correct himself_]--when he was _let_ out, his family offered him help. But he was too proud to accept the help: it hadn't been offered when he needed it most. He told his family that he never wanted to see them again. He changed his name so they couldn't find him. He left his home town. He came here.

THE GIRL. And he has been honest ever since!

STRICKLAND. Ever since: for twenty-eight years! It was hard at times, terribly hard! In the beginning, when he had to go hungry and cold, when he saw other men riding around in carriages, he wondered if he hadn't made a mistake. He had knocked about a good deal; he had learnt a lot, and he wouldn't have been caught so easily the second time. It was _almost_ worth taking the chance! It was _almost_ worth getting a foot of lead pipe, and waiting in some dark street, waiting, waiting for some sleek _honest_ man with his pockets full of money! It would have been so simple! And he knew _how_! I don't know why he didn't do it.

THE GIRL. Tell me more.

STRICKLAND. He managed to live. It wasn't pleasant living. But he stayed alive! I don't like to think of what he did to stay alive: it was humiliating; it was shameful, because he hadn't been brought up to do that kind of thing, but it was honest. Honest, and when he walked home from his work at six o'clock, walked home to save the nickel, his betters never crowded him because they didn't want to soil their clothes with his _honest_ dirt! He had thought the year in jail was terrible. The first year he was free was worse. He had never been hungry in jail.

THE GIRL. Then his chance came.

STRICKLAND. Yes, it _was_ a chance. He found a purse in the gutter, and he returned it to the owner before he had made up his mind whether to keep it or not. So they said he was honest! He knew he wasn't! He knew that he had returned it because there was so much money in it that he was afraid to keep it, but he never told them that. And when the man who owned the purse gave him a job, he worked--worked because he was afraid not to work--worked so that he wouldn't have any time to think, because he knew that if he began to think, he would begin to steal! Then they said he was a hard worker, and they promoted him: they made him manager. That gave him more chances to steal, but there were so many men watching him, so many men anxious for him to make a slip so that they might climb over him, that he didn't dare.

[_He pauses._]

THE GIRL. And then?

STRICKLAND. The rest was easy. Nothing succeeds like a good reputation, and he didn't steal because he knew they'd catch him. [_He pauses again._] But he wasn't honest at bottom! The rotten streak was still there! After twenty-eight years things began to be bad. He speculated: lost all the money he could call his own, and he made up his mind to take other money that _wasn't_ his own, all he could lay his hands on, and run off with it! It was wrong! It was the work of a lifetime gone to hell! But it was the rottenness in him coming to the surface! It was the thief he thought dead coming to life again!

THE GIRL [_after a pause_]. What a pity!

STRICKLAND. He had been honest so long--he had made other people think that he was honest so long, that he had made _himself_ think that he was honest!

THE GIRL. Was he wrong, Mr. Strickland?

STRICKLAND [_looking into her eyes; very quietly_]. Stevens, please. [_There is a long pause._] I don't know what sent you: who sent you: but you've come here to-night as I am running away. You're too late. You can't stop me. Not even the finger of God Himself could stop me! I've gone too far. [_He goes on in a voice which is low, but terrible in its earnestness._] Here is money! [_He pulls out his pocketbook._] Hundreds of thousands of it, not a cent of it mine! And I'm stealing it, do you understand me? _Stealing_ it! To-morrow the firm will be bankrupt, and there'll be a reward out for me. [_He smiles grimly, and bows._] Here, if you please, is your honest man! What have you to say to him?

THE GIRL [_very quietly_]. The man who has been honest so long that he has made _himself_ think that he is honest can't steal!

STRICKLAND [_hoarsely_]. You believe _that_?

THE GIRL [_opening her bag again_]. I was left a little money this week: only a few hundred dollars, hardly enough to bother you with. Will you take care of it for me--Alfred Stevens?

STRICKLAND. Good God!

[_And utterly unnerved he collapses to a chair. There is a long pause._]

THE GIRL [_crossing slowly to the window, and drawing aside the curtain_]. Look! What a beautiful night! The thousands of sleeping houses! The millions of shining stars! And the lights beneath! And in the distance, how the stars and the lights meet! So that one cannot say: "Here Gods ends; Here Man begins."

[_The telephone rings, harshly, and shrilly. Strickland goes to the receiver._]

STRICKLAND [_quietly_]. Yes?... You're afraid I'm going to miss the train?... Yes? Well, I'm _going_ to miss the train!... I'm going to stay and face the music! [_Hysterically._] I'm an honest man, d'ye hear me? I'm an honest man. [_And furiously, he pitches the telephone to the floor, and stands panting, shivering, on the spot. From the window a soft radiance beckons, and trembling in every limb, putting out his hands as if to ward off some unseen obstacle, he moves there slowly._] Did you hear what I told him? I'm going to make good. I'm going to face the music! Because I'm an honest man! An honest man!

[_He gasps, stops abruptly, and in a sudden panic-stricken movement, tears the curtains down. The window is closed--has never been opened--but the girl has vanished. And as Strickland, burying his face in his hands, drops to his knees in awe,_

_The Curtain Falls._]

NIGHT

A PLAY

BY SHOLOM ASCH

Translated by Jack Robbins. Copyright, 1920, by Sholom Asch. All rights reserved.

NIGHT was originally produced by the East-West Players, at the Berkeley Theatre, New York City, April 7, 1916, with the following cast:

THE OUTCAST [_prostitute_] _Miriam Reinhardt_. THE DRUNKARD _Mark Hoffman_. THE BEGGAR _Maxim Vodianoy_. THE BASTARD _Jack Dickler_. THE FOOL _Max Lieberman_. THE THIEF _Gustav Blum_. HELENKA _Elizabeth Meltzer_. THE DRUNKARD'S WIFE _Bryna Zaranov_.

Produced under the direction of GUSTAV BLUM.

Applications for permission to produce NIGHT must be addressed to Mr. Sholom Asch, 3 Bank Street, New York.

NIGHT

A PLAY BY SHOLOM ASCH

[_Night in a market place. A small fire burns near a well. On a bench near it sleeps the Beggar. The old Prostitute is warming herself. There is the sound of dogs barking in the distance. Vast shadows move about the market-place. The Drunkard emerges from the gloom of the night._]

DRUNKARD. Good evening, Madam Prostitute. [_Listens to the dogs._] Why are the dogs whining like this to-night?

PROSTITUTE. They must be seeing things.

DRUNKARD. Yes, your black soul. Perhaps they think you a devil. That's why they chase all over the butchers' stalls. No wonder. They've reason to be afraid.

BEGGAR [_in his sleep_]. He-he-he. Ha-ha-ha.

PROSTITUTE. A drunkard and a prostitute are the same thing. None of us is clean of sin.

BEGGAR [_sleepily_]. Don't take me for a "pal."

[_Sleeps on._]

DRUNKARD. Leave him alone. He sings hymns the whole day long.

BEGGAR. Poverty is no sin.

DRUNKARD. Don't mix in. [_To the Prostitute._] What do dogs see at night?

PROSTITUTE. They say that on the first of May the Holy Mother walks through the market place, and gathers all the stray souls.

DRUNKARD. What have the dogs got to do with it?

PROSTITUTE. They are people laden with sins. People who died without the Holy Sacrament, and who were buried outside of the fence. At night they roam about the market in the shape of dogs. They run about in the stalls of the butchers. The devil, too, stays there, but when the first of May comes and the prayers begin, the Holy Mother walks through the market-place. The souls of the damned cling to her dress, and she takes them with her to Heaven.

[_Pause for a minute._]

BEGGAR [_turning in his sleep_]. Strong vinegar bursts the cask. Her soul must be black indeed.

DRUNKARD. It's awful to look into it. You'll be among them yet....

PROSTITUTE. I'm not afraid of that. The mercy of God is great. It will reach even me. But all of you will be among the dogs too. Those who live in the street come back to the street after death.

BEGGAR. The street is the home of the beggar. Poverty is no sin.

[_Stretches himself and sleeps on. There is a pause. The Fool comes out of the darkness. He is tall, with a vacant, good-humored face, dressed in a soldier's hat, with a wooden toy-sword in his girdle. He grins kindly._]

DRUNKARD. Ah, good evening, Napoleon. [_He salutes the Fool._] Where do you hail from?

FOOL [_grins and chuckles_]. From Turkey. I have driven out the Turk.

DRUNKARD. And where is your army?

FOOL. I have left it on the Vistula.

DRUNKARD. And when will you drive the Russians out of there?

FOOL. I have given my orders already.

DRUNKARD. Are they being carried out?

FOOL. I only need to draw my sword.

DRUNKARD. Your sword?

FOOL. Napoleon gave it to me.

PROSTITUTE. Leave him be. Every one is crazy in his way. [_To the fool._] You are cold. Come to the fire. He wanders about the hollows the whole night long.

FOOL [_smiles_]. I've quartered all of my soldiers, but I have no place for myself to sleep in.

PROSTITUTE. A fool, and yet he knows what he says. [_Gives him bread._] Do you want to eat?

FOOL. I get my dinner from the tables of Kings.

BEGGAR [_awaking_]. You've brought the fool here too? He's got the whole market place to be crazy in, and he comes here, where honest people sleep.

[_Takes his stick and tries to reach the Fool._]

PROSTITUTE [_defending the Fool_]. Leave him alone I tell you. Crazy though he be, he still wants to be among people. Like aches for like.

BEGGAR. Let him go to the graveyard, and yell his craziness out among the graves;--and not disturb honest men in their sleep. The street is the beggar's home, and I don't want to share it with madmen. All that the people throw out of their homes, wanders into the street.

[_He chases the Fool away, and lies down._]

DRUNKARD. Who made you boss here? The street belongs to all. Lie down in the city hall, in the mayor's bed, if you want to have rest.

PROSTITUTE. Keep still. He has a right to the place. He's had it long enough.

DRUNKARD. What kind of a right? Are you a newcomer? How long have you been here?

PROSTITUTE. All my life. I was born in the street, there, behind the fence near the church. My mother pointed out the place to me. I have never known any other home, but the street. In the daytime it belongs to all. When people open their shops, and peasants come in their wagons, and trade begins, I feel a stranger here, and I hide in the fields near the cemetery. But when night comes, and people retire into their holes, then the street is mine. I know every nook and corner of the market place. It is my home.

DRUNKARD. You've said it well. In that house there, I have a home, a bed, and a wife. In the daytime I work there. I sit among boots, and drive nails into heels and soles. And I bear my wife's nagging and cursing patiently.... But when night comes I can't stand it any longer. The house becomes too small for me. Something draws me into the street.

PROSTITUTE. It is the curse of the street that rests on you as it does on the howling dogs. All of us are damned, and we are punished here for our sins. And we will not be delivered, till the Holy Mother will come, and we will take hold of her dress, and our souls will be freed.

BEGGAR [_in his sleep_]. He-he-he. Ha-ha-ha.

DRUNKARD [_becomes sad, bows his head_]. In the daytime I don't mind it. Then I am like other people. I work like all do. But when night comes....

PROSTITUTE. It's the curse of the street. Don't worry. God will pity all of us. His mercy is great.

[_The cry of a child comes from the distance. It resembles the howling of a dog._]

DRUNKARD. What's that?

PROSTITUTE. That's Manka's bastard. He strays the street. He wants to come near the fire.

DRUNKARD. Call him here.

PROSTITUTE. Keep still. [_She points to the Beggar._] He will chase the boy away. They believe the boy is born of the Devil.

DRUNKARD. Who made him boss here? All of us are children of the Devil. [_He calls to the boy as one calls to a dog._] Come here, you.

[_A dumb boy, all in rags, drags himself near. He makes noises like a little beast. He trembles with cold. The Prostitute tries to quiet him._]

PROSTITUTE. He lies the whole night behind his mother's doorstep. She is afraid of her husband. Sometimes she gives him a piece of bread, when no one looks. Thus he crawls like a worm in the street--human flesh and blood.

DRUNKARD. Let him come near the fire--so. [_He pushes the boy nearer to the fire._] Give him a piece of bread. I'll take care of any one who tries to hurt him.

BEGGAR [_awaking_]. No. That's too much. Who brought this here? You know that the Devil is in him?

[_Tries to chase the boy away._]

PROSTITUTE [_hiding the boy in her shawl_]. Have pity.

BEGGAR. You're the Devil's wife. That's why you pity his child.

[_Tries to reach the boy._]

DRUNKARD [_tears the stick from the Beggar's hand_]. We're all the children of the Devil. You've no more on your hide than he has.

BEGGAR. Don't you start anything. I am a Christian, and believe in God. I've no home. That's why I sleep on the street. Every dog finds his hole. But I won't live together with the Devil. And I won't be the neighbor of a harlot either. Nor was a drunkard ever a friend of mine. [_He gathers his belongings._] What are you running after me for? This whole street belongs to the Devil. Why are you trying to stop me?

[_He tries to go away._]

PROSTITUTE [_detaining him_]. Don't leave us. Let him only warm himself. He'll go away.

BEGGAR. It does me little honor to be with folk like you anyway.

[_He goes away._]

DRUNKARD. Why do you hold him back? Let him go if he thinks us below his dignity.

PROSTITUTE. And do you really think it an honor for one to remain with you? That man is decent at least.

DRUNKARD. Ah, you grow pious as you grow old.

PROSTITUTE. I have always wanted to be in decent company.

[_As the Beggar disappears, strange figures begin to show themselves in the darkness. Most of them are half-naked. The Fool also comes back. A dog comes wandering into the crowd._]

PROSTITUTE [_looking around in terror_]. It's awful to be with so many sick people. Not one amongst them who is of sound mind. Not one who has a clean conscience. The Beggar has gone away.

DRUNKARD [_with fear_]. The dogs have also come to the fire.

PROSTITUTE. Even they are drawn to people.

[_There is a short pause. The Bastard begins to wail._]

DRUNKARD. What's the trouble with him? Take him away.

PROSTITUTE. That's the Devil in him crying--see him gazing at something.

[_The day begins to grow gray in the east. Strange, awful light falls over all. Now one, now another corner of the street appears and disappears. All is covered with shadows as in twilight._]

DRUNKARD. Praised be God. The dawn.

PROSTITUTE. How different the light is to-day.

[_The dogs begin to howl._]

DRUNKARD. What are the dogs howling about? Chase them away from the fire.

PROSTITUTE. They are looking somewheres. They sniff at the air. They must see something now.

[_In the distance is heard the sound of beating against tin plates. The dogs howl with fright._]

PROSTITUTE. Something is coming near to us.

[_The Fool laughs._]

DRUNKARD. What is the Fool laughing at? What is he gazing at? Chase him away from the fire.

PROSTITUTE. They all see more clearly than we.

[_The dogs howl again, and gather in one group. Footsteps approach._]

DRUNKARD [_frightened_]. Something is coming near to us.

[_A minute's pause. All waiting in fear. The Thief appears. He carries a woman on his shoulders. The woman has a child in her arms. They are followed by small, poorly clad boys who hold trumpets and kettles in their hands, and make as much noise as they can._]

THIEF [_thunders_]. Fall on your knees. Draw off your hats! Do you see who is coming? The queen! The queen! [_All grow pale, and move aside. The Thief walks into their midst._] Who is there? Ah, the Fool. Well, how are your armies getting along? Hold them in readiness. Hold them in readiness. The Drunkard! Ah, the right man for the game. [_He bows._] With awe do I kiss the little hand of Madame Prostitute. [_To the Bastard_]: And your little heir is here also? [_To the woman_]: Take them with you, oh, Queen. They too are dogs like us, thrown into the street. Let them come with us, We have room for many, many.

WOMAN. Take them with us, my man. We will all go together.

THIEF [_letting the Woman down_]. Our company is growing big. Come with us.

DRUNKARD [_awaking from his torpor and looking at the Thief_]. So you are the thief they let out of prison not long ago. And I was afraid of you a little while ago. [_He spits._] That's a fine joke. Always at your play. Who's the woman, and the children? Where did you get them?

THIEF. Brother, this is not play. [_He points to the Woman._] She is a queen. [_He points to the children._] And they are princes. Every one a prince. At your knees before her! Take off your hat.

DRUNKARD. I know this gentleman quite well. He likes to joke.

[_The Thief comes close to him._]

THIEF. To-night is the night when the dogs are delivered. Look at her. [_He points at the Woman._] Look at us. We were locked in, and we have come out. We are all one family--dogs. We wander on the street. Men have shut their doors in our faces. Come, dogs. We will unite to-day. Throw off your chains, and shake yourself as if you were shaking dust from your shoulders. You are men after all. I have known you from childhood. I knew your mother.

DRUNKARD [_wondering_]. I don't know what you mean.

THIEF. Look at yourself. What have they made of you? You walk the street all night like an outcast. Your children are afraid of you. They hide when they see you drunk on the street, and weep for you. Are you to blame for it? You were made one with a mass of flesh you hate. You sit bent over your boots the whole day long, and curses and blows are hurled at your head. And when night comes you crawl in the gutter, and you will crawl there till you will be freed from shame.

DRUNKARD. What are you telling me this for?

THIEF. And are you to blame for this? Have you had one minute of happiness in your whole life? Who took care of you? You were raised by your stepfather's cane. Show me the scars on your body. They beat you from childhood on; first your stepfather, then your "step-wife." No one ever spoke to you as to a friend. No one ever comforted you in your grief.

[_The Drunkard falls to the ground and weeps._]

THIEF [_to the Woman_]. And he is an honest man. I know him. We went to the same school. He had an honest mother. She loved him only as a mother can. [_Whispering to the Woman._] She brought him bread behind his stepfather's back.

DRUNKARD. I will never drink again. I give my word of honor.

[_He weeps._]

THIEF. Don't cry, brother. We are all dogs of the street. But we unite to-day. Come with us, come. We will care for you. We will all be together. Take the Prostitute, and come with us.

[_The old Prostitute rises and looks amazed._]

PROSTITUTE. Me?

THIEF [_taking her hand_]. We will not turn you, nor avoid you. We know what you are. You are not to blame. Who brought you up? Who was your mother? You were born in the street like a goat. Every stone, every hole in the earth caresses you like a mother. You were thrown into the street at birth, and men ran from you as from a leper. Any wonder that this is what became of you? You lay in the street like an old, dirty rag.

PROSTITUTE [_half-crying_]. I am not worthy of such comforting words by a gentleman.

THIEF. You are worthy. You are like all of us. Your skin is dirty, but your soul is clean. Wash your sins away, throw the curse from off your shoulders, and you will become a human being like all of us. You too long for people. I know you. You are good, you love humanity. It is they who have cursed you so. You were always a clean child. Wait. Wait. [_He takes water from the well, and pours it on her._] I wash your head, and you are a human being like the rest of us. The curse is removed from you. Look around yourself. Spring is here. Its fragrance is everywhere. You are a girl yet, a mere child. You know no wickedness. You are in your father's garden. Your mother sits near the window and looks at you. You are walking with your beloved.

[_He takes the Drunkard, puts him side by side with the Prostitute, joins their hands, and leads them back and forth._]

PROSTITUTE [_smiles_]. Don't talk to me like that.

THIEF. You are being married now. Virgins come and bring you your bridal dress, your veil, your myrtle wreath. You are chaste. They lead you to the altar. Your mother lays her hand on your head and blesses you. Sweet harp music is heard. Your bridegroom takes his place beside you.

[_The Prostitute breaks out into tears._]

DRUNKARD [_excited_]. I will be together with her. I will defend her. I will not let them insult her. She is my sister. I will work for her.

THIEF. That's the way. The dogs unite to-day. [_He takes the Bastard in his arms and kisses him on the forehead._] And, he, too, is our child. All of us are dogs of the street. All of us unite to-day.

DRUNKARD [_takes the boy from the Thief_]. He is our child. He will be with us. [_He takes the arm of the Prostitute._] Come, we will go together. I will work for you. You will bring him up, and he will be our child. [_He takes the shawl from the Prostitute, and wraps himself and the boy in it._] What? You do not hear? Listen. I mean it with my whole heart.

[_The Prostitute does not hear. She looks with awe at the Woman._]

THIEF. That's the way. That's the way. That's the way. To-day we unite. We go together. We will be one with the dogs. [_He caresses all he finds on the street._] Blow the trumpets, boys. Beat the drums. We choose a queen to-day. [_To the Fool._] The army waits for you, with swords in their hands, with spears ready. Do you see the cannon all trained? All wait for your command. Do you see the foe around you? [_He points to the street with a broad majestic gesture._] Here stands the army.

FOOL [_happily_]. Yes, yes.

THIEF. Give your order, Napoleon. You are our general. Draw the sword, and command!

FOOL [_draws his wooden sword and cries loudly as if he saw an army in the market-place_]. Present arms!

THIEF [_loudly_]. That's the way. The dogs unite to-day. All will unite. We choose a queen to-day. [_He points to the Woman._] She is worthy of wearing the crown of the street. Come, queen. Mount to your throne. [_He bends his back._] Boys, blow your trumpets. Beat your drums. At your knees. All hats off. The queen comes. The queen comes. So will we go to our land.

[_It is grown lighter. The face of the Woman has grown young and beautiful, and begins to look like the face of the Holy Mother._]

PROSTITUTE [_who has looked at the Woman with awe, recognizes her in the gray light, as she sits on the Thief's shoulders with the child in her arms. She falls to her knees before her, and cries in an unearthly voice_]. Oh, see, see. It is the Holy Mother. Look at her--her face. She has come from the church. Oh, it is the holy picture before which I always pray. I know her. Our Holy Mother in her very flesh. [_She gives a great cry, and falls prostrate before the Woman._] Oh, Mother, Mother, take me under Thy protection. [_She falls prostrate, unable to talk any more. The others are infected with the spirit of her words. They look with fear at the Woman's face. They recognize the Madonna. They bend half-ways on their knees. The Thief, who has let her down from his shoulders, takes off his hat and kneels with the rest. All prostrate themselves. There is the sound of a church-bell. It is day. From the open window of a house across the way, leans out the wife of the Drunkard, and yells._] Ah, ah, what are you doing there. Come into the house. There is work to be done.

DRUNKARD [_roused from his ecstasy, tears his hand away from that of the Prostitute, and looks at the Woman with the Thief._] Ha-ha-ha. That's Helenka, Andrey the Plasterer's wife. Ha-ha-ha. He's cracked a good joke.

[_He runs away. The others awake as if from sleep. The Prostitute suddenly rises. Helenka tries to escape from the Thief's hands._]

HELENKA. Why did you drag me into the street?

THIEF [_holding her hand_.] Come with me. Remember what we said. Come to another land with me.

HELENKA [_weeping_]. What does he want with me? Why did he drag me into the street? Come home, children.

[_All run from him._]

THIEF [_stands near the well, and thunders after them_]. Dogs, where are you running?... You dogs, you damned dogs.... [_Townspeople come to the well with pails, grumbling._] Get out of the way....

[_Curtain._]

FORGOTTEN SOULS

A PLAY

BY DAVID PINSKI TRANSLATED AND EDITED BY ISAAC GOLDBERG, PH.D.

Copyright, 1916, by L. E. Bassett. All rights reserved.

PERSONS

FANNY SEGAL [_owner of a tailoring establishment_]. LIZZIE EHRLICH [_a pianist_], } [_Miss Segal's boarders_]. HINDES [_a teacher_], }

PLACE: _A Russian Provincial Town_. TIME: _1916_.

Reprinted from "Six Plays of the Yiddish Theatre" by permission of, and special arrangements with, Dr. Isaac Goldberg and David Pinski.

FORGOTTEN SOULS

A PLAY BY DAVID PINSKI

[SCENE: _Workroom at Fanny Segal's. A door to the left of the spectator, another in the back. A large table, covered with various materials; at each side of the table a sewing machine. On the wall to the right, a three-panelled mirror; in the corner, a large wardrobe. Not far from the wardrobe two dressmaker's forms, covered with cloaks. In the middle a broad armchair. Evening._]

FANNY [_runs out through the rear door and soon returns with a letter in her hand. She tears it nervously open and is absorbed in reading. Suddenly she gives a scream of delight_]. Oh!--Oh! [_Passes her hand over her face and through her hair, looks at the letter, cries out anew, breathing with difficulty. Looks at the letter once more, and exclaims heavily._] You! My love! My love! [_She is lost for a moment in thought, then calls._] Lizzie! Lizzie! Lizzie!

LIZZIE [_enters, dressed up as if for a ball, sticking a pin in her hat. Mocks Fanny's tone._] What's up? What's up? What's up?

FANNY. Read this! Quickly! It's from Berman!

LIZZIE [_takes the letter_]. Why see! We've just been talking about him. And they really accepted his drama?

[_Looks at the letter._]

FANNY [_looks on, too, in great excitement_].

LIZZIE [_as she reads_]. That's fine! [_Turns over a page and continues reading._] Why! This is an actual proposal of marriage, Fanny, my dear!

FANNY [_her breath short from delight_]. Did you understand it that way, too?

LIZZIE [_still looking at the letter_]. How can it be interpreted otherwise? [_About to read the letter aloud._] Ahem! [_Reads with a certain solemnity._] "My drama has been accepted and will be produced this very winter. The conditions of the contract are first-rate, and the director promises me a great success, and incidentally a great reputation." [_Reads over some passages in an indistinct nasal monotone, then continues._] "My! You ought to see me now.--I've sung and danced so much that it'll be a wonder to me if I'm not asked to move. I feel so strong. And now to write, to create, to do things!" [_Reads again in a nasal monotone, and soon with greater solemnity than before, and a certain tenderness._] "And now, I hope, better days are in store for us, happiness of such a nature that you cannot be indifferent to it." [_Stops reading._] That's a bit veiled, but it's plain talk just the same. [_Gives Fanny the letter. Speaks lovingly._] Lucky woman! My darling Fanny! [_Embraces her._] You dear! [_Kisses her._]

FANNY. So that's the way you understand it, too? [_Speaks in gasps, trembling all over._] Oh! Oh!

[_Covers her face with the letter, takes it to her lips and breathes with difficulty. She takes from her right sleeve a handkerchief and wipes her eyes._]

LIZZIE [_moved, embracing her with both arms_]. My dear Fanny! How happy I am! You dear, you! [_Dreamily._] Now I know how I'll play at the Ginsbergs' to-night! I'll put my whole soul into the music, and it will be the merriest, cheeriest soul that ever lived in the world.

FANNY [_bends down and kisses her forehead_]. My faithful friend!

LIZZIE. At last! My dream's come true!

FANNY [_drops into the armchair_]. Your dream?

LIZZIE [_takes a piece of cloth from the table, spreads it out on the floor, and kneels before Fanny_]. Listen. I dreamed for you a hero before whom the world, even before seeing him, would bare its head. I dreamed for you a triumphal march of powerful harmonies, a genius, a superman, such as only you deserve.

FANNY. Sh! Sh! Don't talk like that!

LIZZIE. No, no. You can't take that away from me. As long as I shall live I'll never cease admiring you. There aren't many sisters in the world like you. Why, you never have given a thought to yourself, never a look, but have worked with might and main to make a somebody out of your sister. I'll tell you the truth. I've often had the most unfriendly feelings toward your sister Olga. She takes it so easy there in Petrograd, while you--

FANNY [_tenderly_]. You're a naughty girl.

LIZZIE. I simply couldn't see how things went on,--how you were working yourself to death.

FANNY. But that was my happiness, and now I am amply repaid for it, to see Olga placed upon an independent footing, with a great future before her as a painter.

LIZZIE. That kind of happiness did not appeal very much to me. I wanted, for you, a different kind of happiness,--the happiness of being a wife, of being a mother, of loving and being loved.

FANNY [_in a reverie_]. I had already weaned my thoughts away from love and family life as the only happiness.

LIZZIE. You poor soul!

FANNY. When my mother died, my road was clearly mapped out for me: to be to my sister, who is eight years younger than I, both a father and a mother. That purpose was great and holy to me. I never thought of anything else. Only in the early twenties, between twenty-two and twenty-five, a longing for something else came to me. Not that my sister became a burden to me, God forbid, but I wanted something more, a full life, happiness and--love. At that time I used to cry very much, and wet my pillow with my tears, and I was very unhappy. And I was easily angered then, too, so you see I was far from an angel.

LIZZIE [_draws Fanny nearer, and kisses her_]. You darling, you!

FANNY. But later the longing left me, as if it had been charmed away. Olga grew older, and her talents began to ripen. Then I forgot myself altogether, and she became again my sole concern.

LIZZIE. And is that all?

FANNY. What else can there be? Of course, when my sister went to Petrograd she was no longer under my immediate care and I was left all alone. The old longing re-awoke in my bosom but I told myself that one of my years had no right to expect happiness and love? So I determined to tear out, to uproot from my heart every longing. I tried to convince myself that my goal in life had already been attained--that I had placed a helpless child securely upon her feet--

LIZZIE. But you loved Berman all the time, didn't you?

FANNY. Yes, I loved him all the time, but I fought my feelings. Life had taught me to restrain and to suppress my desires. I argued: He is too far above me--

LIZZIE. Too far above you?

FANNY [_continuing_]. And I am too worn-out for him. And furthermore, I tried to make myself believe that his daily visits here were accidental, that they were not intended for me at all, but for his friend and nephew Hindes, who happens to board with me.

LIZZIE. But how could you help perceiving that he was something more than indifference to you? You must have been able to read it in his eyes.

FANNY [_smiling_]. Well, you see how it is! And perhaps for the very reason that I had abandoned all ideas of love, and had sought to deceive myself into believing that I was a dried-up twig on the tree of live--

LIZZIE [_jumping up_]. My! How you sinned against yourself!

FANNY [_rising_]. But now the sap and the strength flow again within me,--now I am young once more.--Ah! Life, life!--To enjoy it, to drink it down in copious draughts, to feel it in every pulse-beat--Oh, Lizzie, play me a triumphal march, a song of joy, of jubilation....

LIZZIE. So that the very walls will dance and the heavens join in the chorus. [_Goes to the door at the left, singing._] "Joy, thou goddess, fair, immortal, daughter of Elysium, Mad with rapture--" [_Suddenly stops._] Sh! Hindes is coming!

[_Listens._]

FANNY [_she has been standing as if entranced; her whole body trembles as she awakens to her surroundings. She puts her finger to her nose, warningly._] Don't say a word to him about it.

LIZZIE. I will! He must know it, he must be happy over it, too. And if he truly loves you, he will be happy to learn it. And then, once for all he'll get rid of his notions about winning you.

FANNY. Don't be so inconsiderate.

LIZZIE. Leave it to me!... Hindes! Hindes!

FANNY. It's high time you left for the Ginsbergs'.

LIZZIE. I've a few minutes yet.... Hindes! Hindes!

HINDES [_appears at the rear door. He wears spectacles; under his left arm a crutch, under his right arm books, and in his hands various bags of food_].

FANNY [_steals out through the door at the left_].

HINDES. Good evening. What's the news?

LIZZIE. Come here! Quick! Fa--

HINDES. Won't you give me time to carry my parcels into my room?

LIZZIE. Not even a second! Fanny has--

HINDES [_taking an apple from a bag_]. Have an apple.

LIZZIE [_refusing it_]. Let me speak, won't you! Fa--

HINDES. May I at least sit down?

LIZZIE [_loudly_]. Fanny has received a letter from Berman!

HINDES [_taking a seat_]. Saying that his drama has been accepted. I, too, have received a letter from Berman.

LIZZIE. That's nothing. The point is that he is seeking to make a match with her. He has practically proposed to her.

HINDES [_astonished_]. Practically proposed? To Fanny?

LIZZIE. Yes, and when Fanny comes back you just see to it that you wish her a right friendly congratulation, and that you make no--[_Stops suddenly._] Hm! I came near saying something silly.--Oh, I'm so happy, and I'd just have the whole world happy with me. Do you hear? You must help her celebrate, do you hear? And now, good night to you, for I must run along to the Ginsbergs'.

[_Turns to the door at the left singing: "Joy, thou goddess, fair, immortal...."_]

HINDES [_calling after her_]. But--the devil. Miss Ehrlich!

LIZZIE [_at the door_]. I haven't a single moment to spare for the devil.

[_She disappears._]

HINDES [_grunts angrily, throws his crutch to the ground, places his books and his packages on a chair, and mumbles_]. What mockery is this!

[_Takes out a letter from his inside pocket and reads it over several times. Grunts again. Rests his head heavily upon his hands, and looks vacantly forward, as if deeply puzzled._]

FANNY [_enters, embarrassed_]. Good evening, Hindes!

HINDES [_mumbles, without changing his position_]. Good evening!

FANNY [_looks at him in embarrassment, and begins to busy herself with the cloaks on the forms._]

HINDES [_still in the same position. He taps his foot nervously. He soon ceases this, and speaks without looking at Fanny_]. Miss Segal, will you permit me to see Berman's letter?

FANNY [_with a nervous laugh_]. That's a bit indiscreet--not at all like a cavalier.

HINDES [_same position and same tone_]. Will you permit me to see Berman's letter?

FANNY [_with a laugh of embarrassment, throws him the letter, which she has been holding in her sleeve_]. Read it, if that's how you feel.

HINDES [_bends slowly down, gets the letter, commences to read it, and then to grumble_]. H'm! So! [_He lets the letter fall to his knee, and stares vacantly before him. He shakes his foot nervously and mumbles as if to himself._] To be such an idiot!

FANNY [_regards him with astonishment_].

HINDES [_somewhat more softly_]. To be such an idiot!

FANNY [_laughing, still embarrassed_]. Who?

HINDES. Not I.

[_Picks up his crutch, the books and the parcels, arises, and gives the letter to Fanny._]

FANNY [_beseechingly_]. Hindes, don't take it so badly. You make me very sad.

HINDES. I'm going to my room, so you won't see me.

FANNY [_as before_]. Don't speak to me like that, Hindes. Be my good friend, as you always were. [_In a lower tone, embarrassed._] And be good to Berman. For you know, between us, between you and me, there could never have been anything more than friendship.

HINDES. There is no need of your telling me that. I know what I know and have no fault to find with you.

FANNY. Then why are you so upset, and why do you reproach yourself?

HINDES. Because....

FANNY. Because what?

HINDES [_after an inner struggle, stormily_]. Because I am in a rage! To think of a chap writing such a veiled, ambiguous, absolutely botched sentence, and cooking up such a mess!

FANNY. What do you mean by all this?

HINDES. You know, Miss Segal, what my feelings are toward you, and you know that I wish you all happiness. I assure you that I would bury deep within me all my grief and all my longing, and would rejoice with a full heart--if things were as you understood them from Berman's letter.

FANNY. As I understood them from Berman's letter?

HINDES. --And what rouses my anger and makes me hesitate is that it should have had to happen to you and that I must be the surgeon to cut the cataract from your eye.

FANNY [_astounded_]. Drop your rhetorical figures. End your work. Cut away, since you've begun the cutting.

HINDES [_without looking at her, deeply stirred_]. Berman did not mean you.

FANNY. Not me?

HINDES. Not you, but your sister.

FANNY [_with an outcry_]. Oh!--

HINDES. He writes me that his first meeting with her was as if the splendor of God had suddenly shone down upon him,--that gradually he was inflamed by a fiery passion, and that he hopes his love is returned, that....

FANNY [_falls upon a chair, her face turned toward the table. She breaks into moaning_]. She has taken from me everything!

[_In deepest despair, with cries from her innermost being, she tears at her hair._]

HINDES [_drops his books and packages to the floor. Limps over to Fanny, and removes her hands from her head_]. You have good reason to weep, but not to harm yourself.

FANNY [_hysterically_]. She has taken from me everything! My ambition to study, my youth, my fondest hopes, and now....

HINDES. And now?--Nothing. As you see, Berman never loved you. If it hadn't been for that unfortunate, ambiguous, absolutely botched, simply idiotic sentence....

FANNY [_softly_]. Hindes, I feel that I no longer care to live.

HINDES. Folly!

FANNY. I feel as if my heart had been torn in two. My soul is empty, desolate ... as if an abyss had opened before me.... What have I now in life for? I can live no longer!

HINDES. Folly! Nonsense!

FANNY. I have already lived my life....

HINDES. Absurd!

FANNY [_resolutely_]. I know what I'm talking about, and I know what to do.

[_Silence._]

HINDES [_regarding her closely. With blunt emphasis_]. You're thinking now over what death you shall choose.

FANNY [_motionless_].

HINDES [_taking a seat_]. Let me tell you a story. There was once upon a time a man who--not through doubt and misfortune, but rather through good times and pleasures, came to the conclusion that life wasn't worth living. So he went off to buy a revolver. On his way a great clamor arose in the street. A house had caught fire and in a moment was in flames. Suddenly, at one of the windows in the top story there appeared a woman. The firemen had placed their highest ladders against the building and a man began to climb up. That man was none other than our candidate for suicide. He took the woman out of the window, gave her to the firemen who had followed him up, and then went through the window into the house. The surrounding crowd trembled with fear lest the house should cave in at the very last moment. Flames already appeared at the window, and people were sure that the hero had been burned to death inside. But he had not been burned; he soon appeared on the roof, with a small child in his arms. The ladders could not reach to this height, so the firemen threw him a rope. He tied the rope about the child and lowered it to the firemen. But he himself was beyond rescue. He folded his hands over his heart, and tears trickled from his eyes. He, who but a moment before had sought death, now desired not to die. No, he wanted to live, for in that moment he had found a purpose: to live and to do good.

FANNY [_angrily_]. To do good! I'm tired of doing good!

HINDES. Don't sin against yourself, Fanny!

FANNY. Do good! I have done good; I have lived for others, not myself; and now you can see for yourself that I have not fulfilled my life. I feel as wretched as the most miserable, as the most wicked, and I long for death even as the most unhappy!

HINDES [_looking at her from under his spectacles_]. Does Olga know of your feelings toward Berman?

FANNY [_angrily_]. I don't know what she knows.

HINDES. Can't you give me any better reply than that?

FANNY. What can I know? I used to write her letters just full of Berman.

HINDES. Could Olga have gathered from them that you were not indifferently disposed toward him?

FANNY. What do you mean by this cross-examination?

HINDES. I have a notion that if you were to do what you have in your mind at present,--a thing I cannot bring myself to name,--then Olga would not accept Berman's love. Rather she would take her own life, since she would look upon herself as the cause of your death.

FANNY. What's this you've thought up?

HINDES. Just what you heard.

FANNY. And you mean--?

HINDES. --That you know your sister and ought to realize what she's liable to do.

FANNY [_in a fit of anger_]. First she takes away my life, and now she will not let me die!

[_Her head sinks to the table._]

HINDES. There spoke the true Fanny, the Fanny of yore.

FANNY [_weeps bitterly_].

HINDES. Well may you weep. Weep, Fanny, weep until the tears come no more. But when that is over, then dry your eyes and never weep again. Dry forever the source of all your tears. That's exactly what I did, do you understand? Such people as you and I, robbed of personal happiness, must either weep forever, or never weep at all. I chose the latter course. Harden yourself, Fanny, and then fold your arms on your breast and look fearlessly forward into life, fulfilling it as your heart dictates.

FANNY [_continues weeping_].

HINDES [_noticing Berman's letter on the table, takes it up and throws it down angrily_]. Such a botched, idiotic sentence! And he's a poet!

FANNY [_raising her head_]. If things are as you say, then Olga will in any case reject Berman. She will imagine that she is taking him away from me, and such a thing she would never do.

HINDES. Perhaps. [_Suddenly, bluntly._] And what will be the effect of all this upon you?

FANNY [_brokenly_]. Who's thinking of self? I mean that I want her to have him.

HINDES. There's the old Fanny again!

FANNY. Ah! Enough of that! Better help me with some suggestion.

HINDES. Some suggestion? Be her matchmaker.

FANNY. And suppose she should turn the tables and want to be my matchmaker?

HINDES. We've got to think that over.

[_Silence._]

FANNY [_brokenly_]. Hindes!

HINDES. What?

FANNY. I have an idea.

HINDES. Good.

FANNY. But I need your aid.

HINDES. Count on me, if I'm able.

FANNY. Do you promise?

HINDES. Blindly?

FANNY. Blindly.

HINDES [_looks at her_]. Why must I promise you blindly? If I'm able, you may be sure I'll help.

FANNY [_brokenly, yet in embarrassment_]. Take me.... Marry me.

HINDES [_for a moment he looks at her, then picks up his crutch, his books and the packages_].

FANNY [_beseechingly_]. Hindes! If I should marry, Olga wouldn't have any obstacle in her way.

HINDES. Miss Segal, I have loved you, and still do. But I refuse to be the altar upon which you shall sacrifice yourself.

FANNY. But a moment ago you dissuaded me from death. Will you now drive me back to it?

HINDES. Your sister will be able to find happiness without Berman.

FANNY. But if she loves him?--

HINDES. Then she'll suffer, just as we do.

FANNY. No! Olga must not suffer! Do you hear! I'll not have it!

HINDES. That is very nice of you.

FANNY [_through her tears_]. Hindes, I no longer know you.

HINDES [_turns toward the door_]. Good night.

FANNY [_is overcome by sobbing_].

HINDES [_limps to the door, then stops. Looks downwards, then raises his eyes toward Fanny_]. Miss Segal, why is it that during all the time that I have boarded with you I have made no declaration of love, that I have never proposed marriage?

FANNY [_weeps_].

HINDES. I'll tell you. Wasn't it because I knew that you didn't love me, and because I wanted your love, not merely your respect?

FANNY [_firmly_]. No. You didn't do it simply because you knew that I would refuse you.

HINDES. And suppose I expected "Yes" from you?

FANNY. Then you would have proposed.

HINDES. And married you without your love?

FANNY. Yes.

HINDES. But then I didn't know that you loved another.

FANNY [_brokenly_]. The other no longer exists for me.

HINDES [_looks again at the floor. Silence_].

FANNY. Hindes!

HINDES. Yes?

FANNY. Come nearer to me.

HINDES. I am lame.

FANNY. Put all your bundles aside.

HINDES [_hesitates for a moment, then puts down his books and packages_].

FANNY [_as if in embarrassment_]. Everything.... Everything....

HINDES [_bluntly_]. Don't be ashamed. Say just what you mean: Lay aside the crutch, too.

[_He lays aside the crutch._]

FANNY [_arises, takes his hand_]. Hindes, you know my attitude toward you. You know how highly I esteem you, how happy I've always been to possess in you a good, true friend.... [_Nestles her head against him, coyly._] Embrace me, and give me a kiss, a hot, passionate kiss. Put into it your whole love, make it express your whole true soul. [_Brokenly, and in tears._] I tell you, our life will be--happy. We souls, forgotten by happiness, will yet find it--in our own way--as best we can. [_Less tearfully._] You'll see how it'll soon be. Lizzie will come home and she'll play us a march of jubilation, a march of joy.... [_Brokenly._] She owes it to me!... I'll dance, I tell you; I'll dance for two. You'll see. And I'll sing. I'll turn things upside down. Hindes, kiss me, hotly, hotly.

HINDES [_passionately, through tears_]. You.... You....

[_He gives her a long kiss, as if entranced._]

[_Slow Curtain._]

* * * * *

BIBLIOGRAPHY

OF THE LITTLE THEATRE

FOREWORD

What is wanting in this list the reader will only too soon discover for himself. I do not, however, wish to offer a faltering apology for the incompleteness of the work. In truth, it needs none. Nevertheless, a brief word of explanation may not be amiss.

The duties of the bibliographer are more or less mechanical. He merely collects his data from the most available sources or from arcana known only to a few, arranges his material alphabetically and sends his copy to the printer.

The present list is an exception to the general practice. It will be noted that the bibliographer has broken his traces, forsaken his accustomed field and intruded, in some measure, upon the province of the critic. From the great mass of plays accessible in English I have sought to select only those which I hold best adapted to the little theater as it is to-day constituted. On the whole, they are plays which have encountered a certain measure of success or that I felt to be worthy of production. Rigid care has been taken to exclude such dramatic pieces which are fittingly described as "side-splitting farces." The latter contribute nothing to the art theater. Box and Cox, I doubt not, may be excruciatingly funny, but few would care to hear that Sam Hume, for instance, was about to produce it. Not that genuine laughter hasn't its place in the modern theater; but we cannot laugh to-day at the archaic drolleries of yesterday. We cannot abandon ourselves to papier-mache characterization in the theater. And this is what the art theater accomplished in its brief stay with us.

F. S.

THE BOOKS OF THE LITTLE THEATRE

ANTHONY, Luther B. DRAMATOLOGY. A Manual of Craftsmanship

APPIA, Adolphe DIE MUSIK UND DIE INSCENIERUNG

ARCHER, William PLAY MAKING. A Manual of Craftsmanship ABOUT THE THEATRE

ARCHER, William, and BARKER, Granville A NATIONAL THEATRE. Schemes and Estimates

ARNOLD, Robert S. DAS MODERNE DRAMA

AUSTIN, Stephen F. THE PRINCIPLES OF DRAMA-THERAPY

BAKER, George Pierce THE TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA DRAMATIC TECHNIQUE

BAKSHY, Alexander THE PATH OF THE MODERN RUSSIAN STAGE

BICKLEY, Francis J. M. SYNGE AND THE IRISH DRAMATIC MOVEMENT

BLEACKLEY, J. Arthur THE ART OF MIMICRY

BOOTH, William Stone A PRACTICAL GUIDE FOR AUTHORS AND PLAYWRIGHTS

BOURGEOIS, Maurice JOHN MILLINGTON SYNGE AND THE IRISH THEATRE

BOYD, Ernest A. THE CONTEMPORARY DRAMA OF IRELAND

BROADBENT, R. J. A HISTORY OF PANTOMIME

BROWNE, Maurice THE TEMPLE OF A LIVING ART

BROWNE, Van Dyke SECRETS OF SCENE PAINTING AND STAGE EFFECTS

BRUNETIERE, Ferdinand THE LAW OF THE DRAMA, with an introduction by Henry Arthur Jones. Translated by P. M. Hayden

BURLEIGH, Louise THE COMMUNITY THEATRE

BURTON, Richard HOW TO SEE A PLAY

CALTHROP, Dion Clayton ENGLISH COSTUME. Four volumes

CALVERT, Louis PROBLEMS OF THE ACTOR

CANNAN, Gilbert THE JOY OF THE THEATRE

CANNON, Fanny WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY

CARTER, Huntley THE NEW SPIRIT IN DRAMA AND ART THE THEATRE OF MAX REINHARDT

CHENEY, Sheldon THE OPEN AIR THEATRE THE THEATRE ARTS MAGAZINE THE NEW MOVEMENT IN THE THEATRE THE ART THEATRE

CLARK, Barrett H. HOW TO PRODUCE AMATEUR PLAYS CONTINENTAL DRAMA OF TO-DAY BRITISH AND AMERICAN DRAMA OF TO-DAY EUROPEAN THEORIES OF THE DRAMA

COLLES, W. M., and HARDY, H. PLAYWRIGHT AND COPYRIGHT IN ALL COUNTRIES

COQUELIN, Constant ART AND THE ACTOR. Translated by A. L. Alger

CRAIG, Gordon THE ART OF THE THEATRE ON THE ART OF THE THEATRE A LIVING THEATRE TOWARDS A NEW THEATRE THE THEATRE--ADVANCING

DEAN, Basil THE REPERTORY THEATRE, 1911

DICKINSON, Thomas H. THE CONTEMPORARY DRAMA OF ENGLAND THE INSURGENT THEATRE

EDWARDS, O. JAPANESE PLAYS AND PLAYFELLOWS

FENELLOSA, Ernest, and POUND, Ezra "NO"; or ACCOMPLISHMENT

FRY, Emma Sheridan EDUCATIONAL DRAMATICS

GILLETTE, William THE ILLUSION OF THE FIRST TIME IN ACTING

GOLDMAN, Emma THE SOCIAL SIGNIFICANCE OF THE MODERN DRAMA

GREGORY, Lady OUR IRISH THEATRE

HAMILTON, Clayton THEORY OF THE THEATRE STUDIES IN STAGECRAFT PROBLEMS OF THE PLAYWRIGHT

HASTINGS, Charles THE THEATRE. Its Development in France and England and a History of Its Greek and Latin Origins

HENDERSON, Archibald THE CHANGING DRAMA EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS

HENNEQUIN, Alfred THE ART OF PLAYWRITING

HILLIARD, E., McCORMICK, T., and OGLEBAY, K. AMATEUR AND EDUCATIONAL DRAMATICS

HORNBLOW, Arthur TRAINING FOR THE STAGE. Some Hints for Those About to Choose the Player's Career

HORRWITZ, Ernest P. THE INDIAN THEATRE. A Brief Survey of the Sanskrit Drama

HOWE, P. P. THE REPERTORY THEATRE

HUBERT, Philip G. THE STAGE AS A CAREER

HUNT, Elizabeth R. THE PLAY OF TO-DAY

IZUMO, Takeda. Translated by M. C. Marcus THE PINE TREE. With an Introductory Causerie on the Japanese Theatre

JONES, Henry Arthur RENASCENCE OF THE ENGLISH DRAMA FOUNDATIONS OF A NATIONAL DRAMA THE THEATRE OF IDEAS

KROWS, Arthur Edwin PLAY PRODUCTION IN AMERICA

LAWRENCE, W. J. THE ELIZABETHAN PLAYHOUSE

LEWES, G. H. ON ACTORS AND THE ART OF ACTING

LEWIS, B. Roland THE TECHNIQUE OF THE ONE-ACT PLAY: A Study in Dramatic Construction

LEWISOHN, Ludwig THE MODERN DRAMA

MACCARTHY, Desmond THE COURT THEATRE

MACCLINTOCK, Lander THE CONTEMPORARY DRAMA OF ITALY

MACKAY, Constance D'Arcy COSTUMES AND SCENERY FOR AMATEURS; A Practical Working Handbook THE LITTLE THEATRE IN THE UNITED STATES

MACKAY, F. F. THE ART OF ACTING

MACKAYE, Percy COMMUNITY DRAMA THE CIVIL THEATRE THE PLAYHOUSE AND THE PLAY PATRIOTIC DRAMA IN YOUR TOWN

MACKINNON, Alan THE OXFORD AMATEURS

MANTIZIUS, Karl HISTORY OF THEATRICAL ART IN ANCIENT AND MODERN TIMES. Five volumes

McCLEOD, Addison PLAYS AND PLAYERS IN MODERN ITALY

McEWEN, E. J. FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA

MATTHEWS, Brander ON ACTING

MODERWELL, Hiram Kelly THE THEATRE OF TO-DAY

MONTAGUE, C. E. DRAMATIC VALUES

MORSE, Elizabeth PRINCIPLES OF EXPRESSION: A Guide for Developing Readers, Speakers and Dramatic Artists

NICHOLSON, Watson THE STRUGGLE FOR A FREE STAGE IN LONDON

PALMER, John THE FUTURE OF THE THEATRE COMEDY THE CENSOR AND THE THEATRE

PHELPS, William Lyon THE TWENTIETH CENTURY THEATRE

POLLAK, Gustav FRANZ GRILLPARZAR AND THE AUSTRIAN DRAMA

POLTI, George. Translated by Lucille Ray THE THIRTY-SIX DRAMATIC SITUATIONS

PRICE, W. T. TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA ANALYSIS OF PLAY CONSTRUCTION AND DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE THE PHILOSOPHY OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE AND METHOD

RENNERT, Hugo A. THE SPANISH STAGE

RILEY, Alice C. D. THE ONE-ACT PLAY. A Study Course in Three Parts

ROUCHE, Jacques L'ART THEATRAL MODERNE

SACHS, Edward O. STAGE CONSTRUCTION

SAYLER, Oliver M. THE RUSSIAN THEATRE UNDER THE REVOLUTION

SEPET, Marius ORIGINES CATHOLIQUES DE THEATRE MODERNE

SHAW, George Bernard DRAMATIC OPINIONS AND ESSAYS

SHAY, Frank THE PLAYS AND BOOKS OF THE LITTLE THEATRE. A Listing of Over 1000 One-Act Plays Available in Printed Form

SMITH, Winifred THE COMMEDIA DELL'ARTE. A Study of Italian Popular Comedy

STOPES, Marie C. THE PLAYS OF OLD JAPAN. The No.

TAYLOR, Emerson PRACTICAL STAGE DIRECTING FOR AMATEURS

THEATRICAL SCENE PAINTING: A Thorough and Complete Work on How to Sketch, Paint and Install Theatrical Scenery

THE TRUTH ABOUT THE THEATRE

TURRELL, Charles A. CONTEMPORARY SPANISH DRAMATISTS

WAUGH, Frank A. OUTDOOR THEATRES

WITKOWSKI, George. Translated by L. E. Horning THE GERMAN DRAMA OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY

WOODBRIDGE, Elizabeth THE DRAMA. Its Law and Technique

* * * * *

THE PLAYS OF THE LITTLE THEATRE

ABBREVIATIONS

a--Allegory c--Comedy d--Drama m--Masque p--Play s--Satire m--Men, or Male Characters w--Women, or Female Characters j--Juvenile i--Characters played by either sex

ABERCROMBIE, Lascelles THE ADDER

AKINS, Zoe DID IT REALLY HAPPEN? THE MAGICAL CITY SUCH A CHARMING YOUNG MAN

ALDRICH, Thos. Bailey SISTERS' TRAGEDY CORYDON, a Pastoral. 2m PAULINE PAVLOVNA. p. 1m 1w supers _Houghton_

ALDIS, Mary PLAYS FOR SMALL STAGES MRS. PAT AND THE LAW. p 2m 2w 1j THE DRAMA CLASS AT TANKAHA, NEV. c 2m 9w EXTREME UNCTION. d 1m 4w THE LETTER. p 2m 1j TEMPERAMENT. t 1m 2w Five plays in one volume _Duffield_

ANCEY, Georges. See "Four Plays for the Free Theatre."

ANDREWS, K. AMERICA PASSES BY. p 2m 2w _Baker_

ANDREYEV, Leonid LOVE OF ONE'S NEIGHBOR. s 15m 7w 1j _Shay_

D'ANNUNZIO, Gabriele DREAM OF AN AUTUMN SUNSET. p 2m 4w _Poet Lore_ DREAM OF A SPRING MORNING. p 3m 4w _Poet Lore_

ARISTOPHANES LYSISTRATA. s 4m 5w 1j _French_

ARKELL, Reginald COLUMBINE, a fantasy. 4m 1w _S. & J._

AUGIER, Emile THE POSTSCRIPT. c 1m 2w _French_

AUGIER, Emile, and de MUSSET, Alfred THE GREEN COAT. c 3m 1w _French_

AUSTEN, Alfred A LESSON IN HARMONY. p 3m 1w _French_

BACON, Mrs. Josephine Dodge THE TWILIGHT OF THE GODS. p 2 scenes _Kennerley_

BAKER, Elizabeth MISS TASSY. p _Sidgwick_

BALLARD, J. Fred THE GOOD NEWS. d 3m 1w 1j _Harvard_

BANGS, John Kendrick THE REAL THING, etc. THE REAL THING. c 2m 5w THE BARRINGTONS' "AT HOME." c 2m 3w THE RETURN OF CHRISTMAS. c 4m 3w THE SIDE SHOW. c 8m 3w Four plays in one volume _Harpers_ THE BICYCLERS, etc. THE BICYCLERS. c 4m 3w A DRAMATIC EVENING. c 4m 3w THE FATAL MESSAGE. c 5m 4w A PROPOSAL UNDER DIFFICULTIES. c 3m 2w Four plays in one volume _Harpers_

BANNING, Kendall "Copy." p 7m _Clinic_

DE BANVILLE, Theodore GRINGOIRE. c 4m 2w supers _Poet Lore_ GRINGOIRE. c 4m 2w _Dramatic_ CHARMING LEANDRE. c 2m 1w _French_

BARBER, M. E. MECHANICAL JANE. c 3W _French_

BARGATE, John THE PRIZE. p 4m 3w _French_

BARKER, Granville ROCOCO. f m w VOTE BY BALLOT. p m w FAREWELL TO THE THEATRE. p m w Three plays in one volume _Little_ ANATOL. (_See_ Schnitzler.)

BARRIE, James M. HALF HOURS PANTALOON. p 3m THE TWELVE POUND LOOK. c 2m 2w ROSALIND. p 1m 2w THE WILL. p 6m 1w Four plays in one vol. _Scribner's_ THE TRAGIC MAN _Scribner's_ ECHOES OF WAR OLD LADY SHOWS HER MEDALS. p 1m 5w THE NEW WORLD. p 2m 2w BARBARA'S WEDDING. p 3m 1w A WELL-REMEMBERED VOICE. p 2m 2w Four plays in one vol. _Scribner's_

BATES, W. O. POLLY OF POGUE'S RUN. p 6m 2w _Shay_

BEACH, Lewis THE CLOD. p 4m 1w _Shay_ BROTHERS. p 3m _Shay_ A GUEST FOR DINNER _Shay_

BECHHOFER, C. E. FIVE RUSSIAN PLAYS, etc. EVREINOV, N. A MERRY DEATH. c 5m EVREINOV, N. THE BEAUTIFUL DESPOT. c 5m 3w 1j VON VIZIN, D. THE CHOICE OF A TUTOR. c 5m 3w CHEKOV, A. THE WEDDING. c 9m 3w CHEKOV, A. THE JUBILEE. c 5m 1w UKRAINKA, L. THE BABYLONIAN CAPTIVITY. d 1m 7i Six plays in one vol. _Dutton_

BECQUE, Henri THE VULTURES, etc. THE MERRY-GO-ROUND. c 4m 1w _Little_

BELL, Mrs. Hugh, and CECIL, A. TIME IS MONEY. c 1m 2w _French_

BELMONT, Mrs. O. H. P., and MAXWELL, Elsa MELINDA AND HER SISTERS. p 6m 12w _Shores_

BEITH, Ian Hay THE CRIMSON COCOANUT, etc. THE CRIMSON COCOANUT. c 4m 2w A LATE DELIVERY. p 3m 2w THE MISSING CARD. c 2m 2w Three plays in one vol. _Baker_ QUEEN OF HEARTS. c 2m 2w _Penn_

BENEDIX, Roderich THE LAW OF SUIT. c 5m _French_ THE THIRD MAN. c 1m 3w _French_

BENEVENTE, Jacinto. PLAYS HIS WIDOW'S HUSBAND. c 2m 5w With other plays in one vol. _Scribner_ THE SMILE OF THE MONA LISA. p 5m 1i _Badger_ NO SMOKING. c 2m 2w _Drama_, _Feb._, 1917 IN THE PLACE OF DON JUAN. p 3m 2w _Poet Lore_

BENNETT, Arnold. POLITE FARCES THE STEPMOTHER. c 2m 1w A GOOD WOMAN. 3 cm 1w A QUESTION OF SEX. c 2m 2w Three plays in one volume _Doran_

BERINGER, Mrs. Oscar HOLLY TREE INN. p 4m 3w _French_

BERNARD, Tristan FRENCH WITHOUT A MASTER. c 5m 2w _French_ I'M GOING! c 1m 1w _French_

BIRO, Lajos THE BRIDEGROOM. p 5m 6w THE GRANDMOTHER. p 3m 8w Two plays in one number _Drama_, _May_, 1918

BLOCH, Bertram THE MAIDEN OVER THE WALL. f 2m 1w _Drama_, _Aug._, 1918 MORALS AND CIRCUMSTANCES. p 2m 3w _Smart Set_, _April_, 1919

BODENHEIM, Maxwell THE WANDERER. p 4m 2w _Seven Arts_ THE MASTER POISONER. "In Minna and Myself" _Pagan_

BONE, F. D. A DAUGHTER OF JAPAN. d _French_ PRIDE OF THE REGIMENT. p 2m 1w _French_

BOTTOMLEY, Gordon LAODICE AND DANAE. p 1m 5w _Four_ KING LEAR'S WIFE. p _Reynolds_

BOUCHOR, Maurice A CHRISTMAS TALE. p 2m 2w _French_

BOUCICAULT, Dion MY LITTLE GIRL. d 3m 2w _French_ LOVER BY PROXY. c 6m 4w _French_

BOYCE, Neith, and HAPGOOD, Hutchins ENEMIES. p 1m 1w _Shay_

BOYCE, Neith THE TWO SONS. p 2m 2w _Shay_

BRAGDON, Claude THE GIFT OF ASIA. p 2m _Forum_, _March_, 1913

BRANCH, Anna Hempstead THE ROSE OF THE WIND. p 2m 2w _Houghton_ SHOES THAT DANCED. p 3m 5w 1j _Houghton_

BRETHERTON, Evangeline THE MINISTER'S MESSENGER. p 14w _French_

BRIDGHAM, G. R. EXCUSE ME! c Two acts. 4m 6w _Baker_ A MODERN CINDERELLA. Two acts. p 16w _Baker_

BRIEUX, Eugene SCHOOL FOR MOTHERS-IN-LAW. p 2m 4w _Smart Set_, _Sept._, 1913

BRIGHOUSE, Harold SCARING OFF OF TEDDY DAWSON. c 2m 2w _French_ LONESOME-LIKE. p 2m 2w _Phillips_ THE PRICE OF COAL. p THE MAID OF FRANCE. p 3m 2w _Phillips_ THE DOORWAY. p _Joseph Williams_ SPRING IN BLOOMSBURY. p _Joseph Williams_

BRIGGS, Caroline ONE A DAY. c 5m _Shay_ In "Morningside Plays."

BROOKE, Rupert LITHUANIA. d 5m 2w _Chicago_

BROWN, Alice JOINT OWNERS IN SPAIN. c 4w _Baker_ THE LOVING CUP. p 4m 9w _Baker_

BROWNE, Maurice KING OF THE JEWS. p _Drama_, _Vol._ 6, 1916

BROWNING, Robert IN A BALCONY. p 1m 2w _Dramatic_

BRUNNER, Emma Beatrice. BITS OF BACKGROUND OVER AGE. p 1m 4w SPARK OF LIFE. p 2m 2w STRANGERS. p 2m 1w MAKING A MAN. p 2m 2w Four plays in one volume _Knopf_

BRYANT, E. M. THE PEACEMAKER. c 2m 3w _French_

BRYANT, Louise THE GAME. p 2m 2w _Shay_

BUCK, Gertrude MOTHER-LOVE. p 1m 3w _Drama_, _Feb._, 1919

BUNNER, H. C. COURTSHIP WITH VARIATIONS. c 1m 1w _Werner_

BUNNER, H. C., and MAGNUS, J. A BAD CASE. c 1m 3w _Baker_

BUSHIDO. _See_ IZUMO (TAKEDA)

BUTLER, Ellis Parker THE REVOLT. p 8w _French_

BYNNER, Witter THE LITTLE KING. p 3m 1w 1j _Kennerley_ TIGER. d 2m 3w _Kennerley_

DECAULAVET, G. A. CHOOSING A CAREER. c _French_

CALDERON, George THE LITTLE STONE HOUSE. p _Sidgwick_

CAMERON, Margaret. COMEDIES IN MINIATURE MISS DOULTON'S ORCHIDS. c 3m 3w THE BURGLAR. c 5w THE KLEPTOMANIAC. c 7w THE PIPE OF PEACE. c 1m 2w A CHRISTMAS CHIME. c 2m 2w COMMITTEE ON MATRIMONY. c 1m 1w HER NEIGHBOR'S CREED and FOUR MONOLOGUES. c 1m 1w Seven plays in one vol. _Doubleday_ PIPER'S PAY. c 7w French THE TEETH OF THE GIFT HORSE. c 2m 3w _French_ THE WHITE ELEPHANT. c 2m 3w _French_ Published separately _French_

CAMPBELL, M. D. A CHINESE DUMMY. c 6w _Baker_

CANNAN, Gilbert. FOUR PLAYS JAMES AND JOHN. p 3m 1w MILES DIXON. Two acts, p 3m 2w MARY'S WEDDING. p 2m 3w SHORT WAY WITH AUTHORS. p 7m 1w Four plays in one volume _Phillips_ EVERYBODY'S HUSBAND. p 1m 5w _Huebsch_

CAPUS, Alfred MY TAILOR. c 1m 2w _Smart Set_, _Feb._, 1918

CARMAN, Bliss, and KING, Mary. EARTH DEITIES, etc. THE DANCE DIURNAL. m 2m 3w i EARTH DEITIES. m 1m 10w i CHILDREN OF THE WAR. m 1m 1w 24j PAS DE TROIS. m 3m 1w Four masques in one vol. _Kennerley_

CARTER, Josephine Howell HILARION. c 2m 2w _Poet Lore_, _Summer_, 1915

CARTHEW, L. THE AMERICAN IDEA. p 3m 2w _Baker_

CARTON, R. C. THE NINTH WALTZ. c 1m 1w _French_

CHAMBERS, C. Haddon OPEN GATE. d 2m 2w _French_

CHATTERJI, Tapanmohan THE LIGHT-BEARER. d 4m _Drama_, _Aug._, 1918

CHURCH, Virginia PIERROT BY THE LIGHT OF THE MOON. f 2m 3w _Drama_, _Feb._, 1919

CLEMENTS, Colin C., and SAUNDERS, John M. LOVE IN A FRENCH KITCHEN, a Mediaeval Farce. 1m 2w _Poet Lore_

CLARK, Barrett H. FOUR PLAYS FOR THE FREE THEATRE DECUREL, F. THE FOSSILS. Four acts p 6m 4w JULIAN, J. THE SERENADE. Three acts. p 7m 6w PORTO-RICHE, G. FRANCOISE'S LUCK. c 3m 2w ANCEY, G. THE DUPE. c 1m 2w Four plays in one volume _Stewart_

COLQUHON, Donald. _See_ REPERTORY PLAYS CONFEDERATES. d 4m 1w _French_

CONWAY, Ed. Harold THE WINDY SHOT. p 5m _Smart Set_, _April_, 1915

CONRAD, Joseph ONE DAY MORE. d 4m 1w _Smart Set_, _Feb._, 1914

CONVERSE, Florence THE BLESSED BIRTHDAY. A Christmas Miracle Play. 19 Characters _Dutton_

COOLIDGE, H. D. DEAD RECKONING. p 2m 1w _Baker_

COPPEE, Francois THE VIOLIN MAKER OF CREMONA. c 3m 1w supers _Dramatic_ PATER NOSTER. p 3m 3w _French_

COURTLELINE, Georges THE PITILESS POLICEMAN. c 3m _Poet Lore_ BLANK CARTRIDGE. p 1m 1w _International_, _July_, 1914 PEACE AT HOME. c 1m 1w _International_, _Dec._, 1913 PEACE AT HOME. c 1m 1w _Poet Lore_

COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. _See_ PRESBERY, E.

COWAN, Sada THE STATE FORBIDS. d 1m 2w 2j _Kennerley_ IN THE MORGUE. _Forum_, _April_, 1916 SINTRAM OF SKAGERRAK. p 1m 1w In Mayorga's "Representative One-Act Plays" _Little_

CRAIG, Marion Wentworth WAR BRIDES. d 3m 4w _Century_

CRANDALL, Irene Jean BEYOND THE GATE. Two acts. p 7m 2w _French_

CRANE, Mabel H. THE GIRLS. p 9w _French_

CROTHERS, Rachel THE RECTOR. p 1m 6w _French_

DANE, Essex FLEURETTE & CO. p 2w _French_ WRONG NUMBERS. c 3w _French_

DANGERFIELD, Trelawney OLD STUFF. p 1m 2w _Smart Set_, _June_, 1917

DARGAN, Olive Tilford. LORDS AND LOVERS LORDS AND LOVERS. p 18m 4w _Scribner_ WOODS OF IDA. m _Century_, _August_, 1907

DAVIS, Richard Harding MISS CIVILIZATION. c 4m 1w _French_ PEACE MANOEUVERS. p 2m 1w _French_ THE ZONE POLICE. p 4m _French_ ORATOR OF ZAPATA CITY. p 8m 1w _Dramatic_

DAVIES, Mary Carolyn SLAVE WITH TWO FACES. a 3m 4w _Arens_

DAVIS, Robert H. ROOM WITHOUT A NUMBER. c 3m 1w _Smart Set_, _April_, 1917

DAVIS, Robert H., and SHEEHAN, P. P. EFFICIENCY. d 3m _Doran_

DELL, Floyd A LONG TIME AGO. f _Forum_, 1917 KING ARTHUR'S SOCKS. c 1m 3w _Shay_ THE ANGEL INTRUDES. c 3m 1w _Arens_

DELAND, Margaret Dramatized by M. B. Vosburgh from "Old Chester Tales" MISS MARIA. c 2m 3w _French_

DEMUTH, Charles THE AZURE ADDER. s 3m 4w _Shay_

DENISON, Emily H. THE LITTLE MOTHER OF THE SLUMS Seven one-act plays _Badger_

DENTON, Clara J. TO MEET MR. THOMPSON. c 8w _Baker_

DEPUE, Elva HATTIE. p 2m 3w _Shay_ In "Morningside Plays"

DICKENS, Charles BROWNE, H. B. Short Plays from Dickens. Contains 20 dramatized sketches from the work of Charles Dickens _Scribner_ BARDELL VS. PICKWICK. c 6m 2w _Baker_ A CHRISTMAS CAROL. p 6m 3w _Baker_

DICKINSON, C. H., and GRIFFITHS, Arthur THE RIFT WITHIN THE LUTE. p 4m 1w _French_

DIX, Beulah Marie THE GLORIOUS GAME. d 6w _A.S.P.L._ THE ENEMY. d 5m _A.S.P.L._ CLEMENCY. d 3m 1w _A.S.P.L._ LEGEND OF ST. NICHOLAS. d _Poet Lore_ ALLISON'S LAD AND OTHER PLAYS ALLISON'S LAD. d 6m THE HUNDREDTH TRICK. d 4m THE WEAKEST LINK. d 4m THE SNARE AND THE FOWLER. d 3m THE CAPTAIN OF THE GATE. d 6m THE DARK OF THE DAWN. d 4m Six plays in one volume _Holt_

DONNAY, Maurice THE GIMLET. c 1m 1w _Stratford_, _Dec._, 1918

DORAN, Marie THE GIRLS OVER HERE. p 8w _French_

DOREY, J. Milnor UNDER CONVICTION. d 2m 2w _Drama_, _Feb._, 1919

DOWSON, Ernest PIERROT OF THE MINUTE. f 1m 1w _Baker_

DOWN, Oliphant THE MAKER OF DREAMS. f 2m 1w _Phillips_ THE QUOD WRANGLE. c 5m 1w _French_

DOYLE, A. C. WATERLOO. p 3m 1w _French_ A DUET. c 3m 1w _French_

DRACHMAN, Holgar "RENAISSANCE." d 6m 2w _Poet Lore_

DRAKE, Frank C. THE ROSEBERRY SHRUB. p 1m 3w _French_

DREISER, Theodore PLAYS OF THE NATURAL AND SUPERNATURAL THE GIRL IN THE COFFIN. p 4m 3w THE BLUE SPHERE. f 4m 2w 2j LAUGHING GAS. f 6m 2w IN THE DARK. f 11m 4w THE SPRING RECITAL. f 9m 9w LIGHT IN THE WINDOW. f 9m 7w OLD RAGPICKER. f 4m 1w Seven plays in one volume _Lane_

DREW, Sylvan THE NEW PYGMALION AND GALATEA. c 3m 6w _French_

DREYFUS, A. THE SILENT SYSTEM. c 1m 1w _Baker_

DRISCOLL, Louise THE POOR HOUSE. p 2m 2w _Drama_, _Aug._, 1917 THE CHILD OF GOD. p 2m 3w _Seven Arts_, _Nov._, 1916

DUNSANY, Lord. FIVE PLAYS THE GODS OF THE MOUNTAIN. p 10i THE GOLDEN DOOM. p 11m 1w THE GLITTERING GATE. c 2m KING ARGIMENES. p 10m 4w THE LOST SILK HAT. c 5m Five plays in one volume _Little_ PLAYS OF GODS AND MEN A NIGHT AT AN INN. p 8m THE QUEEN'S ENEMIES. p 9m 2w THE TENTS OF THE ARABS. p 6m THE LAUGHTER OF THE GODS. p 9m 4w Three acts Four plays in one volume _Luce_ THE MURDERESS. In prep. FAME AND THE POET. c 2m 1w _Atlantic_, _Aug._, 1919

DYMOW, Ossip NJU. t 6m 3w 2j _Knopf_

EARLE, Dorothy Kirchner YOU'RE SUCH A RESPECTABLE PERSON, MISS MORRISON. c 3m 2w _Smart Set_, _Aug._, 1915

EBNER-ESCHENBACH, Marie von A MAN OF THE WORLD. p 3m _Poet Lore_

ECHEGARAY, Jose THE STREET SINGER. p 2m 2w _Drama_, _Feb._, 1917 MADMAN OR SAINT. p 7m 4w _Poet Lore_

EDGERTON, Lady Alex. MASQUE OF THE TWO STRANGERS _Gowans_

ELDRIDGE, Paul THE JEST. p 4m 2w _Stratford_, _July_, 1918

ELKINS, Felton B. THREE TREMENDOUS TRIFLES THE BELGIAN BABY. c 2m 2w THE QUICK AND THE DEAD. c 5m 1w FIGURATIVELY SPEAKING. c 3m 2w Three plays in one volume _Duffield_

ELLIS, Mrs. Havelock. LOVE IN DANGER THE SUBJECTION OF KEZIA. p 2m 1w THE PIXY. p 3m THE MOTHERS. p 1m 2w Three plays in one vol. _Houghton_

ENANDER, Hilma L. IN THE LIGHT OF THE STONE. p 3m 1w THE MAN WHO DID NOT UNDERSTAND. p 1m 2w ON THE TRAIL. p 4m 1w Three plays in one volume _Badger_

ERVINE, St. John. Four Irish Plays THE MAGNANIMOUS LOVER THE CRITICS MIXED MARRIAGE THE ORANGE MAN Four plays in one vol. _Macmillan_

ESKIL, Ragna IN THE TRENCHES OVER THERE. c 10m 6w _Dramatic_

ESMOND, H. V. HER VOTE. c 1m 2w _French_

ESTERBROOK, Anne L. THE CHRISTENING ROBE. p 1m 3w _Baker_

EURIPIDES ALKESTIS. Nine characters _Baker_ ELECTRA. Nine characters THE FROGS. Twelve characters IPHIGENIA IN TAURUS. Seven characters Translated by Gilbert Murray Allen

EVANS, Florence Wilkinson. THE RIDE HOME THE MARRIAGE OF GUINETH. p 7m 3w _Houghton_

EVREINOV, Nicholas THEATRE OF THE SOUL. f 5m 4w _Henderson_ A MERRY DEATH. c 5m THE BEAUTIFUL DESPOT. c 5m 3w 1j Two plays; in Bechofer: Five Russian Plays

FAYDON, Nita THE GREAT LOOK. c 2m 2w _French_

FENN, Frederick THE NELSON TOUCH. c 2m 2w _French_ CONVICT ON THE HEARTH. c 6m 5w _French_

FERGUSON, J. A. CAMPBELL OF KILMHOR. p 4m 2w _Phillips_

FERRIER, Paul THE CODICIL. c 3m 1w _Poet Lore_

FERRIS, E., and STUART, A. NICOLETE. p 2m 2w _French_

FEUILLET, Octave THE FAIRY. c 3m 1w _French_ THE VILLAGE. c 2m 2w _French_

FIELD, Rachel L. RISE UP, JENNIE SMITH.

FILLMORE, J. E. "WAR." p 2m 1w _Poet Lore_

FITZMAURICE, George MAGIC GLASSES. p 3m 3w THE PIEDISH. p 4m 2w 3j THE DANDY DOLLS. p 4m 2w 3j With two long plays in one volume _Little_

FLANNER, Hildegarde MANSIONS. p 1m 2w _Stewart_

FLANNER, Mary H. THE CHRISTMAS BURGLAR. p 3m 1w _French_

FLEXNER, Hortense VOICES. p 2w _Seven Arts_, _Dec._, 1916

FLORIAN, J. P. THE TWINS OF BERGAMO. p 2m 2w _Drama_, _Aug._, 1918

FLYING STAG PLAYS. Arens, 1917-19 CRONYN, G. THE SANDBAR QUEEN. d 6m 1w OPPENHEIM, J. NIGHT. d 4m 1w DELL, F. THE ANGEL INTRUDES. c 3m 1w HELBURN, T. ENTER THE HERO. c 1m 3w MOELLER, P. TWO BLIND BEGGARS AND ONE LESS BLIND. p 3m 1w O'BRIEN, S. BLIND. c 3m DAVIES, M. C. THE SLAVE WITH TWO FACES. a 3m 4w KEMP, H. THE PRODIGAL SON. c 3m 2w ROSTETTER, ALICE. THE WIDOW'S VEIL.

FRANCE, Anatole THE MAN WHO MARRIED A DUMB WIFE. Two acts. c 14m 4w _Lane_ CRAINQUEBILLE. Three scenes. p 12m 6w _French_

FRANK, Florence Kiper JAEL. _Chicago_ CINDERELLINE. p 1m 4w _Dramatic_ THE GARDEN. p 3m 3w _Drama_, _Nov._, 1918

FREDERICK, John T. THE HUNTER. p 2m 1w _Stratford_, _Sept._, 1917

FREYBE, C. E. IN GARRISON. p 5m _Poet Lore_

FROOME, John Redhead LISTENING. p 3w _Poet Lore_ MRS. MAINWARING'S MANAGEMENT. Two acts. c _French_ BILLY AND THE DIRECTING FATES. Two acts. p 3m _Dramatic_

FRY, Horace B. LITTLE ITALY. d 2m 1w 1j _Dramatic_

FULDA, Ludwig BY OURSELVES. c 3m 2w _Badger_

FURNISS, Grace L. A DAKOTA WIDOW. c 1m 2w _French_ PERHAPS. c 2m 1w _French_

GALBRAITH, Esther THE BRINK OF SILENCE. p 4m In Mayorga's "Representative One-Act Plays" _Little_

GALLON, Tom, and LION, L. M. MAN WHO STOLE THE CASTLE. p 4m 2w _French_

GALSWORTHY, John. THE LITTLE MAN, etc. THE LITTLE MAN. s 5m 2w HALLMARKED. s 3m 3w Two plays in one volume _Scribner_ THE LITTLE DREAM. An allegory in six scenes _Scribner_

GARLAND, Robert AT NIGHT ALL CATS ARE GRAY. p 3m 1w _Smart Set_, _March_, 1916 THE DOUBLE MIRACLE. p 4m 1w _Forum_, _April_, 1915

GERSTENBERG, Alice OVERTONES. _See_ "Washington Square Plays." BYOND. p 1w In Mayorga's "Representative One-Act Plays" _Little_

GIACOSA, Giuseppe. THE STRONGER, etc. SACRED GROUND. c 3m 1w _Little_ THE WAGER. c 4m 1w _French_ THE RIGHTS OF THE SOUL. p 2m 2w _Stratford_, _Feb._, 1918

GIBSON, Preston S.O.S. p 8m 2w _French_ DERELICTS. p 2w _French_ SUICIDES. p 2m _French_ THE SECRET WAY. p 3m _French_ THE VACUUM. p 2m 1w _French_ CUPID'S TRICKS. c 3m 2w _French_

GIBSON, Wilfred Wilson WOMENKIND. d 2m 3w _Macmillan_ The following volumes of Mr. Gibson's are replete with short, intensely dramatic sketches of English labor folk. DAILY BREAD. _Macmillan_ BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES. _Macmillan_ FIRES. _Macmillan_

GILBERT, W. S. SWEETHEARTS. Two acts. c 2m 2w _French_ ROSENCRANTZ AND GUILDENSTERN. c 5m 3w _French_ COMEDY AND TRAGEDY. d 14m 2w _French_

GLASPELL, Susan TRIFLES. p 3m 2w THE PEOPLE. p 10m 2w CLOSE THE BOOK. c 3m 5w THE OUTSIDE. p 3m 2w WOMAN'S HONOR. c 3m 6w BERNICE (3 Acts). p 2m 3w SUPPRESSED DESIRES. c 1m 2w TICKLESS TIME. c 2m 4w In One Vol. _Small_

GLICK, Carl OUTCLASSED. c 4m 2w _Smart Set_, _Sept._, 1918

GLICK, C., and HIGHT, M. THE POLICE MATRON. d 3m 2w _Baker_

GOLDBERG, Isaac THE BETTER SON. p 2m 1w _Stratford_, _Oct._, 1918

GOODMAN, Kenneth Sawyer BACK OF THE YARDS. d 3m 2w _Shay_ DUST OF THE ROAD. d 4m 4w _Shay_ EPHRAIM AND THE WINGED BEAR. c 4m 3w _Shay_ GAME OF CHESS. d 4m _Shay_ BARBARA. p 2m 1w _Shay_ DANCING DOLLS. p 4m 7w _Shay_ A MAN CAN ONLY DO HIS BEST. c 6m 2w _Shay_

GOODMAN, K. S. THE GREEN SCARF. c 1m 1w _Shay_

GOODMAN, K. S., and HECHT, Ben THE HERO OF SANTA MARIA. c 4m 1w _Shay_ THE WONDER HAT. f 3m 2w _Shay_

GOODMAN, K. S., and STEVENS, T. W. HOLBEIN IN BLACKFRIARS. c 6m 2w _Shay_ RYLAND. c 5m 2w _Shay_ REINALD AND THE RED WOLF. m _Shay_ CAESAR'S GODS. m _Shay_ THE DAIMIO'S HEAD. m _Shay_ THE MASQUE OF QUETZAL'S BOWL. m _Shay_ MASQUE OF MONTEZUMA. m _Shay_

GORDON, Leon. Three Plays _Four Seas_

GOULD, Felix. THE MARSH MAIDEN, etc. THE MARSH MAIDEN. p 2m 2w supers THE STRANGER. p 3m 2w IN THE MARSHES. p 1w Three plays in one vol. _Four Seas_

DE GOURMONT, Remy THEODAT. p 7m 1w THE OLD KING. p 3m 3w Two plays in one number _Drama_, _May_, 1916

GRAHAM, Bertha M. SPOILING THE BROTH, etc. SPOILING THE BROTH. c 2m 2w THE LAND OF THE FREE. p 2m 3w OH, THE PRESS. c 1m 1w THE ROSE WITH A THORN. c 2m 2w TAFFY'S WIFE. p 2m 1w Five plays in one volume _Chapman & Hall_

GROSSMITH, Weedon COMMISSION. c 3m 2w _French_

GRAY, Eunice T. WINNING OF FUJI. c 3 scenes 3m 3w _Dramatic_

GREENE, Clay M. THE DISPENSATION. p 4m THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM. p 5m THROUGH CHRISTMAS BELLS. p 4m 1w AWAKENING OF BARBIZON. c 4m 1w Four plays in one volume _Doran_

GREGORY, Lady SPREADING THE NEWS. c 7m 3w HYACINTH HALVEY. c 3m 3w RISING OF THE MOON. c 4m THE JACKDAW. c 4m 2w THE WORKHOUSE WARD. c 2m 1w THE TRAVELING MAN. p 1m 2w THE _GAOL_ GATE. p 1m 2w Seven plays in one volume _Luce_ THE IMAGE. Three acts. p 5m 2w _Maunsel_ GRANIA. Three acts. p 4m 1w KINCORA. Three acts. p 8m 3w DERVORGILLA. p 3m 3w Three plays in one volume _Putnam_ THE CANAVANS. Three acts. p 3m 2w THE WHITE COCKADE. Three acts. p 10m 2w THE DELIVERERS. p 6m 3w Three plays in one volume _Putnam_ THE BOGIE MAN. c 2m THE FULL MOON. c 2m COATS. c 4m 1w DAMER'S GOLD. c 4m 1w MCDONOUGH'S WIFE. c 1m 2w Five plays in one volume _Putnam_

GREGORY, Lady, and YEATS, Wm. B. THE UNICORN FROM THE STARS. _Macmillan_

GUIMERA, Angel THE OLD QUEEN. p 7m 7w _Poet Lore_

GYALUI, Wolfgang AFTER THE HONEYMOON. c 1m 1w _French_

GYP THE LITTLE BLUE GUINEA-HEN. c 5m 4w _Poet Lore_

HAGEDORN, Herman MAKERS OF MADNESS. Five scenes. d 14m supers _Macmillan_ HORSE THIEVES. c 4m 2w _Harvard_ HEART OF YOUTH. _Macmillan_

HALE, Louise Closser THE OTHER WOMAN. p 2w _Smart Set_, _June_, 1911 PASTE CUT PASTE. p 3w _Smart Set_, _Jan._, 1912

HALMAN, Doris WILL 'O THE WISP. p 4w In Mayorga's "Representative One-Act Plays" _Little_

HALSEY, Forrest THE EMPTY LAMP. p 1m 1w 1j _Smart Set_, _May_, 1911

HAMILTON, Cicely JACK AND JILL AND A FRIEND. Two scenes. c 3m 1w _French_

HAMILTON, C., and ST. JOHN, Christopher HOW THE VOTE WAS WON. c 2m 8w _Dramatic_

HAMILTON, Cosmo. Short plays for small stages ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER. c 1m 2w SOLDIER'S DAUGHTERS. c 3w TOLLER'S WIFE. c 4m 1w WHY CUPID CAME TO EARL'S COURT. c 3m 4w Four plays in one vol. _Skeffington_ JERRY AND A SUNBEAM. c 1m 1w _French_ AUBREY CLOSES THE DOOR. c 3m 1w _French_

HANKIN, St. John THE CONSTANT LOVER. p 1m 1w Vol. III. No. 2 _Theatre Arts_

HARE, W. B. ISOSCELES. p 2m 1w _Baker_

HARVARD PLAYS. THE 47 WORKSHOP FIELD, R. L. THREE PILLS IN A BOTTLE. f 5m 3w OSBORNE, H. THE GOOD MEN DO. c 3m 5w PILLOT, E. TWO CROOKS AND A LADY. p 3m 3w PROSSER, W. FREE SPEECH. c 7m Four plays in one vol. _Brentano_ THE HARVARD DRAMATIC CLUB HAWKBRIDGE, W. THE FLORIST SHOP. c 3m 2w BROCK, H. THE BANK ACCOUNT. p 1m 2w SMITH, R. C. THE RESCUE. p 3w ANDREWS, K. AMERICA PASSES BY. p 2m 2w Four plays in one volume _Brentano_ THE HARVARD DRAMATIC CLUB. 2nd Series BRAY, L. W. HARBOR OF LOST SHIPS. p 3m 1w BATES, E. W. GARAFELIA'S HUSBAND. p 4m 1w BISHOP, F. SCALES AND THE SWORD. d 6m 1w KINKEAD, C. THE FOUR FLUSHERS. c 4m 1w Four plays in one vol. _Brentano_

HASLETT, H. H. DOLORES OF THE SIERRA, etc. DOLORES OF THE SIERRA. p 1m 1w THE SCOOP. p 2m 1w UNDERCURRENTS. p 4m 2w A MODERN MENACE. c 3m 1w 1j THE INVENTOR. p 2m 1w WHEN LOVE IS BLIND. c 1m 1w Six plays in one volume _Elder_

HASTINGS, Basil McDonald TWICE ONE. p 2m 2w _Smart Set_, _Jan._, 1913

HAUPTMANN, Gerhart THE ASSUMPTION OF HANNELLE. Two parts. p 7m 3w _Poet Lore_

HAWKRIDGE, Winifred THE PRICE OF ORCHIDS. c 4m 2w _Smart Set_, _Oct._, 1915

HAY, Ian. _See_ BEITH, Ian Hay

HEAD, Cloyd GROTESQUES _Poetry_

HEIDENSTAM, Verner von. Translated by K. M. Knudsen THE SOOTHSAYER. In prep. _Four Seas_ THE BIRTH OF GOD. In prep. _Four Seas_

HENNIQUE, Leon DEATH OF THE DUC D'ENGHIEN. d Three scenes. 22m 2w _Poet Lore_

HENRY, R. NORAH. p 2m 1w _Dramatic_

HERTZ, H. Translated by T. Martin KING RENE'S DAUGHTER. d 6m 2w _Baker_

HERVIEU, Paul MODESTY. c 1m 2w _French_

HENSLOWE, Leonard PERFIDIOUS MARRIAGE. A HERO FOR A HUSBAND. PEOPLE FROM THE PAST. Three plays in one vol. _Stanley Paul_

HELLEM, Valcos, and D'ESTOC SABOTAGE. d 2m 2w 1j _Dramatist_

HICKS, Seymour NEW SUB. c 8m 1w _French_

HILBERT, Jaroslav WHOM THE GODS DESTROY. d 12m 1w _Poet Lore_

HOFFMAN, Phoebe MARTHA'S MOURNING. p 3w _Drama_, _Feb._, 1918

VON HOFMANNSTHAL, Hugo DEATH AND THE FOOL. d 4m 3w _Four Seas_ MADONNA DIANORA. _Four Seas_ THE DEATH OF TITIAN. In prep. _Four Seas_

HOGG, C. W. MIRROR OF TIME. c 1m 1w _French_

HOLLEY, Horace. Read aloud plays Nine short plays _Kennerley_ ELLEN. p 2w _Stratford_, _March_, 1917

HOLT, Florence Taber THEY THE CRUCIFIED. p 7m 2w COMRADES. p 7m 2w Two plays in one volume _Houghton_

HOME, Ian A DREAM ON CHRISTMAS EVE. 10j _French_

HOPKINS, Arthur MOONSHINE. p 2m Vol. III. No. 1 _Theatre Arts_

HOUGHTON, Stanley. Five one-act plays THE DEAR DEPARTED. c 3m 3w FANCY FREE. c 2m 2w MASTER OF THE HOUSE. p 4m 2w PHIPPS. c 2m 1w THE FIFTH COMMANDMENT. p 2m 2w Five plays in one volume _French_ THE DEAR DEPARTED. c 3m 3w _French_ FANCY FREE. c 2m 2w _French_

HOUSMAN, Lawrence AS GOOD AS GOLD. p 7m _French_ BIRD IN HAND. c _French_ A LIKELY STORY. c _French_ LORD OF THE HARVEST. p 6m 1w _French_ NAZARETH. I 13m 3w _French_ THE SNOW MAN. p 4m 3w _French_ RETURN OF ALCESTIS. p 15m 20w _French_

HOWARD, Bronson OLD LOVE LETTERS. c 1m 1w _French_

HOWARD, Homer H. THE CHILD IN THE HOUSE. p 2m 2w _French_

HOWARD, Keble COMPROMISING MARTHA. c 1m 3w _French_ DRAMATIST AT HOME. p 1m 1w _French_ COME MICHAELMAS. p 2m 4w _French_ MARTHA THE SOOTHSAYER. c 2m 3w _French_

HUDSON, Holland THE SHEPHERD IN THE DISTANCE. 10 characters _Stewart_

HUTCHINS, Will JEANNE D'ARC AT VAUCOULEURS. d 5m 3w _Poet Lore_

HYDE, Douglas THE TWISTING OF THE ROPE. c 2m 3w _Poet Lore_

IGLESIAS, Ignacio THE CEMETERY. p 2m 1w _Poet Lore_

INDIAN PLAYS. By Helen P. Kane YOT-CHE-KE, THE ERIE. p 5j _French_ YAGOWANEA. p 4m 1w _French_ CAPTURE OF OZAH. c 2m 2w _French_

IRVING, Laurence PHOENIX. p 2m 2w _French_

IZUMO, Takeda THE PINE TREE. d 4m 3w 4j _Duffield_ Sometimes called BUSHIDO, MATSUO, etc.

JACOBS, W. W., and HUBBARD, P. E. A LOVE PASSAGE. c 3m 1w _French_

JACOBS, W. W., and ROCK, Charles THE GHOST OF JERRY BUNDLER. p 7m _French_ GREY PARROT. p 4m 2w _French_

JACOBS, W. W., and MILLS, Horace ADMIRAL PETERS. c 2m 1w _French_

JACOBS, W. W., and PARKER, L. N. THE MONKEY'S PAW. d 4m 1w _French_

JACOBS, W. W., and SERGENT, H. THE CHANGELING. c 2m 1w _French_ BOATSWAIN'S MATE. p 2m 1w _French_ IN THE LIBRARY. c _French_

JAGENDORF, Moritz A BLUE MORNING GLORY. p 2m 1w _International_, _Mar._, 1914

JAKOBI, Paula THE CHINESE LILY. p 8w _Forum_, _Nov._, 1915

JAMACOIS, Eduardo. In "Contemporary Spanish Dramatists." THE PASSING OF THE MAGI. p 7m 5w _Badger_

JAPANESE PLAYS _See_ STOPES, MARIE C. IZUMO, TAKEDA POUND, EZRA, and FENOLLOSA, ERNEST NOGUCHI, YONE, TEN NOH DRAMAS

JENKS, Tudor DINNER AT SEVEN SHARP. c 5m 3w _Baker_

JENNINGS, E. M. MRS. OAKLEY'S TELEPHONE. c 4w _French_ DINNER AT THE CLUB. c 9w _French_ PRINZESSEN VON BARNHOF. c 8w _French_ TOM'S FIANCEE. Two acts. c 5w _French_

JENNINGS, Gertrude THE REST CURE. c 1m 4w BETWEEN THE SOUP AND THE SAVOURY. c 3w THE PROS AND CONS. c 1m 3w ACID DROPS. p 1m 6w Four plays in one volume _Sidgwick_ BETWEEN THE SOUP AND THE SAVOURY. c 3w _French_

JEROME, Jerome K. SUNSET. c 3m 4w _Dramatic_ BARBARA. d 2m 2w _French_ FENNEL. d 3m 1w _French_

JEX, John. Passion playlets VIOLET SOULS. s 3m 2w THE NEST. p 2m 3w MR. WILLOUGHBY CALLS. p 3m 1w THE UNNECESSARY ATOM. p 3m 1w Four plays in one volume _Cornhill_

JOHNS, Orrick SHADOW. p 3w _Others_

JOHNSON, Martyn MR. AND MRS. P. ROE. c 1m 3w _Chicago_

JONES, Henry Arthur. THE THEATRE OF IDEAS, etc. THE GOAL. 4m 2w HERR TONGUE. 3m 2w GRACE MARY. 6m 2w Three plays in one volume _Doran_ CLERICAL ERROR. c 3m 1w _French_ SWEET WILL. p 1m 4w _French_ DEACON. Two acts. c 2m 2w _French_ HARMONY. d 3m 1w _French_ BED OF ROSES. c 4m 2w _French_ ELOPEMENT. Two acts. c 4m 3w _French_ HEARTS OF OAK. Two acts. c 5m 2w _French_

KALLEN, Horace M. THE BOOK OF JOB. d _Moffatt Yard_

KAUFMAN, S. Jay KISS ES. c 2m 4w _Smart Set_, _Nov._, 1915

KEMP, Harry THE PRODIGAL SON. c 3m 2w _Arens_

KEMPER, S. MOTH BALLS. p 3w _Baker_

KENNEDY, Charles Rann THE TERRIBLE MEEK. p _Harper_ THE NECESSARY EVIL. p _Harper_

KEYES, N. W. RED-CAP. Two acts. p 5m 10w _Baker_

KILMER, Joyce SOME MISCHIEF STILL. c 4m 1w _Smart Set_, _Aug._, 1914

KING, Pendleton COACAINE. p 1m 1w _Shay_

KINGSBURY, Sara THE CHRISTMAS GUEST. p 1m 3w 1j _Drama_, _Nov._, 1918

KINGSLEY, Ellis THE OTHER WOMAN. d 2w _Baker_

KNOBLAUCH, Edward A WAR COMMITTEE. p LITTLE SILVER RING. p Two plays in one volume _French_

KNOWLTON, A. R. WHY, JESSICA! c 1m 9w _Baker_

KNOX, F. C. THE MATRIMONIAL FOG. d 3m 1w _Baker_

KRAFT, Irma THE POWER OF PURIN and other plays _Jewish Publication Soc._, 1915

KREYMBORG, Alfred SIX PLAYS FOR POEM-MIMES _Others_

LABICHE GRAMMAR. c 4m 1w _French_ THE TWO COWARDS. c 3m 2w _French_

LAIDLAW, A. H. CAPTAIN WALRUS. p 1m 2w _French_

LANGER, Lawrence ANOTHER WAY OUT. c 2m 2w _Shay_ THE BROKEN IMAGE. d 7m _Arens_ PATENT APPLIED FOR. c 3m 3w _Arens_ WEDDED. p _Little Review_, _No._ 8

LAVEDAN, Henri. Five little plays ALONG THE QUAYS. p 2m FOR EVER AND EVER. p 1m 1w WHERE SHALL WE GO? p 1m 6w THE AFTERNOON WALK. p 1m 4j NOT AT HOME. p 2m 3w Five plays in one number _Poet Lore_ TWO HUSBANDS. p 2m _Poet Lore_ SUNDAY ON SUNDAY GOES BY. p 3m _Poet Lore_

LAWS, Anna C. A TWICE TOLD TALE. p 1m 3w _Drama_, _Aug._, 1918

LEACOCK, Stephen, and HASTINGS, Basil "Q." Farce _French_

LEE, Charles MR. SAMPSON. c 1m 2w _Dent_

LEE, M. E. THE BLACK DEATH, or Ta un. A Persian Tragedy. 2m 2w _Poet Lore_

LEFUSE, M. AT THE "GOLDEN GOOSE." d 2m 2w _French_

LEHMAN, Adolph THE TONGMAN. p 5m 1w _Little Theatre_, _July_, 1917

LELAND, Robert de Camp PURPLE YOUTH. p 2m 1w _Four Seas_ BARBARIANS. p 6m _Poetry-Drama_

LENNOX, Cosmo THE IMPERTINENCE OF THE CREATURE. c 1m 1w _French_

LENT, Evangeline M. LOVE IN IDLENESS. c 1m 3w _French_

LESAGE CRISPIN, HIS MASTER'S RIVAL. c 4m 3w _French_

LESLIE, Noel. Three plays FOR KING AND COUNTRY. In prep. WASTE. THE WAR FLY. Three plays in one vol. _Four Seas_

LEVICK, Milnes WINGS IN THE MESH. p 3w _Smart Set_, _July_, 1919

LEVINGER, E. E. THE BURDEN. p 3m 1w _Baker_

LEWISOHN, Ludwig THE LIE. p 2m 2w _Smart Set_, _Dec._, 1913

LINCOLN, Florence A PIECE OF IVORY. p 3m 2w _Harvard_, _April_, 1911

LION, Leon M. THE TOUCH OF A CHILD. p _French_

LION, L. M., and HALL, W. S. THE MOBSWOMAN. d 2m 2w _French_

LITTLE THEATRE CLASSICS. Edited by SAMUEL A. ELIOT, JR. EURIPIDES: POLYXENA A CHRISTMAS MIRACLE PLAY MARLOWE: DOCTOR FAUSTUS BEAUMONT and FLETCHER: RICARDO and VIOLA SHERIDAN: THE SCHEMING LIEUTENANT Five plays in one volume _Little_

LITTLE THEATRE CLASSICS. Second Series ABRAHAM AND ISAAC MIDDLETON: THE LOATHED LOVER MOLIERE: SGANARELLE PICHEL, I. PIERRE PATHELIN Four plays in one volume _Little_

LONDON, Jack. TURTLES OF TASMAN THE FIRST POET. p _Macmillan_

LOVE IN A FRENCH KITCHEN. A MEDIAEVAL FARCE. c 1m 2w _Poet Lore_

LUTHER, Lester LAW. 10 voices _Forum_, _June_, 1915

M. J. W. A BROWN PAPER PARCEL. c 2w _French_

MACINTIRE, E., and CLEMENTS, C. C. THE IVORY TOWER. p 3m 1w _Poet Lore_

MACDONALD, Zellah MARKHEIM. d 2m 1w In "Morningside Plays" _Shay_

MACKAYE, Constance D'Arcy THE FOREST PRINCES AND OTHER MASQUES _Holt_ THE BEAU OF BATH AND OTHER ONE-ACT PLAYS _Holt_ PLAYS OF THE PIONEERS _Harper_ THE SILVER THREAD AND OTHER FOLK PLAYS _Holt_

MACKAYE, Percy. YANKEE FANTASIES CHUCK. 1m 3j GETTYSBURG. 1m 1j THE ANTICK. 2m 3w THE CAT BOAT. 1m 2w 1j SAM AVERAGE. 4m Five plays in one volume _Duffield_

McKINNEL, Norman THE BISHOP'S CANDLESTICKS. p 3m 2w _French_

MACMILLAN, Mary. Short plays THE SHADOWED STAR. p 3m 5w THE RING. c 7m 3w THE ROSE. p 1m 2w LUCK? p 6m 7w ENTR'ACTE. p 1m 2w A WOMAN'S A WOMAN FOR A' THAT. 2m 3w FAN AND TWO CANDLESTICKS. p 2m 1w A MODERN MASQUE. p 3m 1w THE FUTURISTS. p 8w THE GATE OF WISHES. p 1m 1w 1j Ten plays in one volume _Stewart_ MORE SHORT PLAYS. HIS SECOND GIRL. p 3m 3w AT THE CHURCH DOOR. p 2m 2w HONEY. c 2m 3w 1j THE DRESS REHEARSAL OF HAMLET. c 10w THE PIONEER. p 10m 3w 5j IN MENDELESIA, I. p 5w IN MENDELESIA, II. p 5w THE DRYAD. p 1m 2w Eight plays in one volume _Stewart_ THE GATE OF WISHES. p 1m 1w 1j _Poet Lore_

MAETERLINCK, Maurice THE INTRUDER. p 3m 5w _Phillips_ INTERIOR. p 4m 5w 1j supers _Phillips_ DEATH OF TINTAGILES. d 1j 6w _Phillips_ HAPPINESS. _Phillips_ SEVEN PRINCESSES. p 3m 8w _Phillips_ ALLADINE AND PALOMIDES. 2m 7w _Phillips_ THE MIRACLE OF ST. ANTHONY A MIRACLE OF ST. ANTHONY AND OTHER PLAYS A MIRACLE OF ST. ANTHONY. 15 characters PELLEAS AND MELISANDE. Five acts DEATH OF TINTAGILES. 7 Characters ALLADINE AND PALOMIDES. Five acts INTERIOR. 10 Characters THE INTRUDER. 7 Characters Six plays in one volume _Boni & Liveright_

MALLESON, Miles BLACK 'ELL. d 3m 4w _Shay_ PADDY POOLS. f 19j _Henderson_ LITTLE WHITE THOUGHT. f 9w _Henderson_ "D" COMPANY. p 6m _Henderson_ YOUTH. Three acts. p 9m 2w _Henderson_

MANNERS, J. Hartley. HAPPINESS AND OTHER PLAYS HAPPINESS. p 2m 2w JUST AS WEL.L c 1m 3w DAY OF DUPES. c 5m 1w Three plays in one volume _Dodd_ QUEEN'S MESSENGER. d 1m 1w _French_ THE WOMAN INTERVENES. p 3m 1w _French_ JUST AS WELL. c 1m 1w _French_ AS ONCE IN MAY. c 3m 2w _French_ MINISTERS OF GRACE. p 3m 2w _Smart Set_, _Sept._, 1914

MAPES, Victor A FLOWER OF THE YEDDO. c 1m 3w _French_

MARBLE, T. L. GIUSEPPINA. p 3m 2w _Dramatic_

MARIVAUX THE LEGACY. c 4m 2w _French_

MARKS, Jeanette. Three Welsh Plays THE MERRY CUCKOO. p 3m 2w WELSH HONEYMOON. p 3m 2w THE DEACON'S HAT. c 3m 3w Three plays in one volume _Little_ THE HAPPY THOUGHT. p 4m 5w _International_, _July_, 1912

MARTIN, John Joseph THE WIFE OF USHER'S WELL. d 3m 3w _Poet Lore_

MASEFIELD, John THE LOCKED CHEST. p 3m 1w SWEEPS OF NINETY-EIGHT. p 5m 1w Two plays in one volume _Macmillan_ THE CAMPDEN WONDER. p 4m 2w MRS. HARRISON. p 3m 1w In "The Tragedy of Nan," etc. _Macmillan_ PHILIP THE KING. p 7m 1w _Macmillan_ GOOD FRIDAY. p _Macmillan_

MASSEY, Edward PLOTS AND PLAYWRIGHTS. c Nine scenes. 11m 6w _Little_

MATHER, C. C. DISPATCHES FOR WASHINGTON. p 3m 5w _Baker_ DOUBLE-CROSSED. c 3m 3w _Baker_

MATSUO. _See_ IZUMO, Takeda

MATTHEWS, Brander THE DECISION OF THE COURT. c 2m 2w _Harpers_

MAUREY, Max ROSALIE. c 1m 2w _French_

McCONNILL, G. K. THE BONE OF CONTENTION. d 3m 8w _Baker_

McCOURT, Edna W. JILL'S WAY. p 3m 2w _Seven Arts_, _Feb._, 1917 THE TRUTH. p 2m 4w _Seven Arts_, _Mar._, 1917

McEVOY, Charles HIS HELPMATE DAVID BALLARD GENTLEMEN OF THE ROAD LUCIFER WHEN THE DEVIL WAS ILL _Bullen_

MCFADDEN, Elizabeth A. WHY THE CHIMES RANG. p 1m 1w 2j _French_

MEGRUE, Roi Cooper DOUBLE CROSS. p 3m _Smart Set_, _Aug._, 1911

MEILHAC and HALEVY PANURGE'S SHEEP. c 1m 2w _French_ INDIAN SUMMER. c 2m 2w _French_

MICHELSON, Miriam BYGONES. p 2m 1w _Smart Set_, _March_, 1917

MIDDLETON, George. EMBERS, etc. EMBERS. d 2m 1w THE FAILURES. d 1m 1w THE GARGOYLE. p 2m IN HIS HOUSE. p 2m 1w THE MAN MASTERFUL. d 2w MADONNA. d 3m 1w Six plays in one volume _Holt_ CRIMINALS. d 2m 2w _Huebsch_ TRADITION, etc. TRADITION. d 1m 2w ON BAIL. d 2m 1w MOTHERS. d 1m 2w WAITING. d 1m 1w 1j THEIR WIFE. d 2m 1w THE CHEAT OF PITY. d 2m 1w Six plays in one volume _Holt_ POSSESSION, etc. POSSESSION. d 2m 3w THE GROOVE. d 2w THE BLACK TIE. d 1m 2w 1j A GOOD WOMAN. d 1m 1w CIRCLES. d 1m 2w THE UNBORN. d 1m 2w Six plays in one volume _Holt_ BACK OF THE BALLOT. c 4m 1w _French_ Are published separately by Samuel French. AMONG THE LIONS. s 5m 3w _Smart Set_, _Feb._, 1917 THE REASON. p 2m 2w _Smart Set_, _Sept._, 1917

DE MILLE, William C. IN 1999. c 1m 2w _French_ FOOD. c 2m 1w _French_ POOR OLD JIM. p 2m 1w _French_ DECEIVERS. p _French_

MILTON, John. Adapted by L. Chater COMUS. m Nine characters _Baker_

MOLIERE DOCTOR IN SPITE OF HIMSELF. c 6m 3w _French_ THE SICILIAN. Two scenes. c 4m 3w _French_ THE AFFECTED YOUNG LADIES. s 6m 3w _French_ SGANARELLE. _See_ Eliot: Little Theatre Classics GREGORY, LADY. The Kiltartan Moliere DOCTOR IN SPITE OF HIMSELF. 6m 3w THE MISER THE ROGUERIES OF SCAPIN Three plays in one volume _Putnam_

MOELLER, Philip. FIVE SOMEWHAT HISTORICAL PLAYS HELENA'S HUSBAND. c 3m 2w THE LITTLE SUPPER. c 3m 1w SISTERS OF SUSANNAH. c 5m 1w ROADHOUSE IN ARDEN. c 4m 2w POKEY. c 6m 3w Five plays in one volume _Knopf_ TWO BLIND BEGGARS AND ONE LESS BLIND. p 3m 1w _Arens_

MONTAGUE, Harold PROPOSING BY PROXY. c 1m 1w _French_

MONTOMASA SUMIDA GAWA. d 2m 1w 1j _Stratford_, _Jan._, 1918

MORGAN, Charles D. SEARCH ME! c 1m 2w _Smart Set_, _Jan._, 1915

MORNINGSIDE PLAYS, The DEPUE, ELVA. HATTIE. d 2m 3w BRIGGS, CAROLINE. ONE A DAY. c 5m MACDONALD, Z. MARKHEIM. d 2m 1w REIZENSTEIN, E. L. HOME OF THE FREE. c 2m 2w Four plays in one vol. _Frank Shay_

MORRISON, Arthur THAT BRUTE SIMMONS. c 2m 1w _French_

MOSHER, John Chapin SAUCE FOR THE EMPEROR. c 5m 4w _Shay_

MOTHER, Charles C. DISPATCHES FOR WASHINGTON. p 4m 5w _Baker_

MOTHER GOOSE, A DREAM OF By J. C. MARCHANT, S. J. MAYHEW, H. WILBUR and others. Containing A Dream of Mother Goose; Scenes from Mother Goose; A Mother Goose Party; Two Mother Goose Operettas _Baker_

MOYLE, Gilbert THE TRAGEDY _Four Seas_

MUGGERIDGE, Marie THE REST CURE. p 1m 1w _French_

MURRAY, T. C. BIRTHRIGHT. Two acts. d 4m 1w _Maunsel_

MUSKERRY, William AN IMAGINARY AUNT. c 4w _French_

DE MUSSET, Alfred. BARBERINE AND OTHER COMEDIES BARBERINE. Three acts. 5m 2w FANTASIO. Two acts. 8m 2w NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. Three acts. 4m 3w A DOOR MUST BE OPEN OR SHUT. 2m A CAPRICE. 1m 2w ONE CANNOT THINK OF EVERYTHING. 3m 2w Six plays in one volume _Sergel_

DE MUSSET, A., and AUGIER, E. THE GREEN COAT. c 3m 1w _French_ NAPOLEON AND THE SENTRY. p 3m 1w _Dramatic_

NARODNY, Ivan FORTUNE FAVORS FOOLS. c 4m 3w _Poet Lore_

NATHAN, George Jean THE ETERNAL MYSTERY. p 2m 1w 1j _Smart Set_

NATHAN, Robert G. THE COWARD. p 1m 2w _Harvard_, _March_, 1914 ATOMS. p 2m 1w _Harvard_, _Nov._, 1913

NEIHARDT, John G. EIGHT HUNDRED RUBLES. p 1m 2w _Forum_, _Mar._, 1915

NEVITT, Mary Ross THE ROSTOF PEARLS. p 7w _French_

NEWTON, H. L. OUTWITTED. p 1m 1w _Baker_ HER SECOND TIME ON EARTH. c 1m 1w _Baker_

NIRDLINGER, C. F. Four short plays LOOK AFTER LOUISE. d 3m 1w BIG KATE. d 4m 1w THE REAL PEOPLE. d 2m 1w AREN'T THEY WONDERS. d 2m 2w Four plays in one vol. _Kennerley_ WASHINGTON'S FIRST DEFEAT. c 1m 2w _French_

NOGUCHI, Yone THE DEMON'S SHELL. p 2m _Poet Lore_ TEN JAPANESE NOH PLAYS. In prep. _Four Seas_

NORMAND, Jacques A DROP OF WATER. c 2m 1w _Dramatic_

NORTON, Harold F. THE WOMAN. p 1m 2w _Sheffield_, _June_, 1914

O'BRIEN, Edward J. AT THE FLOWING OF THE TIDE. p 1m 1w _Forum_, _Sept._, 1914

O'BRIEN, Seumas. DUTY AND OTHER IRISH COMEDIES DUTY. c 5m 1w JURISPRUDENCE. c 9m 1w MAGNANIMITY. c 5m MATCHMAKERS. c 3m 3w RETRIBUTION. c 3m 1w Five plays in one volume _Little_

OFFICER, Katherine ALL SOULS' EVE. p 3m 4w _International_, _Jan._, 1913

OLIVER, Mary Scott. SIX ONE-ACT PLAYS THE HAND OF THE PROPHET. p 5m 2w CHILDREN OF GRANADA. p 6m 4w THE TURTLE DOVE. p 5m 1w THIS YOUTH--GENTLEMEN! f 2m THE STRIKER. p 2m 3w MURDERING SELINA. c 5m 2w Six plays in one volume _Badger_

O'NEILL, Eugene. THIRST AND OTHER ONE-ACT PLAYS THIRST. p 2m 1w THE WEB. p 5m 1w WARNINGS. p 5m 4w FOG. p 3m 1w RECKLESSNESS. p 3m 2w Five plays in one volume _Badger_ BOUND EAST FOR CARDIFF. d 11m _Shay_ BEFORE BREAKFAST. d 1w _Shay_ THE MOON OF THE CARIBBEES MOON OF THE CARIBBEES. p 17m 4w BOUND EAST FOR CARDIFF. p 11m THE LONG VOYAGE HOME. p 8m 3w IN THE ZONE. p 9m ILE. p 5m 1w WHERE THE CROSS IS MADE. p 6m 1w THE ROPE. p 3m 2w Seven plays in one volume _Boni & Liveright_

OPPENHEIM, James THE PIONEER. Two scenes. d 5m 2w _Huebsch_ NIGHT. p 4m 1w _Arens_

O'SHEA, Monica Barrie THE RUSHLIGHT. p _Drama_

OVERSTREET, H. A. HEARTS TO MEND. 2m 1w _Stewart_

OWEN, Harold A LITTLE FOWL PLAY. c 3m 2w _French_

PAIN, Mrs. Barry. NINE OF DIAMONDS AND OTHER PLAYS THE NINE OF DIAMONDS HER LADYSHIP'S JEWELS. c 1m 2w MRS. MARLOWE'S CASE. c 2m 1w Three plays in one volume _London, Chapman_ SHORT PLAYS FOR AMATEURS THE HAT. c 3w A LESSON IN PEARLS. c 1m 2w THIRTEEN. c -m 2w TRUST. c 1m 1w A VICIOUS CIRCLE. c 1m 1w Five plays in one volume _London_, _Pinker_ MORE SHORT PLAYS THE LADY TYPIST. c 1m 4w A QUICK CHANGE. Two scenes. c 2m 2w THE REASON WHY. c 1m 1w 'WARE WIRE. c 3m 2w Four plays in one volume _Chapman_

PALMER, John OVER THE HILLS. c 2m 2w _Smart Set_, _June_, 1915

PARAMORE, E. E. ACROSS THE MARSH. p 2m _Sheffield_, _April_, 1917

PARKER, Louis N. _See also_ JACOBS,W. W. MAN IN THE STREET. p 2m 1w _French_

PARKHURST, Winthrop. IT NEVER HAPPENS. c 2m 1w _Smart Set_, _Dec._, 1918 IMPORTANCE OF BEING EARLY. c 2m 2w _Smart Set_, _Nov._, 1916 MORRACA. p 7m 1w _Drama_, _Nov._, 1918 THE BEGGAR AND THE KING. p 3m _Drama_, _Feb._, 1919 GETTING UNMARRIED. p 1m 1w _Smart Set_, _April_, 1918

PASTON, George FEED THE BRUTE. p 1m 2w _French_ STUFFING. c 2m 2w _French_ TILDA'S NEW HAT. c 1m 3w _French_ PARENT'S PROGRESS. c 3m 3w _French_

PATRICK, A. JIMMY. p 2m

PAULL, H. M. HAL, THE HIGHWAYMAN. p 4m 2w _French_

PEABODY, Josephine Preston FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES. p 8m 2w i _French_ THE WINGS. p 3m 1w _French_

PEARCE, Walter 1588. c 4m 1w _French_

PEMBERTON, Max PRIMA DONNA. c 3m 3w _French_ LIGHTS OUT. c 3m 3w _French_

PHELPS, P., and SHORT, M. SAINT CECILIA. p 1m 7w _French_

PHILLPOTTS, Eden. CURTAIN RAISERS THE POINT OF VIEW. c 2m 1w HIATUS. c 4m 2w THE CARRIER PIGEON. d 2m 1w Three plays in one volume _Brentano_ PAIR OF KNICKERBOCKERS. c 1m 1w _French_ BREEZY MORNING. c 1m 1w _French_

PHILLPOTTS, Eden, and GROVES, Charles THEIR GOLDEN WEDDING. c 2m 1w _French_

PIAGGIO, E. E. AT THE PLAY. p _London_, _Williams_

PICHEL, Irving TOM, TOM, THE PIPER'S SON. p 3m _Harvard_, _Dec._, 1913

PILLOT, E. HUNGER. f 4m 1w _Stratford_, _June_, 1918 THE GAZING GLOBE. p 2m 1w _Stratford_, _Nov._, 1918

PINERO, Sir Arthur Wing PLAYGOERS. c 2m 6w _French_ THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD. d _Smart Set_, _May_, 1914 HESTER'S MYSTERY. c 3m 2w _French_ MONEY SPINNER. Two acts. d 5m 3w _French_

PINSKI, David _See_ Six Plays for the Yiddish Theatre A DOLLAR. c 5m 3w _Stratford_, _June_, 1917 MICHAEL. p 4m _Stratford_, _April_, 1918

PORTMANTEAU PLAYS. See WALKER, Stuart

PORTO-RICHE, G. In Clark: Four Plays, etc. FRANCOISE'S LUCK. c 3m 2w

PLAUTUS THE TWINS. c 7m 2w _French_

PICARD, L. B. THE ROSEBUD. c 5m 2w _French_

POUND, Ezra, and FENOLLOSA, Ernest "NOH," or Accomplishment. A study of the Classical Stage of Japan. Contains KAYOI KOMACHI. 3m i SUMA GENJI. 3m KUMASAKA. Two acts. 3m i SHOJO. 2m supers TAHURA. 3m i and others _Knopf_

PRESBERY, Eugene COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. p 2m 2w _French_

PRICE, Graham THE CAPTURE OF WALLACE. p 4m 1w _Phillips_ THE SONG OF THE SEAL. p 2m 2w _Phillips_ THE ABSOLUTION OF BRUCE. p 10m _Phillips_ MARRIAGES ARE MADE IN HEAVEN. _Phillips_

PROVINCETOWN PLAYS. Edited by GEORGE CRAM COOK and FRANK SHAY ROSTETTER, ALICE. THE WIDOW'S VEIL OPPENHEIM, JAMES. NIGHT COOK AND GLASPELL. SUPPRESSED DESIRES O'NEILL, EUGENE. BOUND EAST FOR CARDIFF MILLAY, EDNA ST. VINCENT. ARIA DA CAPO WELLMAN, RITA. STRING OF THE SAMISEN STEELE, WILBUR DANIEL. NOT SMART HAPGOOD AND BOYCE. ENEMIES KING, PENDLETON. COACAINE In one volume _Stewart_

PRYCE, Richard THE VISIT. p 2m 3w _French_

PRYCE, R., and MORRISON A. DUMB-CAKE. p 1m 2w _French_

PRYCE, R., and DRURY, W. P. THE PRIVY COUNCIL. c 3m 4w _French_

PRYDZ, Alvilde HE IS COMING. p 1m 5w _Poet Lore_

PUTNAM, Nina Wilcox ORTHODOXY. p _Kennerley_

QUINTERO, Serafino, and JOAQUIN, Alvarez A BRIGHT MORNING. c 2m 2w _Poet Lore_ BY THEIR WORDS YE SHALL KNOW THEM. c 2m 1w _Drama_, _Feb._, 1917

RANCK, Edwin C. THE YELLOW BOOTS. p 2m 1w _Stratford_, _May_, 1919

RANDALL, William R. THE GREY OVERCOAT. p 3m _French_

REED, John FREEDOM. c 6m _Shay_ MOONDOWN. p 2w _Masses_ THE PEACE THAT PASSETH UNDERSTANDING. f 12 characters _Liberator_, _March_, 1919

REELY, Mary Katherine DAILY BREAD. p 1m 4w A WINDOW TO THE SOUTH. p 5m 3w THE LEAN YEARS. p 2m 2w Three plays in one vol. _H. W. Wilson_

REIZENSTEIN, Elmer L. HOME OF THE FREE. c 2m 2w In "Morningside Plays" _Shay_

RENARD, Jules GOOD-BYE! c 1m 1w _Smart Set_, _June_, 1916

RENARD, Jules. Translated by Alfred Sutro CARROTS. p 1m 2w _French_

REPRESENTATIVE ONE-ACT PLAYS BY AMERICAN AUTHORS Selected, with biographical notes, by Margaret Gardiner Mayorga, M. A. _Little_

RICE, Cale Young. THE IMMORTAL LURE GIORGIONE. p ARDUIN. p O-UME'S GODS. p THE IMMORTAL LURE. p Four plays in one vol. _Doubleday_ A NIGHT IN AVIGNON. p In "Collected Plays and Poems" _Doubleday_

RICHARDSON, Frank BONNIE DUNDEE. d 4m 2w _French_

RIVOIRE, Andre THE LITTLE SHEPHERDESS. p 1m 2w _French_

ROBINS, Gertrude. LOVING AS WE DO, etc. LOVING AS WE DO THE RETURN AFTER THE CASE 'ILDA'S HONOURABLE Four plays in one volume _Werner Laurie_ MAKESHIFTS. p REALITIES. p Two plays in one volume _French_ POT LUCK. c 3m 1w _French_

ROGERS, Maude M. WHEN THE WHEELS RUN DOWN. p 3m _French_

ROGERS, Robert E. BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE. f 6m 2w _Baker_

ROOF, Katherine THE WORLD BEYOND THE MOUNTAIN. p 2m 2w _International_, _Nov._, 1913

ROSENBERG, James N. THE RETURN TO MUTTON. Two acts. c 2m 1w _Kennerley_

ROSS, Clarendon THE AVENGER. f 2m _Drama_, _Aug._, 1918

RUSCHKE, Edmont W. THE ECHO, etc. THE ECHO. c 5m 5w DEATH SPEAKS. f 2m THE INTANGIBLE. d 2m 2w Three plays in one vol _Stratford_

RUSINOL, Santiago THE PRODIGAL DOLL. c 5m 6w _Drama_, _Feb._, 1917

SARDOU, Victorien THE BLACK PEARL. c 7m 3w _French_

SARGENT, Frederick Leroy OMAR AND THE RABBI. In prep. _Four Seas_

SARKADI, Leo A VISION OF PAGANINI. p 2m 1w _International_, _Feb._, 1916 THE PASSING SHADOW. p 2m _International_, _Aug._, 1916 THE LINE OF LIFE. p 4m 3w _International_, _Nov._, 1916

SAWYER, Ruth THE SIDHE OF BEN-MOR. p 1m 6w _Poet Lore_

SCHMERTZ, John R. THE MARKSMAN. p 4m 1w _Sheffield_, _Feb._, 1917

SCHNITZLER, Arthur. COMEDIES OF WORDS. Translated by Pierre Loving THE HOUR OF RECOGNITION. c 3m 2w THE BIG SCENE. c 5m 2w THE FESTIVAL OF BACCHUS. c 4m 2w LITERATURE. c 2m 1w HIS HELPMATE. c 5m 2w Five plays in one volume _Stewart_ COUNTESS MIZZIE. c 7m 2w In volume with LONELY WAY, etc. _Little_ LIVING HOURS THE WOMAN WITH THE DAGGER THE LAST MASKS LITERATURE Four plays in one volume _Badger_ GALLANT CASSIAN. Puppet Play. 3m 1w _Phillips_ DUKE AND THE ACTRESS. c 16m 2w _Badger_ LADY WITH THE DAGGER. d 1m 1w _Poet Lore_

SCOTT, Clement CAPE MAIL. p 3m 4w _Dramatic_

SCOTTISH REPERTORY PLAYS MAXWELL, W. B. THE LAST MAN IN. p 4m 1w BRIGHOUSE, H. THE PRICE OF COAL. p 1m 3w CHAPIN, H. AUGUSTUS IN SEARCH OF A FATHER. p 3m COLQUHON, D. JEAN. p 2m DOWN, O. THE MAKER OF DREAMS. f 2m 1w CHAPIN, H. DUMB AND THE BLIND. p 2m 1w 2j BRIGHOUSE, H. LONESOME-LIKE. p 2m 2w CHAPIN, H. AUTOCRAT OF THE COFFEE STALL. p CHAPIN, H. MUDDLE ANNIE. p FERGUSON, J. A. CAMPBELL OF KILMHOR. p 4m 2w KORI, TORAHIKO. KANAWA, the Incantation. 4m 1w BRIGHOUSE, H. MAID OF FRANCE. p 2m _Phillips_

SHAKESPEARE OBERON AND TITANIA, 12 characters _French_

SHAW, George Bernard HOW HE LIED TO HER HUSBAND. c 2m 1w _Brentano_ PRESS CUTTINGS. c 3m 3w _Brentano_ DARK LADY OF THE SONNETS. c 1m 2w _Brentano_ OVERRULED. p _Brentano_ HEARTBREAK HOUSE GREAT CATHERINE O'FLATHERTY, C. V. INCA OF PERUSALEM AUGUSTUS DOES HIS BIT THE BOLSHEVIK PRINCESS Six plays in one volume _Brentano_

SHAW, Mary THE PARROT CAGE. a 1m 7w _Dramatic_ THE WOMAN OF IT. c 9w _Dramatic_

SHORES, Elsa. _See_ BELMONT, Mrs. O. H. P.

SIERRA, Gregorio Martinez THE LOVER. c 1m 2w _Stratford_, _July_, 1919 LOVE MAGIC. c 4m 3w _Drama_, _Feb._, 1917 THE CRADLE SONG. 3 Two acts. 4m 10w _Poet Lore_

SINCLAIR, Upton. Plays of Protest. THE SECOND STORY MAN. d 1m 1w _Kennerley_

SOLOGUB, Feodor THE TRIUMPH OF DEATH. Three short acts. d 4m 2w _Drama_, _Aug._, 1916

SOPHOCLES ANTIGONE. 11 characters _Baker_

SOTILLO, Antonio, and MICHO, Andres THE JUDGMENT OF POSTERITY. p 5m 1w _Poet Lore_

SPEYER, Lady LOVE ME, LOVE MY DOG. p 3m 1w _Smart Set_, _Jan._, 1919

SPRINGER, Thomas G. SECRETS OF THE DEEP. p 7m _Smart Set_, _June_, 1914

STEELL, W. p 6m 1w _Baker_

STERLING, George THE DRYAD. p 1m 2w _Smart Set_, _Feb._, 1919

STEVENS, Henry Bailey. A CRY OUT IN THE DARK THE MEDDLER BOLO AND BABETTE. In prep. THE MADHOUSE Three plays in one vol. _Four Seas_

STEVENS, Wallace THREE TRAVELERS WATCH A SUNRISE. p 5m 1w i _Poetry_, _July_, 1916

STEWART, Anna B. BELLES OF CANTERBURY.

STEWART-KIDD MODERN PLAYS. Edited by FRANK SHAY TOMPKINS, F. G. SHAM. c 3m 1w _Stewart_ HUDSON, HOLLAND. THE SHEPHERD IN THE DISTANCE. f 10 characters _Stewart_ FLANNER, HILDEGARDE. MANSIONS. p 1m 2w _Stewart_ OVERSTREET, H. A. HEARTS TO MEND. f 2m 1w _Stewart_

ST. HILL, T. N. DUTY. p 2m _Sheffield_, _May_, 1916

STRAMM, August THE BRIDE OF THE MOOR. p 4m 2w SANCTA SUSANNA. p 1m 3w Two plays in one number _Poet Lore_

STRATTON, Charles THE CODA. p 1m 2w _Drama_, _May_, 1918

STRINDBERG, August PLAYS. First Series THE DREAM PLAY. THE LINK THE DANCE OF DEATH. Parts I and II PLAYS. Second Series CREDITORS. p 2m 1w PARIAH. p 2m MISS JULIA. p 3w THE STRONGER. p 2w THERE ARE CRIMES AND CRIMES LUCKY PEHR _Stewart_ EASTER _Stewart_ PLAYS. Third Series SWANWHITE. A Fairy Play. p 10m 6w SIMOON. p 2m 1w DEBIT AND CREDIT. p 6m 3w ADVENT. Three acts. p 7m 3w THE THUNDERSTORM. p 8m 4w AFTER THE FIRE. p 11m 4w PLAYS. Fourth Series THE BRIDAL CROWN. Six scenes. p 12m 8w others THE SPOOK SONATA. p 7m 6w THE FIRST WARNING. c 1m 4w GUSTAVUS VASA. Five acts. d 20m 8w Four volumes _Scribners_ THE STRONGER WOMAN. p 2w MOTHERLY LOVE. p 4w Two plays in one volume _Henderson_ PARIA. p 2m SIMOON. p 2m 1w Two plays in one volume _Henderson_ MISS JULIE. p 1m 2w _Henderson_ THE CREDITOR. p 2m 1w _Henderson_ THE OUTCAST. SIMOON. 2m 1w DEBIT AND CHRIST. p 6m 3w Three plays in one volume _Badger_ JULIE. p 2m 1w _Badger_ THE CREDITORS. p 2m 1w _Badger_ MOTHER LOVE. p 4w _Brown_

SUBERT, Frantisek Adolf JAN VYRAVA. d 21m 11w _Poet Lore_

SUDERMANN, Herman. ROSES STREAKS OF LIGHT. d 2m 1w MARGOT. d 4m 2w THE LAST VISIT. d 5m 3w FAR-AWAY PRINCESS. c 2m 7w Four plays in one volume _Scribner_ MORITURI TEJA. d 7m 2w FRITZCHEN. d 5m 2w ETERNAL MASCULINE. p 5m 2w Three plays in one volume _Scribner_ JOHANNES. p 40i _Poet Lore_

SUTRO, Alfred. FIVE LITTLE PLAYS THE MAN IN THE STALLS. 2m 1w A MARRIAGE HAS BEEN ARRANGED. 1m 1w THE MAN ON THE KERB. 1m 1w THE OPEN DOOR. p 1m 1w THE BRACELET. c 5m 3w Five plays in one volume _Brentano_ THE BRACELET. c 5m 3w _French_ A MARRIAGE HAS BEEN ARRANGED. 1m 1w _French_ THE CORRECT THING. p 1m 1w _French_ ELLA'S APOLOGY. p 1m 1w _French_ A GAME OF CHESS. p 1m 1w _French_ THE GUTTER OF TIME. p 1m 1w _French_ A MAKER OF MEN. p 1m 1w _French_ THE MAN OF THE KERB. 1m _French_ THE OPEN DOOR. p 1m 1w _French_ MR. STEINMANN'S CORNER. p 2m 2w _French_ THE SALT OF LIFE. p 1m 1w _French_ THE MARRIAGE WILL NOT TAKE PLACE. c 2m 1w

SYMONS, Arthur CLEOPATRA IN JUDEA. p 7m 3w _Forum_, _June_, 1916

SYNGE, John Millington THE SHADOW OF THE GLEN _Luce_ RIDERS TO THE SEA _Luce_ THE TINKER'S WEDDING _Luce_ DEIRDRE OF THE SORROWS _Luce_

TARKINGTON, Booth BEAUTY AND THE JACOBIN. c 3m 2w _Harper_

TERRELL, Maverick HONI SOIT.. s 1m 1w _Smart Set_, _Jan._, 1918 TEMPERAMENT.. c 2m 2w _Smart Set_, _Sept._, 1916

TERRELL, Maverick, and STECHHAN, H. O. THE REAL "Q." c 3m _Smart Set_, _Sept._, 1911

TCHEKOFF, Anton. PLAYS. First Series THE SWAN SONG. p 2m _Scribner_ PLAYS. Second Series ON THE HIGH ROAD. p 8m 3w THE PROPOSAL. c 2m 1w THE WEDDING. c 7m 3w THE BEAR. c 2m 1w TRAGEDIAN IN SPITE OF HIMSELF. c 2m ANNIVERSARY. c 2m 1w Six plays in one volume _Scribner_ A BEAR. c 2m 1w _French_ THE MARRIAGE PROPOSAL. c 2m 1w _French_ _See_ BECHHOFER. Five plays ON THE HIGHMAY. d 6m 3w _Drama_, _May_, 1916

TENNYSON, Alfred Lord THE FALCON. p 2m 2w _Collected Works_

TERENCE PHORMIO. c 11m 2w _French_

THEURIET, Jean JEAN MARIE. p 2m 1w _French_

THOMAS, Brandon HIGHLAND LEGACY. c 5m 2w _French_ LANCASHIRE SAILOR. p 3m 2w _French_ COLOUR SERGEANT. p 4m 1w _French_

THOMAS, Kate AN EVENING AT HELEN'S. p 7m _French_ A BIT OF NONSENSE. c 8w _French_

THOMPSON, Alice C. PLAYS FOR WOMEN CHARACTERS HER SCARLET SLIPPERS. p 4w _Penn_ AN IRISH INVASION. c 8w _Baker_ A KNOT OF WHITE RIBBON. p 3w _Penn_ THE LUCKIEST GIRL. p 4w _Denison_ MUCH TOO SUDDEN. p 7w _Baker_ OYSTERS. c 6w _Baker_ THE WRONG BABY. c 8w _Penn_

THOMPSON, Harlan ONE BY ONE. 2m 2w _Smart Set_, _May_, 1919 THE MAN HUNT. c 2m 1w _Smart Set_, _June_, 1919 PANTS AND THE MAN. c 5m 2w _Smart Set_, _Nov._, 1917 GEOMETRICALLY SPEAKING. p 3m 1w _Smart Set_, _Nov._, 1918

TOMPKINS, Frank G. SHAM. c 3m 1w _Stewart_

TORRENCE, Ridgely. THREE PLAYS FOR THE NEGRO THEATRE GRANNY MAUMEE. p 3w THE RIDER OF DREAMS. p 3m 1w SIMON THE CYRENIAN. p 10m 6w Three plays in one vol. _Macmillan_

TRADER, G. H. SHAKESPEARE'S DAUGHTERS. f 11w _French_

TREE, H. B. SIX AND EIGHTPENCE. c 2m 1w _French_

TREVOR, Philip UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE. p 2m 5w _French_ THE LOOKING GLASS. p 7j _French_

UKRAINKA, L. THE BABYLONIAN CAPTIVITY. d 1m 7i In Bechofer: Five Russian Plays.

URCHLICKY, Jaroslav AT THE CHASM. p 2m 1w _Poet Lore_

VIERECK, Geo. S. A GAME OF LOVE. p 1m 2w THE MOOD OF A MOMENT. p 2m 1w FROM DEATH'S OWN EYES. p 1m 2w QUESTION OF FIDELITY. p 1m 1w THE BUTTERFLY. p 2m 3w Five plays in one volume _Moffat_

Von VIZEN, D. THE CHOICE OF A TUTOR. c 5m 3w In Bechofer: Five Russian Plays.

VAN ETTEN, G. THE VAMPIRE CAT. p 4m 2w _Dramatic_

WALKER, Stuart. THE PORTMANTEAU PLAYS THE TRIMPLET. c 2m 4w NEVERTHELESS. c 2m 1w SIX WHO PASS WHILE THE LENTILS BOIL. c 5m 3w THE MEDICINE SHOW. c 3m Four plays in one volume _Stewart_ MORE PORTMANTEAU PLAYS THE LADY OF THE WEEPING WILLOW TREE THE VERY NAKED BOY JONATHAN MAKES A WISH Three in one volume _Stewart_ PORTMANTEAU ADAPTATIONS GAMMER GURTON'S NEEDLE WILDE, O. THE BIRTHDAY OF THE INFANTA TARKINGTON, BOOTH. SEVENTEEN In one volume _Stewart_

WALKER, W. R. A PAIR OF LUNATICS. c 1m 1w _French_ GENTLEMAN JIM. 1m 1w _French_

WALLACE, A. C. CHRYSANTHEMUMS. c 2m 2w _French_

WARE, J. Herbert THE MEASURE OF THE MAN. p 3m 1w _Sheffield_, _June_, 1916

WARREN, P., and HUTCHINS, W. THE DAY THAT LINCOLN DIED. p 5m 2w _Baker_

WASHINGTON SQUARE PLAYS, THE BEACH, L. THE CLOD. p 4m 1w GOODMAN, E. EUGENICALLY SPEAKING. c 3m 1w GERSTENBERG, A. OVERTONES. p 4w MOELLER, P. HELENE'S HUSBAND. c 3m 2w Four plays in one vol. _Doubleday_ LANGER, L. ANOTHER WAY OUT. c 2m 3w _Shay_ GLASPELL, S. TRIFLES. d 3m 2w _Shay_ CROCKER, B. THE LAST STRAW. d 2m 1w 2j _Shay_ ANDREYEV, L. LOVE OF ONE'S NEIGHBOR. s 15m 7w _Shay_ CRONYN, G. THE SANDBAR QUEEN. p 6m 1w _Arens_ MOELLER, P. TWO BLIND BEGGARS, etc. p 3m 1w _Arens_ MAETERLINCK, M. INTERIOR MIRACLE OF ST. ANTHONY DEATH OF TINTAGILES. _See_ Author REED, J. MOONDOWN. p 2w _Masses_ TCHEKOW, A. THE BEAR. c 2m 1w _French_ MACKAYE, P. THE ANTICK. _See_ Author SCHNITZLER, A. LITERATURE. _See_ Author MOELLER, P. ROADHOUSE IN ARDEN SISTERS OF SUSANNA POKEY. _See_ Author WEDEKIND, F. THE TENOR. p 5m 3w _Smart Set_, _June_, 1913 AKINS, Z. THE MAGICAL CITY. p 7m 2w _Forum_, _May_, 1914 DE BRVEYS, D. A. PIERRE PATELIN. c 7m 2w _French_ TCHEKOV, A. THE SEA GULL. _See_ Author EVREINOV, N. _See_ Bechofer: Five Russian Plays PORTO-RICHE. LOVERS' LUCK. _See_ Clark: Plays for the Free Theatre IZUMO, T. THE PINE TREE. Bushido. _See_ Author MASSAY, E. PLOTS AND PLAYWRIGHTS. c 11m 6w _Little_ MOLIERE. SGANARELLE. DOCTOR IN SPITE OF HIMSELF. _See_ Author STRINDBERG, A. PARIAH. _See_ Author

WATTS, Mary S. THREE SHORT PLAYS AN ANCIENT DANCE. Two acts. p 6m 3w CIVILIZATION. p 5m 5w WEARIN' O' THE GREEN. c 8m 7w Three plays in one vol. _Macmillan_

WEDEKIND, Frank THE TENOR. p 5m 3w _Smart Set_, _June_, 1913

WEIL, Percival L. THE CULPRIT. p 3m 1w _Smart Set_, _Feb._, 1913

WELLMAN, Rita THE LADY WITH THE MIRROR. a 2m 2w _Drama_, _Aug._, 1918 DAWN. p 2m 1w _Drama_, _Feb._, 1919 FUNICULI FUNICULI. In Mayorga's "Representative One-Act Plays" _Little_

WELSH, Robert Gilbert JEZEBEL. p 6m 3w _Forum_, _May_, 1915

WENDT, Frederick W. DES IRAE. p 1m 1w _Smart Set_, _July_, 1911

WHITE, Lucy THE BIRD CHILD. p 2m 2w 1j _International_, _Nov._, 1914

WILCOX, Constance TOLD IN A CHINESE GARDEN. p 10 characters _Drama_, _May_, 1919

WILDE, Oscar SALOME. d 11m 2w _Several editions_ BIRTHDAY OF THE INFANTA

WILDE, Percival. DAWN AND OTHER ONE-ACT PLAYS DAWN. d 2m 1w 1j THE NOBLE LORD. c 2m 1w THE TRAITOR. d 7m THE HOUSE OF CARDS. p 1m 1w PLAYING WITH FIRE. c 1m 2w FINGER OF GOD. p 2m 1w Six plays in one volume _Holt_ CONFESSIONAL. p 3m 3w ACCORDING TO DARWIN. p 3m 2w A QUESTION OF MORALITY. c 3m 1w THE BEAUTIFUL STORY. p 1m 1w 1j THE VILLAIN OF THE PIECE. c 2m 1w Five plays in one volume _Holt_ LINE OF NO RESISTANCE. c 1m 2w _French_ SAVED. p 9m 1w _Smart Set_, _July_, 1915

WILEY, Sara King PATRIOTS. c 3m 2w _French_

WISCONSIN PLAYS FIRST SERIES GALE, Z. THE NEIGHBORS. d 2m 6w DICKINSON, T. H. IN HOSPITAL. c 3m 2w LEONARD, W. E. GLORY OF THE MORNING. p 3m 2w Three plays in one vol. _Huebsch_ SECOND SERIES ILLSEY, S. M. FEAST OF THE HOLY INNOCENTS. p 5w SHERRY, L. ON THE PIER. p 1m 1w JONES, H. M. THE SHADOW. p 4m 2w GILMAN, T. WE LIVE AGAIN. p 6m 6w Four Plays in one volume _Huebsch_

WOLFF, Oscar M. WHERE BUT IN AMERICA. c 1m 2w _Smart Set_, _March_, 1918

WORLD'S BEST PLAYS, The. Edited by BARRETT H. CLARK COPPEE, FRANCOIS. PATER NOSTER. p 3m 3w MEILHAC AND HALEVY. INDIAN SUMMER. c 2m 2w MAUREY, MAX. ROSALIE. c 1m 2w HERVIEU, PAUL. MODESTY. c 2m 1w TCHEKOF, ANTON. A MARRIAGE PROPOSAL. c 2m 1w DE MUSSET AND AUGIER. THE GREEN COAT. c 3m 1w GIACOSA, GIUSEPPE. THE WAGER. c 4m 1w TERRENCE. PHORMIO. c 11m 2w RIVOIRE, ANDRE. THE LITTLE SHEPERDESS. c 1m 2w PLAUTUS. THE TWINS. c 7m 2w SARDOU, VICTORIEN. THE BLACK PEARL. c 7m 3w TCHEKOF, ANTON. THE BOOR. c 2m 1w DE BANVILLE, THEO. CHARMING LEANDER. c 2m 1w AUGIER, EMILE. THE POST SCRIPTUM. c 1m 2w MOLIERE. THE DOCTOR IN SPITE OF HIMSELF. c 6m 3w DE CAILAVET, G. A. CHOOSING A CAREER. c BERNARD, TRISTAN. FRENCH WITHOUT A MASTER. c 5m 2w MEILHAC AND HALEVY. PANURGE'S SHEEP. c 1m 2w BENEDIX, RODERICK. THE LAW SUIT. c 5m BENEDIX, RODERICK. THE THIRD MAN. c 1m 3w MOLIERE. THE SICILIAN. Two scenes. c 4m 3w MOLIERE. THE AFFECTED YOUNG LADIES. s 6m 3w BERNARD, TRISTAN. I'M GOING! c 1m 1w FEUILLET, OCTAVE. THE FAIRY. c 3m 1w FEUILLET, OCTAVE. THE VILLAGE. c 2m 2w LABICHE. GRAMMAR. c 4m 1w LABICHE. THE TWO COWARDS. c 3m 2w LESAGE. CRISPIN, HIS MASTER'S RIVAL. c 4m 3w MARIVAUX. THE LEGACY. c 4m 2w GYALUI, WOLFGANG. AFTER THE HONEYMOON. c 1m 1w BOUCHOR, MAURICE. A CHRISTMAS TALE. p 2m 2w FRANCE, ANATOLE. CRAINQUEBILLE. 3 scenes. p 12m 6w THEURIET, ANDRE. JEAN MARIE. p 2m 1w PICARD, L. B. THE REBOUND. c 5m 2w ARISTOPHANES. LYSISTRATA. s 4m 5w 1j _Published by French_

WYNNE, Anna THE BROKEN BARS. p 10m 10w _French_

YEATS, William Butler THE COUNTESS CATHLEEN THE LAND OF HEART'S DESIRE THE SHADOWY WATERS THE KING'S THRESHOLD ON BAILE'S STRAND DEIRDRE _Macmillan_ THE GREEN HELMET _Macmillan_ WHERE THERE IS NOTHING _Macmillan_ THE HOUR GLASS CATHLEEN IN HOULIHAN A POT OF BROTH _Macmillan_ IN THE SEVEN WOODS _Macmillan_

YEHOASH THE SHUNAMITE. p 3m 1w _Stratford_, _June_, 1919

YIDDISH THEATRE: SIX PLAYS FOR FIRST SERIES PINSKI, D. ABIGAIL. 7m 1w PINSKI, D. FORGOTTEN SOULS. 1m 2w ALEICHEM, S. SHE MUST MARRY A DOCTOR. 3m 4w ASH, S. WINTER. 1m 6w ASH, S. THE SINNER. 9m 1w HIRSCHBEIN, P. IN THE DARK. 3m 2w Six plays in one volume. SECOND SERIES PINSKI, D. LITTLE HEROES. p 6j PINSKI, D. THE STRANGER. p 9m 6w HIRSCHBEIN, P. ON THE THRESHOLD. p 4m 2w LEVIN, Z. POETRY AND PROSE. p 1m 1w KOBRIN, L. BLACK SHEEP. p 3m 2w KOBRIN, L. THE SWEET OF LIFE. p 2m 1w Six plays in one volume _Huebsch_

YOUNG, Stark. AT THE SHRINE AND OTHER PLAYS ADDIO. p 3m 1w MADRETTA. p 2m 1w AT THE SHRINE. p 1m 1w Three plays in one volume _Stewart_

ZANGWILL, Israel SIX PERSONS. c 1m 1w _French_ GREAT DEMONSTRATION. c 2m 1w _French_

BIBLIOGRAPHIES

ACTABLE ONE-ACT PLAYS _Chicago Public Library, 1916_

PLAYS AND BOOKS OF THE LITTLE THEATRE. Compiled by Frank Shay.

A LIST OF PLAYS AND PAGEANTS. Prepared by the Committee on Pageantry, War Work Council, Young Woman's Christian Associations. 1919.

PLAYS FOR AMATEURS. Arranged by John Mantel Clapp. Drama League of America. Chicago. 1915.

GUIDE TO SELECTING PLAYS for the use of professionals and amateurs. By Wentworth Hogg. _French._ 1916.

THE DRAMATIC BOOKS AND PLAYS. An annual compilation by Henry Eastman Lower and George Heron Milne. Boston Book Co.

* * * * *

A SELECTED LIST

OF

DRAMATIC

LITERATURE

PUBLISHED BY STEWART & KIDD COMPANY CINCINNATI

_Plays and Players_

LEAVES FROM A CRITIC'S SCRAPBOOK

BY WALTER PRICHARD EATON

PREFACE BY BARRETT H. CLARK

A new volume of criticisms of plays and papers on acting, play-making, and other dramatic problems, by Walter Prichard Eaton, dramatic critic, and author of "The American Stage of To-day," "At the New Theater and Others," "Idyl of the Twin Fires," etc. The new volume begins with plays produced as far back as 1910, and brings the record down to the current year. One section is devoted to American plays, one to foreign plays acted on our stage, one to various revivals of Shakespeare. These sections form a record of the important activities of the American theater for the past six years, and constitute about half of the volume. The remainder of the book is given over to various discussions of the actor's art, of play construction, of the new stage craft, of new movements in our theater, such as the Washington Square Players, and several lighter essays in the satiric vein which characterized the author's work when he was the dramatic critic of the =New York Sun=. Unlike most volumes of criticisms, this one is illustrated, the pictures of the productions described in the text furnishing an additional historical record. At a time when the drama is regaining its lost position of literary dignity it is particularly fitting that dignified and intelligent criticism and discussion should also find accompanying publication.

=Toronto Saturday Night=:

Mr. Eaton writes well and with dignity and independence. His book should find favor with the more serious students of the Drama of the Day.

=Detroit Free Press=:

This is one of the most interesting and also valuable books on the modern drama that we have encountered in that period popularly referred to as "a dog's age." Mr. Eaton is a competent and well-esteemed critic. The book is a record of the activities of the American stage since 1910, down to the present. Mr. Eaton succinctly restores the play to the memory, revisualizes the actors, and puts the kernel of it into a nutshell for us to ponder over and by which to correct our impressions.

_Large 12mo. About 420 pages, 10 full-page illustrations on Cameo Paper and End Papers_ _Net_ $3.00 _Gilt top. 3/4 Maroon Turkey Morocco_ _Net_ 8.50

_Four Plays of the Free Theater_

Francois de Curel's _The Fossils_ Jean Jullien's _The Serenade_ Georges de Porto-Riche's _Francoise' Luck_ Georges Ancey's _The Dupe_

_Translated with an introduction on Antoine and Theatre Libre by BARRETT H. CLARK. Preface by BRIEUX, of the French Academy, and a Sonnet by EDMOND ROSTAND._

=The Review of Reviews says=:

"A lengthy introduction, which is a gem of condensed information."

=H. L. Mencken (in the Smart Set) says=:

"Here we have, not only skilful playwriting, but also sound literature."

=Brander Matthews says=:

"The book is welcome to all students of the modern stage. It contains the fullest account of the activities of Antoine's Free Theater to be found anywhere--even in French."

=The Chicago Tribune says=:

"Mr. Clark's translations, with their accurate and comprehensive prefaces, are necessary to anyone interested in modern drama.... If the American reader will forget Yankee notions of morality ... if the reader will assume the French point of view, this book will prove a rarely valuable experience. Mr. Clark has done this important task excellently."

_Handsomely Bound. 12mo. Cloth_ _Net_, $2.50 _3/4 Turkey Morocco_ 8.50

_Contemporary French Dramatists_

By BARRETT H. CLARK

_In "Contemporary French Dramatists" Mr. Barrett H. Clark, author of "The Continental Drama of Today," "The British and American Drama of Today," translator of "Four Plays of the Free Theater," and of various plays of Donnay, Hervieu, Lemaitre, Sardou, Lavedan, etc., has contributed the first collection of studies on the modern French theater. Mr. Clark takes up the chief dramatists of France beginning with the Theatre Libre: Curel, Brieux, Hervieu, Lemaitre, Lavedan, Donnay, Porto-Riche, Rostand, Bataille, Bernstein, Capus, Flers, and Caillavet. The book contains numerous quotations from the chief representative plays of each dramatist, a separate chapter on "Characteristics" and the most complete bibliography to be found anywhere._

_This book gives a study of contemporary drama in France which has been more neglected than any other European country._

=Independent, New York=:

"Almost indispensable to the student of the theater."

=Boston Transcript=:

"Mr. Clark's method of analyzing the works of the Playwrights selected is simple and helpful. * * * As a manual for reference or story, 'Contemporary French Dramatists,' with its added bibliographical material, will serve well its purpose."

_Uniform with FOUR PLAYS. Handsomely bound._

_Cloth_ _Net_, $2.50 _3/4 Turkey Morocco_ 8.50

_"European Dramatists"_

By ARCHIBALD HENDERSON

_Author of_ "George Bernard Shaw: His Life and Works."

_In the present work the famous dramatic critic and biographer of Shaw has considered six representative dramatists outside of the United States, some living, some dead--Strindberg, Ibsen, Maeterlinck, Wilde, Shaw, Barker, and Schnitzler._

=Velma Swanston Howard says=:

"Prof. Henderson's appraisal of Strindberg is certainly the fairest, kindest and most impersonal that I have yet seen. The author has that rare combination of intellectual power and spiritual insight which casts a clear, strong light upon all subjects under his treatment."

=Baltimore Evening Sun=:

"Prof. Henderson's criticism is not only notable for its understanding and good sense, but also for the extraordinary range and accuracy of its information."

Jeanette L. Gilder, in the =Chicago Tribune=:

"Henderson is a writer who throws new light on old subjects."

=Chicago Record Herald=:

"His essays in interpretation are welcome. Mr. Henderson has a catholic spirit and writes without parochial prejudice--a thing deplorably rare among American critics of the present day. * * * One finds that one agrees with Mr. Henderson's main contentions and is eager to break a lance with him about minor points, which is only a way of saying that he is stimulating, that he strikes sparks. He knows his age thoroughly and lives in it with eager sympathy and understanding."

=Providence Journal=:

"Henderson has done his work, within its obvious limitations, in an exceedingly competent manner. He has the happy faculty of making his biographical treatment interesting, combining the personal facts and a fairly clear and entertaining portrait of the individual with intelligent critical comment on his artistic work."

_Photogravure frontispiece, handsomely printed and bound, large 12mo_ _Net_, $3.00

_The Changing Drama_

By ARCHIBALD HENDERSON, M.A. Ph.D.

_Author of_ "European Dramatists," "George Bernard Shaw--His Life and Work." Etc.

A vital book, popular in style, cosmopolitan in tone, appraising the drama of the past sixty years, its changes, contributions and tendencies. Has an expression of the larger realities of the art and life of our time.

=E. E. Hale= in _The Dial_: "One of the most widely read dramatic critics of our day; few know as well as he what is 'up' in the dramatic world, what are the currents of present-day thought, what people are thinking, dreaming, doing, or trying to do."

=New York Times=: "Apt, happily allusive, finely informed essays on the dramatists of our own time--his essay style is vigorous and pleasing."

=Book News Monthly=: "Shows clear understanding of the evolution of form and spirit, and the differentiation of the forces--spiritual, intellectual and social--which are making the theatre what it is today ... we can recollect no book of recent times which has such contemporaneousness, yet which regards the subject with such excellent perspective ... almost indispensable to the general student of drama ... a book of rich perspective and sound analysis. The style is simple and direct."

=Geo. Middleton= in _La Follette's_: "The best attempt to formulate the tendencies which the drama is now taking in its evolutionary course."

=Argonaut=: "Marked by insight, discernment and enthusiasm."

_Large 12mo. Dignified binding_ _Net_, $2.50

GEORGE BERNARD SHAW

_HIS LIFE AND WORKS_ A Critical Biography (Authorized)

BY ARCHIBALD HENDERSON, M.A., Ph.D.

With two plates in color (one, the frontispiece, from an autochrome by Alvin Langdon Coburn, the other from a water color by Bernard Partridge), two photogravures, 26 plates on art paper, and numerous illustrations in the text.

In one volume, demy 8vo., cloth and gilt top, net $7.50.

This remarkable book, upon which the author has been at work for more than six years, is the authentic biography of the great Irish dramatist and socialist. In order to give it the authority which any true biography of a living man must possess, Mr. Shaw has aided the author in every possible way. The book is based not only on the voluminous mass of Mr. Shaw's works, published, uncollected in book form or unpublished, but also on extensive data furnished the author by Mr. Shaw in person.

A masterly and monumental volume, it is a history of Art, Music, Literature, Drama, Sociology, Philosophy, and the general development of the Ibsen-Nietzschean Movement in Morals for the last thirty years. The Press are unanimous in their praise of this wonderful work.

Opinions of the work and its author.

_The Bookman_: "A more entertaining narrative whether in biography or fiction has not appeared in recent years."

_The Independent_: "Whatever George Bernard Shaw may think of his Biography the rest of the world will probably agree that Dr. Henderson has done a good job."

_Boston Herald_: "This is probably the most informing and satisfactory biography of this very difficult man that has been written. A thoroughly painstaking work."

#European Dramatists#

_Short Plays_

By MARY MAC MILLAN

_To fill a long-felt want. All have been successfully presented. Suitable for Women's Clubs, Girls' Schools, etc. While elaborate enough for big presentation, they may be given very simply._

=Review of Reviews=:

"Mary MacMillan offers 'SHORT PLAYS,' a collection of pleasant one to three-act plays for women's clubs, girls' schools, and home parlor production. Some are pure comedies, others gentle satires on women's faults and foibles. 'The Futurists,' a skit on a woman's club in the year 1882, is highly amusing. 'Entr' Act' is a charming trifle that brings two quarreling lovers together through a ridiculous private theatrical. 'The Ring' carries us gracefully back to the days of Shakespeare; and 'The Shadowed Star,' the best of the collection, is a Christmas Eve tragedy. The Star is shadowed by our thoughtless inhumanity to those who serve us and our forgetfulness of the needy. The Old Woman, gone daft, who babbles in a kind of mongrel Kiltartan, of the Shepherds, the Blessed Babe, of the Fairies, rowan berries, roses and dancing, while her daughter dies on Christmas Eve, is a splendid characterization."

=Boston Transcript=:

"Those who consigned the writer of these plays to solitude and prison fare evidently knew that 'needs must' is a sharp stimulus to high powers. If we find humor, gay or rich, if we find brilliant wit; if we find constructive ability joined with dialogue which moves like an arrow; if we find delicate and keen characterization, with a touch of genius in the choice of names; if we find poetic power which moves on easy wing--the gentle jailers of the writer are justified, and the gentle reader thanks their severity."

=Salt Lake Tribune=:

"The Plays are ten in number, all of goodly length. We prophesy great things for this gifted dramatist."

=Bookseller, News Dealer & Stationer=:

"The dialogue is permeated with graceful satire, snatches of wit, picturesque phraseology, and tender, often exquisite, expressions of sentiment."

_Handsomely Bound. 12mo. Cloth_ _Net_, $2.50

_More Short Plays_

BY MARY MacMILLAN

Plays that act well may read well. Miss MacMillan's plays are good reading. Nor is literary excellence a detriment to dramatic performance. They were put on the stage before they were put into print. They differ slightly from those in the former volume. Two of them, "The Pioneers," a story of the settlement of the Ohio Valley, and "Honey," a little mountain girl cotton-mill worker, are longer. The other six, "In Mendelesia," Parts I and II, "The Dryad," "The Dress Rehearsal of Hamlet," "At the Church," and "His Second Girl," contain the spirit of humor, something of subtlety, and something of fantasy.

=Brooklyn Daily Eagle=: "Mary MacMillan, whose first volume of short plays proved that she possessed unusual gifts as a dramatist, has justified the hopes of her friends in a second volume, 'More Short Plays,' which reveal the author as the possessor of a charming literary style coupled with a sure dramatic sense that never leads her idea astray.... In them all the reader will find a rich and delicate charm, a bountiful endowment of humor and wit, a penetrating knowledge of human nature, and a deft touch in the drawing of character. They are delicately and sympathetically done and their literary charm is undeniable."

_Uniform with "Short Plays"_ _Net_, $2.50

_Comedies of Words and Other Plays_

BY ARTHUR SCHNITZLER

TRANSLATED BY PIERRE LOVING

{"=The Hour of Recognition=" {"=Great Scenes=" The contents are {"=The Festival of Bacchus=" {"=His Helpmate=" {"=Literature=."

In his "Comedies of Words," Arthur Schnitzler, the great Austrian Dramatist, has penetrated to newer and profounder regions of human psychology. According to Schnitzler, the keenly compelling problems of earth are: the adjustment of a man to one woman, a woman to one man, the children to their parents, the artist to life, the individual to his most cherished beliefs, and how can we accomplish this adjustment when, try as we please, there is a destiny which sweeps our little plans away like helpless chessmen from the board? Since the creation of Anatol, that delightful toy philosopher, so popular in almost every theater of the world, the great Physician-Dramatist has pushed on both as World-Dramatist and reconnoiterer beyond the misty frontiers of man's conscious existence. He has attempted in an artistic way to get beneath what Freud calls the "Psychic Censor" which edits all our suppressed desires. Reading Schnitzler is like going to school to Life itself!

_Bound uniform with the S & K Dramatic Series_, _Net_ $2.50

_The Provincetown Plays_

EDITED BY GEORGE CRAM COOK AND FRANK SHAY

THE CONTENTS ARE:

Alice Rostetter's comedy THE WIDOW'S VEIL James Oppenheim's poetic NIGHT George Cram Cook's and Susan Glaspell's SUPPRESSED DESIRES Eugene O'Neill's play BOUND EAST FOR CARDIFF Edna St. Vincent Millay's ARIA DE CAPO Rita Wellman's STRING OF THE SAMISEN Wilbur D. Steele's satire NOT SMART Floyd Dell's comedy THE ANGEL INTRUDES Hutchin Hapgood's and Neith Boyce's play ENEMIES Pendleton King's COCAINE

Every author, with one exception, has a book or more to his credit. Several are at the top of their profession.

Rita Wellman, a Saturday Evening Post star, has had two or three plays on Broadway, and has a new novel, THE WINGS OF DESIRE.

Cook and Glaspell are well known--he for his novels and Miss Glaspell for novels and plays.

E. Millay is one of America's best minor poets. Steele, according to O'Brien, is America's best short-story writer.

Oppenheim has over a dozen novels, books of poems and essays to his credit.

O'Neill has a play on Broadway now, BEYOND THE HORIZON.

Hutch, Hapgood is author of the STORY OF A LOVER, published by Boni and Liveright anonymously.

_8vo. Silk Cloth, Gilt Top_ _Net_ $3.00

Portmanteau Plays

BY STUART WALKER Edited and with an Introduction by EDWARD HALE BIERSTADT

This volume contains four One Act Plays by the inventor and director of the Portmanteau Theater. They are all included in the regular repertory of the Theater and the four contained in this volume comprise in themselves an evening's bill.

There is also an Introduction by Edward Hale Bierstadt on the Portmanteau Theater in theory and practice.

The book is illustrated by pictures taken from actual presentations of the plays.

The first play, the "=Trimplet=", deals with the search for a certain magic thing called a trimplet which can cure all the ills of whoever finds it. The search and the finding constitute the action of the piece.

Second play, "=Six who Pass While the Lentils Boil=", is perhaps the most popular in Mr. Walker's repertory. The story is of a Queen who, having stepped on the ring-toe of the King's great-aunt, is condemned to die before the clock strikes twelve. The Six who pass the pot in which boil the lentils are on their way to the execution.

Next comes "=Nevertheless=", which tells of a burglar who oddly enough reaches regeneration through two children and a dictionary.

And last of all is the "=Medicine-Show=", which is a character study situated on the banks of the Mississippi. One does not see either the Show or the Mississippi, but the characters are so all sufficient that one does not miss the others.

All of these plays are fanciful--symbolic if you like--but all of them have a very distinct raison d'etre in themselves, quite apart from any ulterior meaning.

With Mr. Walker it is always "the story first," and herein he is at one with Lord Dunsany and others of his ilk. The plays have body, force, and beauty always; and if the reader desires to read in anything else surely that is his privilege.

Each play, and even the Theater itself has a prologue, and with the help of these one is enabled to pass from one charming tale to the next without a break in the continuity.

_With five full-page illustrations on cameo paper._ _12mo. Silk cloth_ $2.50

_More Portmanteau Plays_

BY STUART WALKER Edited and with an Introduction by EDWARD HALE BIERSTADT

The thorough success of the volume entitled "=Portmanteau Plays=" has encouraged the publication of a second series under the title "=More Portmanteau Plays=". This continuation carries on the work begun in the first book, and contains "=The Lady of the Weeping Willow Tree=", one of the finest and most effective pieces Stuart Walker has presented under his own name; "=The Very Naked Boy=", a slight, whimsical, and wholly delightful bit of foolery; "=Jonathan Makes a Wish=", a truly strong three-act work with an appeal of unusual vigor.

_With Six full page illustrations on Cameo Paper._ _12mo. Silk cloth_ $2.00

TO BE PUBLISHED IN 1920

_Portmanteau Adaptations_

BY STUART WALKER Edited and with an Introduction by EDWARD HALE BIERSTADT

The third volume of the Portmanteau Series includes three of Stuart Walker's most successful plays which are either adapted from or based on works by other authors. The first is the ever wonderful "=Gammer Gurton's Needle=", written some hundreds of years ago and now arranged for the use of the modern theater goer. Next comes, "=The Birthday of the Infanta=" from the poignant story of Oscar Wilde (used also by Alfred Noyes in one of his most effective poems), and last of all the widely popular "=Seventeen=" from the story of the same name by Booth Tarkington.

_12mo. Silk cloth_ _Net_, $2.50

* * * * *

TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES:

1. Passages in italics are surrounded by _underscores_.

2. Passages in bold are indicated by =bold=.

3. Misprints in character names have been silently corrected.

4. Punctuation has been normalized for the stage directions and the play listings in the Bibliography.

5. The following misprints have been corrected: "Is sounds as if" corrected to "It sounds as if" (page 31) "What should be" corrected to "What should we" (page 35) "Don't call be" corrected to "Don't call me" (page 60) "I don't now what!" corrected to "I don't know what!" (page 66) "want to see her" corrected to "went to see her" (page 66) "widly" corrected to "wildly" (page 72) "horried" corrected to "horrid" (page 96) "slindly" corrected to "blindly" (page 109) "accept" corrected to "accent" (page 121) "right. don't say" corrected to "right. I don't say" (page 162) "J. H. SPEENHOFF" corrected to "ST. JOHN HANKIN" (page 157) "SENE" corrected to "SCENE" (page 167) "stobbing" corrected to "stabbing" (page 179) "doube" corrected to "doubt" (page 204) "pursuade" corrected to "persuade" (page 209) "dring" corrected to "drink" (page 231) "sits on the soft." corrected to "sits on the sofa." (page 268) "lazzily" corrected to "lazily" (page 347) "rearlize" corrected to "realize" (page 347) "I sounds like" corrected to "It sounds like" (page 357) "come into see" corrected to "come in to see" (page 364) "ot do the decent" corrected to "to do the decent" (page 388) "For heaven't sake" corrected to "For heaven's sake" (page 388) "snuff-pox" corrected to "snuff-box" (page 400) "just bet me are" corrected to "just bet we are" (page 428) "ecstastically" corrected to "ecstatically" (page 428) "crepe" corrected to "crepe" (page 436) "paper ribbins." corrected to "paper ribbons." (page 437) "rupturously" corrected to "rapturously" (page 451) "palid" corrected to "pallid" (page 457) "the the" corrected to "the" (page 459) "port-hale" corrected to "porthole" (page 470) "fierecly" corrected to "fiercely" (page 473) "They why did" corrected to "Then why did" (page 525) "Wilwaukee" corrected to "Milwaukee" (page 530) "a few bille" corrected to "a few bills" (page 531) "if marriage," corrected to "of marriage," (page 547) "TREMENDOUR" corrected to "TREMENDOUS" (page 565) "Pheobe" corrected to "Phoebe" (page 568) "VON HOFFMANSTHALL" corrected to "VON HOFMANNSTHAL" (page 568) "The Legacy. 3 4m" corrected to "The Legacy. c 4m" (page 572) "MATUSO." corrected to "MATSUO." (page 572) "SHAKERPEARE'S" corrected to "SHAKESPEARE'S" (page 579) "volumn" corrected to "volume" (pages 561, 564, 565, 573)

6. Other than the corrections listed above, printer's inconsistencies in spelling, punctuation, hyphenation, and ligature usage have been retained.

End of Project Gutenberg's Fifty Contemporary One-Act Plays, by Various