Part 21
COMEDIAN. A bloody one, if need be.
TRAGEDIAN. [_Dropping his end of the trunk and advancing with a bellicose attitude toward the_ VILLAIN.] And I shall be the first to let your blood, you scoundrel.
VILLAIN. If that's the case I have nothing to say to you. Those who wish, come along.
COMEDIAN. [_Getting in his way._] No, you shall not go until you give up the dollar.
VILLAIN. Ha-ha. It is to laugh!
COMEDIAN. The dollar, please, or----
VILLAIN. He-he-he!
COMEDIAN. Then let there be blood. [_Turns up his sleeves._
TRAGEDIAN. [_Taking off his coat._] Ah! Blood, blood!
"OLD MAN." [_Dropping his end of the trunk._] I'm not going to keep out of a fight.
WOMEN. [_Dropping his satchels._] Nor we. Nor we.
VILLAIN. [_Shouting._] To whom shall I give up the dollar? You--you--you--you?
COMEDIAN. This argument will not work any more. You are to give the dollar up to all of us. At the first opportunity we'll get change and divide it into equal parts.
WOMEN. Hurrah, hurrah! Divide it, divide it!
COMEDIAN. [_To_ VILLAIN.] And I will even be so good as to give you a share.
TRAGEDIAN. I'd rather give him a sound thrashing.
COMEDIAN. It shall be as I say. Give up the dollar.
HEROINE. [_Throwing herself on the_ COMEDIAN'S _breast_.] My comedian! My comedian!
INGENUE. [_To the_ VILLAIN.] I'm sick of you. Give up the dollar.
COMEDIAN. [_Pushing the_ HEROINE _aside_.] You better step aside or else you may get the punch I aim at the master and bread-giver. [_To the_ VILLAIN.] Come up with the dollar!
TRAGEDIAN. Give up the dollar to him, do you hear?
ALL. The dollar, the dollar!
VILLAIN. I'll tear it to pieces.
COMEDIAN. Then we shall tear out what little hair you have left on your head. The dollar, quick!
[_They surround the_ VILLAIN; _the women pull his hair; the_ TRAGEDIAN _grabs him by the collar and shakes him; the_ "OLD MAN" _strikes him on his bald pate; the_ COMEDIAN _struggles with him and finally grasps the dollar_.
COMEDIAN. [_Holding up the dollar._] I have it!
[_The women dance and sing._
VILLAIN. Bandits! Thieves!
TRAGEDIAN. Silence, or I'll shut your mouth.
[_Goes back to the trunk and assumes his heroic pose._
COMEDIAN. [_Putting the dollar into his pocket._] That's what I call a successful and a bloodless revolution, except for a little fright and heart palpitation on the part of the late master and bread-giver. Listen, some one is coming. Perhaps he'll be able to change the dollar and then we can divide it at once.
"OLD MAN." I am puzzled how we can change it into equal parts.
[_Starts to calculate with the_ INGENUE _and the_ "OLD WOMAN."
HEROINE. [_Tenderly attentive to the_ COMEDIAN.] You are angry with me, but I was only playing with him so as to wheedle the dollar out of him.
COMEDIAN. And now you want to trick me out of my share of it.
"OLD MAN." It is impossible to divide it into equal parts. It is absolutely impossible. If it were ninety-eight cents or one hundred and five cents or----
[_The_ STRANGER _enters from the right, perceives the company, greets it, and continues his way to left_. COMEDIAN _stops him_.
COMEDIAN. I beg your pardon, sir; perhaps you have change of a dollar in dimes, nickels, and pennies.
[_Showing the dollar. The_ "OLD MAN" _and women step forward_.
STRANGER. [_Getting slightly nervous, starts somewhat, makes a quick movement for his pistol-pocket, looks at the_ COMEDIAN _and the others and says slowly_.] Change of a dollar? [_Moving from the circle to left._] I believe I have.
WOMEN. Hurrah!
STRANGER. [_Turns so that no one is behind him and pulls his revolver._] Hands up!
COMEDIAN. [_In a gentle tone of voice._] My dear sir, we are altogether peaceful folk.
STRANGER. [_Takes the dollar from the_ COMEDIAN'S _hand and walks backwards to left with the pistol pointed at the group_.] Good-night, everybody.
[_He disappears, the actors remain dumb with fear, with their hands up, mouths wide open, and staring into space._
COMEDIAN. [_Finally breaks out into thunderous laughter._] Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!
CURTAIN
THE DIABOLICAL CIRCLE
BY
BEULAH BORNSTEAD
_The Diabolical Circle_ is reprinted by special permission of Professor Franz Rickaby, in whose course in dramatic composition (English 36) in the University of North Dakota this play was written. For permission to perform, address Professor Franz Rickaby, University of North Dakota, University, North Dakota.
BEULAH BORNSTEAD
Beulah Bornstead, one of the promising young playwrights of the Northwest, was born in Grand Forks, North Dakota, May 5, 1896. She has had her academic training at the University of North Dakota, from which she received her B.A. in 1921. At present Miss Bornstead is principal of the Cavalier High School, North Dakota. Before attempting drama she tried her hand at journalism and at short-story writing.
Miss Bornstead was introduced into playwriting by Professor Franz Rickaby, in whose course in dramatic composition at the University of North Dakota _The Diabolical Circle_ was written. In speaking of this play Miss Bornstead writes: "_The Diabolical Circle_ is the first play I have ever written. I never enjoyed doing anything so much in my life. The characters were so real to me that if I had bumped into one going round the corner I should not have been surprised in the least. BETTY and CHARLES and ADONIJAH and even COTTON MATHER himself worked that play out. All the humble author did was to set it down on paper." _The Diabolical Circle_ was produced May 5, 1921, by the Dakota Playmakers in their Little Theatre at the University of North Dakota.
_The Diabolical Circle_ is one of the best contemporary plays dealing with American historical material. Its characterization is one of its noteworthy elements.
CHARACTERS
COTTON MATHER BETTY, _his daughter_ ADONIJAH WIGGLESWORTH, _a suitor, and_ COTTON'S _choice_ CHARLES MANNING, _likewise a suitor, but_ BETTY'S _choice_ THE CLOCK
THE DIABOLICAL CIRCLE
SCENE: _The living-room in the Mather home in Boston._
TIME: _About 1700, an evening in early autumn._
_The stage represents the living-room of the Mather home. A large colonial fireplace is seen down-stage left, within which stand huge brass andirons. To one side hangs the bellows, with the tongs near by, while above, underneath the mantelpiece, is suspended an old flint-lock rifle. On both ends of the mantel are brass candlesticks, and hanging directly above is an old-fashioned portrait of Betty's mother. There are two doors, one leading into the hall at centre left, the other, communicating with the rest of the house, up-stage right. A straight high-backed settee is down-stage right, while in the centre back towers an old grandfather's clock.[K] To the left of the clock is the window, cross-barred and draped with flowered chintz. An old-fashioned table occupies the corner between the window and the hall door. Here and there are various straight-backed chairs of Dutch origin. Rag rugs cover the floor._
_As the curtain rises_ COTTON MATHER _is seated in a large armchair by the fire, with_ BETTY _on a stool at his feet, with her knitting_.
COTTON, _his hair already touched with the whitening frost of many a severe New England winter, is grave and sedate. Very much exercised with the perils of this life, and serenely contemplative of the life to come, he takes himself and the world about him very seriously._
_Not so with_ MISTRESS BETTY. _Outwardly demure, yet inwardly rebellious against the straitened conventions of the times, she dimples over with roguish merriment upon the slightest provocation._
_As we first see them_ COTTON _is giving_ BETTY _some timely advice_.
COTTON. But you must understand that marriage, my daughter, is a most reverend and serious matter which should be approached in a manner fittingly considerate of its grave responsibility.
BETTY. [_Thoughtfully._] Truly reverend and most serious, father [_looking up roguishly_], but I like not so much of the grave about it.
COTTON. [_Continuing._] I fear thou lookest upon the matter too lightly. It is not seemly to treat such a momentous occasion thus flippantly.
BETTY. [_Protesting._] Nay, father, why consider it at all? Marriage is yet a great way off. Mayhap I shall never leave thee.
COTTON. Thou little thinkest that I may be suddenly called on to leave _thee_. The Good Word cautions us to boast not ourselves of the morrow, for we know not what a day may bring forth.
BETTY. [_Dropping her knitting._] Father, thou art not feeling well. Perhaps----
COTTON. Nay, child, be not alarmed. 'Tis but a most necessary lesson to be learned and laid up in the heart. I will not always be with thee and I would like to be comfortably assured of thy future welfare before I go.
BETTY. [_Picking her knitting up._] Be comfortably assured, then, I prithee; I have no fears.
COTTON. [_Bringing his arm down forcibly on the arm of the chair._] Aye! There it is. Thou hast no fears. Would that thou had'st some! [_Looks up at the portrait._] Had thy prudent and virtuous mother only lived to point the way, I might be spared this anxiety; but, beset by diverse difficulties in establishing the kingdom of God in this country, and sorely harassed by many hardships and by evil men, I fear me I have not propounded to thee much that I ought.
BETTY. In what then is mine education lacking? Have I not all that is fitting and proper for a maiden to know?
COTTON. [_Perplexed._] I know not. I have done my best, but thou hast not the proper attitude of mind befitting a maiden about to enter the married estate.
BETTY. [_Protesting._] Nay, but I am not about to enter the married estate.
COTTON. It is time.
BETTY. [_Mockingly pleading._] Entreat me not to leave thee, father, nor forsake thee; for whither thou goest I will go, and whither----
COTTON. [_Interrupting sternly._] Betty! It ill befitteth a daughter of mine to quote the Scriptures with such seeming irreverence.--I would not be parted from thee, yet I would that thou wert promised to some godly and upright soul that would guide thee yet more surely in the paths of righteousness. There be many such.
BETTY. Yea, too many.
COTTON. What meanest thou?
BETTY. One were one too many when I would have none.
COTTON. [_Shaking his head._] Ah. Betty, Betty! When wilt thou be serious? There is a goodly youth among the friends surrounding thee whom I have often marked, both on account of his godly demeanor and simple wisdom.
BETTY. [_Nodding._] Yea, simple.
COTTON. I speak of Adonijah Wigglesworth, a most estimable young gentleman, an acquaintance whom thou would'st do well to cultivate.
BETTY. Yea, cultivate.
COTTON. What thinkest thou?
BETTY. A sod too dense for any ploughshare. My wit would break in the turning.
COTTON. His is a strong nature, born to drive and not be driven. There is not such another, nay, not in the whole of Boston.
BETTY. Nay. I have lately heard there be many such!
COTTON. [_Testily._] Mayhap thou wouldst name a few.
BETTY. [_Musingly, holds up her left hand with fingers outspread._] Aye, that I can. [_Checks off one on the little finger._] There be Marcus Ainslee----
COTTON. A goodly youth that hath an eye for books.
BETTY. One eye, sayest thou? Nay, four; and since I am neither morocco bound nor edged with gilt, let us consign him to the shelf wherein he findeth fullest compensation.
COTTON. How now? A man of action, then, should appeal to thy brash tastes. What sayest thou to Jeremiah Wadsworth?
BETTY. Too brash and rash for me [_checking off that candidate on the next finger_], and I'll have none of him. There's Percy Wayne.
COTTON. Of the bluest blood in Boston.
BETTY. Yet that be not everything [_checks off another finger_]--and Jonas Appleby----
COTTON. He hath an eye to worldly goods----
BETTY. [_Quickly._] Especially the larder. To marry him would be an everlasting round between the tankard and the kettle. [_Checks him off._] Nay, let me look yet farther--James Endicott. [_Checking._]
COTTON. Aye, there might be a lad for thee; birth, breeding, a well-favored countenance, and most agreeable.
BETTY. Yea, most agreeable--unto himself. 'Twere a pity to disturb such unanimity. Therefore, let us pass on. Take Charles Manning, an you please----
COTTON. It pleaseth me not! I know the ilk; his father before him a devoted servant of the devil and King Charles. With others of his kind he hath brought dissension among the young men of Harvard, many of whom are dedicated to the service of the Lord, with his wicked apparel and ungodly fashion of wearing long hair after the manner of Russians and barbarous Indians. Many there be with him brought up in such pride as doth in no ways become the service of the Lord. The devil himself hath laid hold on our young men, so that they do evaporate senseless, useless, noisy impertinency wherever they may be; and now it has e'en got out in the pulpits of the land, to the great grief and fear of many godly hearts.
[_He starts to his feet and paces the floor._
BETTY. [_Standing upright._] But Charles----
COTTON. [_Interrupting._] Mention not that scapegrace in my hearing.
BETTY. [_Still persisting._] But, father, truly thou knowest not----
COTTON. [_Almost savagely, while_ BETTY _retreats to a safe distance_.] Name him not. I will not have it. Compared with Adonijah he is a reed shaken in the winds, whereas Adonijah resembleth a tree planted by the river of waters.
BETTY. [_Who has been looking out of the window._] Converse of the devil and thou wilt behold his horns. Even now he approacheth the knocker.
[_The knocker sounds._
COTTON. [_Sternly._] Betake thyself to thine own chamber with thine unseemly tongue, which so ill befitteth a maid.
[BETTY _is very demure, with head slightly bent and downcast eyes; but the moment_ COTTON _turns she glances roguishly after his retreating form; then while her glance revolves about the room, she starts slightly as her gaze falls upon the clock. A smile of mischievous delight flits over her countenance as she tiptoes in_ COTTON'S _wake until the clock is reached_. COTTON, _unsuspecting, meanwhile, proceeds to do his duty as host, with never a backward glance. While he is out in the hall_ BETTY, _with a lingering smile of triumph, climbs into the clock and cautiously peeks forth as her father opens the door and ushers in_ ADONIJAH, _whereupon the door softly closes_.
ADONIJAH. Good-morrow, reverend sir.
COTTON. Enter, and doubly welcome.
ADONIJAH. I would inquire whether thy daughter Betty is within.
COTTON. We were but speaking of thee as thy knock sounded. Betty will be here presently; she hath but retired for the moment. Remove thy wraps and make thyself in comfort.
[ADONIJAH _is a lean, lank, lantern-jawed individual, clad in the conventional sober gray of the Puritan, with high-crowned hat, and a fur tippet wound about his neck up to his ears. He removes the hat and tippet and hands them to_ COTTON, _who carefully places them upon the table; meanwhile_ ADONIJAH _looks appraisingly about him and judiciously selects the armchair by the fire. He pauses a moment to rub his hands before the blaze, and then gingerly relaxes into the depths of the armchair, as though fearful his comfort would give way ere fully attained._ COTTON _places a chair on the other side of_ ADONIJAH _and is seated_.
COTTON. And how is it with thee since I have seen thee last?
ADONIJAH. My business prospereth [_mournfully_], but not so finely as it might well do.
[_The clock strikes four, but is unnoticed by the two men._
COTTON. Thou hast suffered some great loss?
ADONIJAH. But yes--and no--this matter of lending money hath many and grievous complications, not the least of which is the duplicity of the borrower. I but insist on the thirty pounds to the hundred as my due recompense, and when I demand it they respond not, but let my kindness lie under the clods of ingratitude. [_Straightening up, and speaking with conviction._] They shall come before the council. I will have what is mine own.
COTTON. [_Righteously._] And it is not unbecoming of thee to demand it. I wist not what the present generation is coming to.
ADONIJAH. They have no sense of the value of money. They know not how to demean themselves properly in due proportion to their worldly goods, as the Lord hath prospered them. There be many that have nothing and do hold their heads above us that be worthy of our possessions.
COTTON. The wicked stand in slippery places. It will not always be thus. Judgment shall come upon them.
ADONIJAH. Aye, let them fall. I for one have upheld them too far. They squander their means in riotous living, and walk not in the ways of their fathers.
COTTON. There be many such--many such--but thou, my lad, thou art not one of the multitude. As I have often observed to my Betty, thou standest out as a most upright and God-fearing young man.
ADONIJAH. [_Brimming over with self-satisfaction._] That have I ever sought to be.
COTTON. An example that others would do well to imitate.
ADONIJAH. [_All puffed up._] Nay, others value it not. They be envious of my good fortune.
COTTON. A most prudent young man! Nay, be not so over-blushingly timid. Thou'rt too modest.
ADONIJAH. [_His face falling._] But Betty--doth she regard me thus?
COTTON. The ways of a maid are past finding out; but despair not. I think she hath thee much to heart, but, as the perverse heart of woman dictateth, behaveth much to the contrary.
ADONIJAH. [_Brightening up as one with new hopes._] Thou thinkest----
COTTON. [_Interrupting._] Nay, lad, I am sure of it. Betty was ever a dutiful daughter.
[_All unseen_, BETTY _peeks out mischievously_.
ADONIJAH. But I mistrust me her heart is elsewhere.
COTTON. Thou referr'st to young Manning without doubt. It can never be. 'Tis but a passing fancy.
ADONIJAH. Nay, but I fear Charles thinketh not so. I have been told in secret [_leaning forward confidentially_] by one that hath every opportunity to know, that he hath enjoined Goodman Shrewsbury to send for--[_impressively_] a ring!
COTTON. [_Angered._] A ring, sayest thou?
ADONIJAH. [_Nodding._] Aye, even so.
COTTON. But he hath not signified such intention here to me.
ADONIJAH. Then there are no grounds for his rash presumption?
COTTON. Humph! Grounds! For a ring! Aye, there'll be no diabolical circle here for the devil to daunce in. I will question Betty thereon. [_Rises._] Do thou remain here and I will send her to thee. Oh, that he should offer daughter of mine a ring!
[COTTON _leaves the room_. ADONIJAH _leans back in his chair in supreme contentment at the turn affairs have taken. The clamorous knocker arouses him from his reverie. He gazes stupidly around. The continued imperious tattoo on the knocker finally brings him to his feet. He goes into the hall and opens the door. His voice is heard._
ADONIJAH. [_Frostily._] Good-afternoon, Sir Charles, mine host is absent.
CHARLES. [_Stepping in._] My mission has rather to do with Mistress Betty. Is she in?
ADONIJAH. [_Closing the hall door, and turning to_ CHARLES, _replies in grandiose hauteur_.] Mistress Betty is otherwise engaged, I would have thee know.
CHARLES. Engaged? [_Bowing._] Your humble servant, I trust, hath the supreme pleasure of that engagement.
[_He glances inquiringly about the room, and places the hat on the table beside that of_ ADONIJAH. _The two hats are as different as the two men_: ADONIJAH'S _prim, Puritanic, severe_; CHARLES'S _three-cornered, with a flowing plume_.
[CHARLES _is a handsome chap of goodly proportions, with a straightforward air and a pleasant smile. He is dressed more after the fashion of the cavaliers of Virginia, and wears a long wig with flowing curls. The two men size each other up._
ADONIJAH. [_Meaningly._] Her father will shortly arrive.
CHARLES. [_Impatiently striding forth._] Devil take her father. 'Tis Mistress Betty I would see. Where is she?
[CHARLES _continues pacing the floor_. ADONIJAH, _shocked beyond measure, turns his back on the offending_ CHARLES, _and with folded arms and bowed head stands aside in profound meditation. The clock door slowly opens and_ BETTY _cautiously peeks out_. CHARLES _stops short and is about to begin a decided demonstration, when_ BETTY, _with a warning glance toward_ ADONIJAH, _checks him with upraised hand. The clock door closes and_ CHARLES _subsides into the armchair with a comprehending grin of delight_. ADONIJAH _slowly turns and faces_ CHARLES _with a melancholy air_.
CHARLES. Prithee, why so sad?
[_The grin becomes a chuckle._
ADONIJAH. I do discern no cause for such unrighteous merriment.
CHARLES. 'Tis none the less for all of that. I take life as I find it, and for that matter so do they all, even thou. The difference be in the finding. [_Whistles._
ADONIJAH. [_Uneasily._] It is time her father did arrive.
CHARLES. Where then hath he been?
ADONIJAH. He but went in search of Betty.
CHARLES. Ah, then we'll wait.
[_He whistles, while_ ADONIJAH _moves uneasily about the room, glancing every now and then at this disturbing element of his peace, as if he would send him to kingdom come, if he only could_.
ADONIJAH. [_After considerable toleration._] Waiting may avail thee naught.
CHARLES. And thee? Nevertheless we'll wait. [_Whistles._
ADONIJAH. [_Takes another turn or two and fetches up a counterfeit sigh._] Methinks, her father's quest be fruitless.
CHARLES. [_Starting up._] Ah, then, let us go.
[ADONIJAH., _visibly relieved, sits down in the chair opposite_.
CHARLES. [_Amused._] Nay? [_Sits down and relaxes._] Ah, then, we'll wait. [_Whistles._
ADONIJAH. [_Troubled._] 'Tis certain Mistress Betty be not here.
CHARLES. Nay, if she be not here, then I am neither here nor there. I would wager ten pounds to a farthing she be revealed in time if she but will it. Wilt take me up?
ADONIJAH. It be not seemly so to stake thy fortune on a woman's whim.
CHARLES. [_Laughs._] Thou'rt right on it. If she will, say I, for if she will she won't, and if she won't she will.
ADONIJAH. False jargon! A woman has no will but e'en her father's as a maid, her husband's later still.
[_Enter_ COTTON, _who stops short on seeing_ CHARLES, _rallies quickly, and proceeds_.
COTTON. [_Stiffly._] Good-day to you, sir.
CHARLES. [_Bowing; he has risen._] And to you, sire.
COTTON. [_To_ ADONIJAH.] I am deeply grieved to report that Mistress Betty is not to be found.
[ADONIJAH. _steals a sly look of triumph at_ CHARLES.
CHARLES. [_In mock solemnity._] I prithee present my deep regrets to Mistress Betty. I will call again.
COTTON. God speed thee! [_And as_ CHARLES _takes his leave_ COTTON _places his hand affectionately upon_ ADONIJAH'S _shoulder, saying reassuringly_.] Come again, my son; Betty may not be afar off. I fain would have her soon persuaded of thy worth. Improve thy time.
ADONIJAH. [_Beaming._] Good morrow, sir; I will.
[_As the door closes behind them_ COTTON _slowly walks toward the fire, where he stands in complete revery. Still absorbed in thought he walks slowly out the door at the right._ BETTY _peeks cautiously out, but hearing footsteps quickly withdraws_. COTTON _re-enters with hat on. He is talking to himself, reflectively._
COTTON. Where can she be? Mayhap at Neighbor Ainslee's.
[_He goes hurriedly out through the hall door. The banging of the outside door is heard. The clock door once more slowly opens and_ BETTY _peers forth, listening. The sound of a door opening causes her to draw back. As the noise is further emphasized by approaching footsteps, she pulls the clock door quickly to._ CHARLES _enters. He looks inquiringly about, tosses his hat on the table, and goes for the clock. He opens it with a gay laugh._ BETTY _steps forth out of the clock, very much assisted by_ CHARLES.
CHARLES. Blessed relief! Thou art in very truth, then, flesh and blood?
BETTY. And what else should I be, forsooth?
CHARLES. [_Laughing._] I marked thee for a mummy there entombed.