Part 2

_Joe_: He was a big black man, big as me; proud feller, his grandaddy was a king in de Congo. Yes, suh, Misteh Porteh, suh, you needn’t laugh, dat’s a fact; dey was lots o great men captured an sold to be slaves. Uncle Caesar, dey call him, an he wore a long coat like de ginrals in Ginral Lee’s army. It was ole and patched, an de rain had washed it an de sun had faded it, but you could see it was a ginral’s coat—gold lace an tassels on it, an when dey was all gone, mah ole daddy he was boun to show it was a ginral’s coat, so he had mah mammy sew on rope to make loops an tassels an eppilets an things. An he would have to git himself tied up in it wid twine, cause all de buttons was gone, only one las button up near de top, a fine yelleh button, big as a half dollar. Yes suh, dat was a sho fine coat—Ah reckon mah ole daddy he wear it befo de throne of grace, cause dey done buried him in it. He stan by de do’ of de hack, wid his whip in one han an a ole feather duster in de odder, an he make like to dust off de seat of de hack, an he say: “Step right in, suh; aint a speck of dust in it—jes got back from a funeral, suh. Kyar you anywhere in de town fo fifty cents.” He sho knew how to git de money out of genlemen.

_Porter_: I know, I’ve had them operate on me. I can see a whole mob of them, lined up in front of a depot; they come charging at you—like a race riot, a company of freedmen, or Arabs, or Zulus, armed with whips.

_Joe_: Jes so, boss; jes so!

_Porter_: Uncle Caesar, as you describe him, might be the old hackman who drove me and Miss Athol Estes, that summer night when we ran away to get married. I was afraid the old hack would fall to pieces at the next bump. We hadn’t very far to go—for Miss Athol sang in the choir of the Presbyterian church, and the minister was good enough to marry us. One thing more; tell me what Major Caswell looked like.

_Joe_: De Major? He was one of dese fellers dat hunt roun in a hotel lobby, like a starved dog lookin fo a bone. He would hit a spittoon wid a squirt of tobacco juice farther’n any man in de place. He was always fightin de war oveh—I heerd de Judge tell him once, he was one of dese perfessional Southerners. He had a big face, kindeh red an pulpy-like, an sleepy. I tell you who he look like, dat convict feller what was cursin at de doctor jes now. You could take him fo de Major on a dark night. (_a voice calling, off-stage right: “Joe!”_) Da’s de capn! (_calls_) Yes, boss!

_Porter_: See here, you black-skinned rascal, if you tell anybody what we’ve been talking about, I’ll take the ebony hide off you!

_Joe_ (_grins_): Naw, suh, Misteh Porteh, suh, Ah knows mah place. Us Southerners got to stan together. You lemme be yo body-servant, Ah take care of you like you belonged to de Jedge Adair famly! (_moves reluctantly towards exit_) You was in de drug business befo you come hyar, Misteh Porteh?

_Porter_: When I was a lad I worked five years in my uncle’s drug-store.

_Joe_: Ah bet you like to member dem days!

_Porter_: It was the little town of Greensboro. You know how it is down South in the springtime, the sweet odor of the honeysuckle, and the mocking-birds singing; this time in the evening there’s chairs in front of the store, and the girls come in their white muslin dresses, and the perfumes you sold them yesterday now make you kind of drunk while you’re squirting out vanilla and strawberry flavors! And Babe Harmony, clerk to the justice of the peace, has fetched his old guitar. (_faint sound of music: “Carry me back to old Virginny.”_) He’s singing wha de cotton and de golden taters grow—

_Joe_ (_waving his hands_): Oh, Misteh Porteh, doan tell me bout dem things, you make me spen de whole night cryin! Ah got to hustle, boss, Ah dassn linger, Ah doan want to spen dem extra six years an eight months in de state of Ohio! (_runs off right; the music continues faintly_)

_Porter_ (_sits at desk, in meditation_): A Municipal Report. Nashville, Tennessee. What have I got about Nashville? That old atlas, perhaps! (_digs out atlas from under a pile of books_) T-E—Tennessee—Nashville. (_reading slowly_) “Nashville, a city, port of delivery, and the capital of the State of Tennessee, is on the Cumberland River, and on the N. C. & St. L. and the L. & N. railroads. This city is regarded as the most important educational center in the South.” Umm‑m‑m‑. “Nashville occupies a foremost place among the manufacturing centers of the country. It is the fifth boot and shoe market in the United States, the largest candy and cracker manufacturing city in the South, and does an enormous wholesale drygoods, grocery and drug business.” That’s bully! (_sits lost in thought; gradually the lights shift to pale violet color_) Uncle Caesar! His grandaddy was a king in the Congo! (_Uncle Caesar enters at right, silently, like a ghost. Music: “Old black Joe.” He is Joe, the convict, made up in the role of his old father, with a woolly grey wig, a dilapidated coachman’s hat, and the extraordinary “ginral’s coat” previously described. He carries a coachman’s whip in one hand, and a feather duster in the other._) He must have got that coat from some Confederate officers. It was worn all through the war, it has been in battles. And that one button, that yellow button, big as a half a dollar, the last of the tribe, reminder of the dead glory. He looks out for customers, he hunts them as his grandaddy used to hunt heads in the Congo. He’s one of the crowd of hackmen—he storms down on you like a race riot, a company of freedmen, or Arabs, or Zulus, armed with whips!

(_Uncle Caesar looks about, with growing energy and excitement; appearing to discover Porter, he stretches out the whip, crying_): Kyar you anywhere in de town, boss, fo fifty cents! (_he dusts an imaginary hack with his duster_) Step right in, suh; aint a speck of dust in it—jes got back from a funeral.

_Porter_: Driver, take me to the home of Miss Azalea Adair.

_Uncle Caesar_ (_stretches out his arm, as if barring Porter’s way; an expression of suspicion and enmity on his face_): What’s dat? (_then, recovering himself, with blandishing air_) What you gwine da fo, boss?

_Porter_: What’s that to you?

_Uncle Caesar_: Nothin, suh, jes nuthin. Only it’s a lonesome kind of part of town and few folks ever has business out dah. Step right in, de seats is clean.

_Porter_: All right; if that old hack of yours don’t fall to pieces at the next bump. (_a pause; Porter turns his eyes to the atlas, and reads_). “The city has an area of 10 square miles; 181 miles of streets, of which 137 are paved; a system of waterworks which cost $2,000,000, with 77 miles of mains.” (_takes out his purse, rises, and offers Uncle Caesar a half and a quarter dollar_) Here’s a quarter extra for you.

_Uncle Caesar_: It’s two dollars, suh.

_Porter_: How’s that? I plainly heard you call out: “Fifty cents to any part of the town.”

_Uncle Caesar_: It’s two dollars, suh. It’s a long way from de hotel.

_Porter_: It’s within the city limits, and well within them. Don’t think that you have picked up a greenhorn Yankee. Do you see those hills over there in the East? Well, I was born on the other side, in North Carolina. You old fool nigger, can’t you tell people from other people when you see ’em?

_Uncle Caesar_ (_grins_): Is you from de South, suh? Ah reckon it was dem shoes of yourn fooled me. Dey is somethin sharp on de toes fo a Southern genleman to wear.

_Porter_: Then the charge is fifty cents, I suppose?

_Uncle Caesar_: Boss, fifty cents is right; but Ah needs two dollars, suh; Ah’m _bleeged_ to have two dollars. Ah ain’t _demandin_ it now, suh; after Ah knows whah you’s from; Ah’m jes sayin dat Ah _has_ to have two dollars tonight, and business is mighty po.

_Porter_: (_reaches for his pocket_) You confounded old rascal, you ought to be turned over to the police. But you know; you know; YOU KNOW!

_Uncle Caesar_: Yes, boss, Ah knows; Ah knows; AH KNOWS! (_bowing and scraping, slides into the background_)

_Porter_ (_returns to study of the atlas; reads_): “In November, 1864, the Confederate General Hood advanced against Nashville, where he shut up a National force under General Thomas. The latter then sallied forth and defeated the Confederates in a terrible conflict.” That’s the history of it; but that wouldn’t satisfy Major Caswell. He’s a professional Southerner. A good phrase! I know the type. When he bangs the bar with his fist, the first gun at Fort Sumter re-echoes. When he fires the last one at Appomattox, I begin to hope for a chance to get away! (_Major Caswell enters right, silently; he is the convict Purzon, made up as a Southern gentleman, with a string tie, a slouch hat and a Prince Albert; he stands in shadow, barely visible; behind him is the frail figure of a woman, still less visible_). But he twists the wrist of a woman! The rat with the blabbing lip! (_the Major turns upon the woman and enacts the role of twisting her wrist and taking some money from her by force; she moans feebly_) But she’s too proud to make a sound! She’s a Southern lady—God bless her—and she hides her grief from the world! (_the woman sinks to the ground, invisible in the darkness; the Major comes forward, holding the money in his hand; he counts it with exultation_)

_The Major_: Fifty dollars! A real haul that time! I can live like a gentleman fo once. Step up, suh, say the word, suh, the drinks are on me. The South comes back to her own! The guns of Fort Sumter re-echo again! The Confederate General Hood drives the damn Yankees in rout befo him, and Nashville is free once mo, a place fit fo a gentleman to live in. What’ll you have, Colonel?

(_Uncle Caesar has been crouching in the shadows, watching the scene. He now steals out with a butcher knife in his hand and leaps upon the Major, who turns and defends himself, trying to hold the Negro off. In the struggle the Major tears the button from Uncle Caesar’s coat; as the Negro stabs him, he falls, clutching the button in his hand. Uncle Caesar takes the money from him, and then steals off_).

_Porter_ (_has been watching the drama with excitement, now and then gesturing as if he were directing the actions of the players; he now advances, gazing upon the body_): Stabbed him to the heart! A white man he was, and the old Negro slave killed him! But he leaves a clue—see, the Major has torn the one last button from the old Negro’s coat, and he holds that button in his dead hand! That’s where I come upon the scene—I’ll be the man from New York who brings the fifty dollars to Miss Azalea Adair. I discover how Major Caswell robbed his wife; I know that the Negro will take the money back to her; so I take that button out of the Major’s hand—(_he stoops and takes the button_) So when the police come and find the body, they don’t know what to make of it! (_two policemen enter silently; they discover the body, make a swift investigation, and then pick up the body and carry it off, right_) And so the old Negro escapes, and dies in his bed with the preacher praying over him, and the angels waiting for his soul. And something has happened—(_exulting_)—a drama! A real story—in Nashville, Tennessee! (_a pause_) Oh, they’ll have to take that story! That’s a masterpiece, and I know it! I’ll get money for that—and buy Margaret a real present. What’ll it be? A pony, perhaps! No, that would cost too much to keep. It’ll be a doll, the most beautiful doll in the very fanciest shop in New York. Margaret, dear, how would you like to have a doll—a big one in a pink crepe dress, with pink ribbons in her hair—and when you lay her down she closes her eyes, and when you squeeze her she says “Mamma!”

(_Margaret enters, at left, moving softly, in dream fashion; a frail, sensitive, eager child, dressed in white muslin; she carries the big doll as described, and gazes at it with ecstasy. Music._)

_Porter_: Do you like it, dear?

_Margaret_: Oh, Papa, she’s so sweet! Just listen! (_she squeezes the doll, which says “Mamma!”_) She says “Mamma!” Oh, I wish Mamma could be here to hear her! (_runs to Porter_) But you’re here. Papa! You’ve come back to me. Have you come to stay?

_Porter_: Yes, sweetheart, never to go away.

_Margaret_: Oh, Papa, I’ve missed you so! Why did you stay so long?

_Porter_: That’s a sad story, dear.

_Margaret_: They wouldn’t tell me a thing about it—where you were or what you were doing.

_Porter_: Listen, dear, it’s hard for me to tell you, but I have to tell you some day. You’ll never doubt Papa, will you?

_Margaret_: Doubt you, Papa?

_Porter_: No, of course not. It’s something very cruel, and I hate to make you unhappy, but you must know, you must! All those years—three and more while Papa was away from you—they had put him in prison.

_Margaret_ (_horrified_): In prison!

_Porter_: Yes, dear. There were people who accused Papa of taking some money that didn’t belong to him—money from a bank. But listen, Margaret, dear, you’ll never doubt what Papa tells you—

_Margaret_ (_wide-eyed_): Why, of course not, Papa!

_Porter_: I want you to know that Papa never got that money. Other people got it and they blamed it on him. They ran the bank carelessly, and Papa was never a good hand to take care of money, you know. And Mamma was ill, we had many dreadful troubles. When they accused Papa—oh, it was cruel, with things about it in the newspapers, and Papa had to go into court, and be charged with it, and have to tell things about other people that he couldn’t bear to tell. I ought to have gone, Margaret, dear, I ought to have faced it out and told everything. But I always hated money so, and money matters—I was on my way to the trial, and I fell into a sort of panic, I just couldn’t face it, I went to New Orleans and took a steamer to Central America. You remember the first time Papa was away, for half a year—you were young then—

_Margaret_: I remember it, Papa. Mamma and I packed up your overcoat, and some good things to eat, and sent them to you.

_Porter_: I had been traveling all over Central America and South America and Mexico. First I thought I could get some sort of little home there, and have you and Mamma come; but I couldn’t earn a living there, and I was so unhappy. Then I learned that Mamma was worse—at the very time she packed that overcoat she was hardly able to move. So I got desperate, I didn’t care what happened to me, I came back, and Mamma died in my arms. And then I gave myself up, I let them take me and try me in court. I sat and hardly knew what was happening to me; I didn’t say a word that I might have said in my own defense. My heart was breaking, dear, but I couldn’t let you know it—I had to pretend to be happy, and make jokes, and tell you I’d be back soon—(_he sobs, and the child with him_) I had to tell grandma and grandpa to hide from you where I was, and wait until I came out. I wanted to tell you with my own lips, so you would know Papa was innocent—

_Margaret_: Of course, Papa! Of course!

_Porter_: Oh, sweetheart, I can never tell you about that place, and what I suffered there. Only one thing kept me alive—the thought that some day I’d be with you again. All the time I was in the prison I used to write stories—I was the night drug-clerk, I slept in the day-time and was on duty at night, and I’d spend long hours writing stories. Some of them were published—and do you know what I spent the money for? To send presents to you! That lovely dolly—I spent hours thinking about that dolly, and how happy it would make you. I used to sit at my desk and imagine you with that dolly, all the sweet things you’d say to it—

_Margaret_ (_gazing enraptured at the doll_): Oh, such a sweet dolly! Oh, Papa—did you know, when you lay her down she shuts her eyes, and that makes it easy to play she’s asleep! And when you squeeze her she says “Mamma!” Do you suppose I could teach her to say “Papa”?

_Porter_: Maybe I can find another that will say “Papa!”

_Margaret_: And a baby dolly, and a mammy dolly to take care of her! A whole dolly family! Oh! Oh! (_claps her hands_) And Papa! Such a lovely pink dress! I’m going to make her an every-day dress, because this is too fine except for parties.

_Porter_: Do you know what that dress reminds me of, Margaret? The one your Mamma wore the day we were married.

_Margaret_: Tell me about it!

_Porter_: Well, you see, grandma and grandpa didn’t want Mamma to marry, because she wasn’t well, even in those young days. But we just loved each other too much, so we ran away, and were married by the Reverend Mr. Smoot of the Presbyterian church, where Mamma sang in the choir. It was a day in the summertime—in Texas; I can see Mamma in the lovely pink crepe dress, soft and fluffy—

(_Athol enters, right, as described, a frail delicate girl of eighteen, wearing a pink dress to match that of the doll. Music: “Silver threads among the gold.”_)

She was the loveliest thing in the whole wide state of Texas that morning—and Texas is a wide state, I tell you! I was thinking about her last night, and I wrote: (_he reads from manuscript, and meantime Margaret slips back into the shadows, and Athol comes forward, manifesting pleasure in the words_). “The Bride! Word of words in the epiphany of life and love. The scent of the flowers, the booty of the bee, the primal drip of spring waters, the overture of the lark, the twist of lemon peel on the cocktail of creation—such is the bride. Holy is the wife; revered the mother; galluptious is the summer girl—but the bride is the certified check among the wedding presents that gods send in when man is married to mortality.... Dear kind fairy, please cut out those orders for money and 40 H. P. touring cars and fame and a new growth of hair and the presidency of the boat club. Instead of any of them turn backward—oh, turn backward and give us just a teeny-weeny bit of our wedding trip over again. Just an hour, dear fairy, so we can remember how the grass and poplar trees looked, and the bow of those bonnet strings tied beneath her chin.”

_Porter_ (_rises and goes to Athol_): Dearest! You have come!

_Athol_: For always, Will.

_Porter_: For always, and for happiness.

_Athol_: You’re going to be good to me, Will?

_Porter_: With the goodness of a whole choir of angels, and the choir of the First Presbyterian Church thrown in! The goodness of a case of the finest old silk-velvet Kentucky Bourbon, with due accompaniments of sugar, mint and ice—

_Athol_: Oh, Will, what a metaphor! You know what you promised me about your fondness for Bourbon!

_Porter_: Let it be inscribed—a promissory note—on the back of our marriage certificate.

_Athol_: It is inscribed on my heart, Will—

_Porter_: Where I shall read it most frequently! Marriages are laundered in heaven, their promises sprinkled by the celestial water-wagon—

_Espiritu de la Vina_ (_enters left; a Spanish girl with vivid brunette coloring, clad in scanty dancer’s costume of scarlet and orange. She carries castanets, with which she emphasizes her mockery. She passes, ogling Porter, and singing_)

A beber, a beber, a apurar Las Copas de licor Que el vino hara olvidar Las penas del amor.

_Athol_: Will, who is that woman?

_Porter_: A Mexican girl I used to know—a long time ago, dear, when I was ranching—

_Athol_: Why should you know such a woman?

_Porter_: It was before I met you, dearest. There was no disloyalty to you.

_Athol_: But, Will—

_Porter_: Every man has a temptation, Athol; and she was mine. I have resisted her; I shall always resist her—more easily with you by my side.

_Athol_: What is her name?

_Porter_: Espiritu, they call her—Espiritu de la Vina. She is gay, and men flock to her—but I have chosen the water-wagon for my chariot to heaven!

(_Espiritu dances off left, with a burst of mocking laughter_)

_Porter_ (_to Athol_): Dearest love, there is no one in the world for me but you. We have a lifetime of bliss before us. (_he looks about impatiently_) Where’s that old nigger hackman? He swore he’d be here on time! (_shouts_) Hey, there, you good-for-nothing old grandson of a bob-tailed monkey, what do you mean by being late when you know I’m trying to elope with the sweetest girl in the whole wide state of Texas?

_Caesar_ (_runs on, right_): Yes, boss, here Ah is, Johnny on de spot! (_makes as if to dust off the seat of a carriage_) Step right in, suh; aint a speck of dust in it—jes got back from a funeral, suh. Kyar you anywhere in de town fo fifty cents. Dis de young lady? She’s a sho nuff sweet bride! Right dis way, Miss, de preacher is a-waiting! (_Music: Lohengrin wedding march. The Negro offers her his arm, gallantly, and leads her off, right, as if escorting her to the coach_) Dis way, ma’am, dis way to de weddin festivities!

(_Porter stands gazing after them, yearningly. Gradually the white light returns; a brisk step is heard_)

_Dr. Walters_ (_night physician of the prison, a young man, enters left_): Well, Porter?

_Porter_: Good evening, doctor.

_Dr. Walters_: Everything all right?

_Porter_: A few men dying, as you know.

_Dr. Walters_: I hear that poor fellow, Jimmie Valentine, is laid up again. Wonder how he hangs on.

_Porter_: It’s a poor place for his kind of trouble.

_Dr. Walters_: Yes, they all ought to be out in the sunshine. But then they’d all run away. So what can you do?

_Porter_: I have no answer for that, doctor.

_Dr. Walters_: They say Jimmie Valentine was a first-class safe-cracker.

_Porter_: So he tells me.

_Dr. Walters_: Used to make a specialty of opening a safe in a few seconds, they say—he had a trick all his own. Well, he’ll have a chance to try his skill on the golden gates.