THE PROVINCETOWN PLAYS
SECOND SERIES
THE
PROVINCETOWN
PLAYS
SECOND SERIES:
Freedom: John Reed
Enemies: Neith Boy ce and Hutchins Hapgood
Suppressed Desires: George Gram Cook and
Susan Glaspell
NEW YORK
FRANK SHAY
1916
Copyright, 1916, by John Reed.
Copyright, 1916, by Hutchins Hapgood
Copyright, 1916, by Geo. Cram Cook.
Application for permission to perform these plays
may be made to the Provincetown Players, 139 Mac-
dougal Street, New York; no performance can take
place without arrangement with the owners of the
acting rights.
FREEDOM
A Prison Play
By John Reed
Freedom
a play in one act
By John Reed
As Produced by the Provincetown Players,
New York City
Trusty . . , B. j. O. Nordî^e:i,dt
The Poet Feo yd Deee
First Guard David Cummings
The Romancer Harry Kemp
Smith ^ . Lew Parrish
Second Guard Frank Shay
Time: The Present
Peace : Sweetwater Penitentiary
Directed by Arthur Hohl
Staged by B. j. O. Nordfeldt
70
Freedom
SCENE' The Trusty's cell in Szveetzvater Penitentiary.
Entrance rear center, a heavy door opening imvard, upon
the outside of which can he seen heavy bars and bolts, just
now standing open. A window, hung zvith zvhite
dimity curtains, to the left; beneath it, a zvooden chest, and
a white enameled wash-stand ; a cot-bed, very zvhite and
virginal, to the right. In a rocking-chair, center, beside a
small table on which perches a lamp, sits an elderly bent
man, in prison stripes, wearing a pair of horn spectacles and
reading the Bible. The GUARD appears at the door, jang¬
ling a bunch of keys.
trusty: Ah, Mr. Thompson.
guard: (Genially.) Twelve o'clock, buddy. Lights
out. Midnight for you, says the Warden.
trusty: (Reading from the Bible.) : Vengeance is mine,
saith the Lord. Ah, Mr. Thompson, how true that is ! Look
at me. Mr. Thompson—the Lord has indeed taken ven¬
geance. And I know—know that my Redeemer liveth.
He moves in a mysterious way ... I declare to goodness
He does.
guard: (Sententiously.) Right for you. There ain't
any crime without punishment. That's one thing this here
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THE PROVINCETOWN PLAYS
penitentiary has learned me , It's better to live straight
—then you'll be on the safe side.
trusty: Ah, if I had only served a term as guard in a
penitentiary! I think that all human beings should serve
^s guards in a penitentiary. . . .
guard: Well, sir, it surely makes you think straight. . . .
trusty: How I respect free men. How wise they must
be to know the difference between good and evil. And
you, Mr. Thompson, you are not only good enough to be
free, but you are chosen out of all your fellows to guard
evil men. What a good man you must be, Mr. Thompson !
guard: {Simply, with dignity,) I have always kept
within the Law. . . .
trusty : The Law ! Surely it must be a revelation from
en high !
guard: {Proudly.) No sir. Man made the Law with¬
out any help from God whatever. {Trusty looks shocked.)
Not that I don't believe in religion myself—in its place.
But it hasn't got no business monkeying with the Law. . . .
trusty: And yet you go to church. I see you every
morning in the chapel. . . .
GUARD : I'm hired to see that the prisoners get the proper
religious influences. {He reaches in and pulls the door
almost shut.) How about that light, now?
{Trusty. He rises, laying the Bible reverently on the
table. At this moment a large block of stone heaves out
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THE PROVINCETOWN PLAYS
of the wall J falling silently on the bed, A head and should
der s appear J and a hand aiming a revolver. Trusty turns
around in the act of yawning, sees the gun, and stands
petrified.)
guard: {Swinging open the door again.) Well, well,
what^s the matter with you? {Trusty doesn't answer.)
Do you want me to put it out for you?
trusty: {Quickly.) No, no. {He blows out the light.
Darkness.)
guard: I don't want to be kept waiting around here
again, old hoss. Next time, fights out when I say so.
{Grumbling, he slams the door; bolts and bars can be
heard falling into place.)
romancear: {In the hole.) Don't move! One step,
damn you, and I'll blow you so full of holes you can't hold
water ! Light that candle I And light it damn quick, too !
Hey I Stop moving ! Did you hear what I said ?
{Trusty stops dead.)
romanc:^r: Look here, friend! Did you hear me tell
you to light that candle ?
trusty: y—yes sir, but how—
romancear: {Thundering.) Don't dare move! Light
that candle ! Stop moving, damn you !
voiced op smith : Well, how's he going to light the light
if you don't let him move?
romancer: {Hesitating.) That's true.
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THE PROVINCETOWN PLAYS
{To Trusty.) Here you. 'Scratch a match on the ceiling
so I can see you. There. {Trusty does so. The candle
lighted, there emerge from the hole the Romancer, the Poet
and Smith, in the order named. The Romancer carries a
bundle, which he tosses on the bed. Trusty retreats before
these apparitions,)
romancear: {Sidling down front, and keeping Trusty
carefully covered. Hissing.) Up with your hands.
trusty: What for? I haven't any weapons.
romancer: {Snarling.) Up with your hands, I say!
{Trusty obeys.) I know that trick, my hearty. Fve half a
mind to blow your head off. . . .
smith: {Disgusted.) Aw, like Hell you have. What,
and wake up the whole prison? That would be a smart
thing to do.
poet: That's a nice way to talk. Don't you see you're
ruining the dramatic effect?
romancer: {Lowering his gun.) Yes. What's the
matter with you? Ain't we desperate men? Well then.
W ould we stop at anything ? Give me Liberty or give me—
poet: {Clasping his hands,) Liberty! How I feel the
wind in my hair at the sound of that name! Freedom!
Liberty !
smith : iSame thing here exactly. What I want to do is
to get out. {Trusty has let his hands drop, and is looking
at them in amazement.)
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THE PROVINCETOWN PLAYS
romancier: {Harshly.) Look here, stranger. If you
don't hold up those hands I'll perforate you. {Trusty
jerkily raises his hands.) Search him, men! {Smith and
Poet move forward.)
trusty: {Fiteously.) Don't. You wouldn't take 'em
away from me. {Smith abstracts from his back pocket a
number of magasines, and examines them closely.)
smith: {Disgustedly.) "Votes for Women"! What's
this? Well I'll be damned if it ain't a Suffragette paper!
ROMANCER : A Suffragette—
trusty : O, sir ! 'Spare me those—spare me those !
They are all I have to connect me with the outside world.
My grandmother sends them to me. 'She is a Militant, and
her name is Mrs. Pankhurst!
POEJT: Mrs. Pankhurst! Is she your grandmother?
Fortunate being! {He embraces Trusty.)
romancear: {Exasperated.) Say! What do you guys
think this is, anyway? Didn't I tell you to search that
man? Why, he's had a chance to shoot us fifty times!
smith: Well, p'raps he did have a chance \ But he
didn't have no gun!
romancear: {Lowering his weapon.) No gun?
Why that don't seem right. Boys, there's something wrong
here. In every story I ever read, the Guard had a gun or
a knife, and you had to kill him to get them away from him.
trusty: Hold on there! I ain't a Guard. I'm Trusty.
See the stripes ? I'm a prisoner too. . . .
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THE PROVINCETOWN PLAYS
romancear: {Scratching his head. Puzzled.) A pris¬
oner! This is most unexpected. What are we going to
do?
SMITH : {Fuming.) Do! Stop talking and get out. . . .
romancï^r: {To Smith.) O, that's all very easy for you
to say ! But what are you going to do when nothing turns
out like it ought to? How could we know there was a
prisoner in this room? By George, if you had the respon¬
sibility of this escape, I guess you wouldn't talk so big!
smith: {Sneering.) I guess thafs right.
romancier: {Menacing.) What's that?
smith : Nothing.
trusty: {Bdgerly.) Are you escaping?
smith: {With sarcasm.) Naw! We're going out and
kiss the Warden good-night ! {Romancer glares at Smith.)
poï^T: {Angrily.) I have never escaped with such a
common person in my life!
ROMANcrjR: The plot has been hatching for six months.
Didn't you hear us rapping on the wall?
trusty: So thafs what it was! {Chattily.) Do you
know, I thought it was the rats,—and I just can't hear rats
or mice,—so I says to the keeper, I says, only yesterday,-—
no, I guess it must 'a been the day before,—well anyway,
I was talking to him just like I'm talking to you,—^he was
standing about here, near the door, and I was sitting in that
chair over there,—dear, dear, how it all comes batk to
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THE PROVINCBTOWN PLAYS
me,—and I says, all of a sudden,—3ust like that,—
Thompson," I says, 'Tats and mice is a thing I can't stand
for." I says, "You just got to get me some rat-poison,"
T says^—
smith : (Bursting out.) Say, do you know what time
it is? Do you know it's after midnight? It's going to
get light pretty soon ! (Poet goes to the window and pulls
aside the curtain.)
romancear: (With satisfaction.) Just the right time.
They always escape just before dawn. . . .
poî^T: The Dawn! "Now up the Eastern sky creep
Day's rosy fingers."
smith : Old stuflf ! Old stuff ! I've heard that before !
Plagiarizing, hey?
PO^T: (Coldly.) Not so. Quoting, sir, quoting!
trusty: (Holding out his clasped hands to Romancer.)
For eighteen years I have dreamed of this moment. Let
me go with you! Ain't it funny! Why I only the other
day I was thinkin' to myself, I was, right in this very room :
"If ever I get a chance to escape," I thought—
ROMANcrjR: Enough! (He meditates, frowning.) Hum!
Not so bad, perhaps. True, we must leave no witnesses
behind. I had thought of strangling you,—^but maybe it
can be arranged. Look here, old man. Have you the
courage to dare greatly?
trusty: (Respectfully.) Yes, sir.
POïJT: Does your impetuous soul chafe at prison bars?
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THE PROVINCETOWN PLAYS
trusty: Yes, sir.
romancear: Do you want to breathe God's free air before
you die?
trusty : Well, for Heaven's sake ! If that isn't the very
remark I made to the Warden the other morning when—
romancear: Never mind! Is that a Bible? Place your
left hand on the Bible—
smith : Aw, he's too old. He'll bug the deal !
romancer: Place your left hand on the Bible and repeat
after me—
po:^t: I beg your pardon. Repeat after me!
romancer: How do you mean, repeat after you? Am
I, or am I not, the commanding officer of this escape?
POE^T : That's got nothing to do with it. If you will re¬
member, Smith here refused to swear to your oath, so /
had to swear him.
smith: {Sourly,) It wasn't because I liked yours any
better, Alcibiades. But I had to do something or else we'd
'a been back in that cell yet. {To Trusty.) And I advise
you to do the same, grandpa, if you want to move out of
here before noon.
romancear: You see! It was not your oath after all!
pokt: {To Smith. Furiously.) I never heard of such
low-down ingratitude in my life! I saved you from swear¬
ing to the most humiliating conditions, and you abandon
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THE PROVINCETOWN PLAYS
me thus ! This is what happens when a noble mind en¬
counters a base one!
smith: (Hurriedly.) Why don't you swear him to¬
gether?
POï^T: (Taken aback.) Together?
romancear: (Bagerly,) Yes. Why not?
POET: Why, I don't know! Why didn't we think of
that before? (He shakes hands with Romancer.)
romancer: (To Trusty.) Place your left hand on the
Bible and repeat after us.
poet: I swear upon this Holy Book to be faithful unto
death—
romancer: I swear that neither poison, torture nor the
knife shall make me reveal—
trusty: (Brightly.) What was that now, again? T
didn't catch—
poet: Look here! That's a rotten trick! You've gone
and made yours five words longer—
romancer: You're a nice one to talk! You've changed
the whole oath—
smith: (To Trusty.) Swear! For God's sake, swear
to anything!
trusty: (Loudly.) I swear! I swear! I swear!
poet: (Suspiciously.) Do you understand the oath?
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THE PROVINCETOWN PLAYS
"TRUSTY: Perfectly. Funny thing, but that reminds me
of a—
romancear: {Nervously.) Say no more. We'll believe
you! To business! We have no time to lose!
smith: Now you're talking. {To Trusty.) Here you.
Got anything you want to take along? {Trusty begins to
scurry around, opening his chest and making a little bundle
of the contents,)
po:eT: {Clasping his head and coming down.) One mo¬
ment! A pencil! A piece of paper! Quick! I must
have a pencil!
trusty: {Doubtfully.) A pencil?
romancer: You can't have a pencil! You've got to
prick your finger and write in your heart's blood !
SMITH : What in hell do you want with a pencil ?
POET: {Exalted.) I have a flash. An inspiration. I
must write it at once. Do you know how a prisoner walks
tlie floor of his cell in the night-time, to and fro, to and
fro, like a caged animal ? I shall write a great poem about
it!
trusty: I'm sorry I haven't a pencil. But here's
my fountain-pen— {He produces it.)
romancer: {Shuddering.) Fountain-pen! Ugh! how
sordid !
poet: {Taking fountain-pen. Scurrying around the
room.) Paper! Paper! {His eye lights on the Bible.)
Ah! This will do! {He sits.)
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THE PROVINCETOWN PLAYS
trusty: So you're a poet, hey? Well, well, well—
po:^T: {With dignity.y Do you mean to say you have
never heard of Jenkins, the Prison Poet? I—-I am he!
My verses have appeared in all the magazines. It has been
said that not since Oscar Wilde has anyone written so
touchingly of Freedom. That's my line, you know—»Free¬
dom, Liberty, the Man in the Cage, the Iron Entering Into
the Soul. I have an immense Public—mostly feminine—
waiting for me out yonder! (Waving his arm.) They
are getting up a petition for my pardon now.
smith : Why ?
poE^T: (Complacently.) Why, because I am a poet.
smith: You need that pardon, buddy. I don't grudge
you a word of it.
trusty: (To Poet.) What did you get in for?
smith : Indecent exposure.
poi^T: (Rising. Furious.) I want to say right here
that I will not escape one step further with this person
until he apologizes to me publicly!
trusty: (Genially.) By George! Ye know / call that
pretty bright, I do—
poe^t: Bright with the loathsome phosphorescence of
putrescence! Adroit as the slimy members of a specimen
of saurian reptilia! Agile as the senile, blue-bottomed
gibbon gibbering ineptly to his idiotic mate! If I possessed
handy to my tongue the multi-syllabled, parti-colored,
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THE PROVINGBTOWN PLAYS
blasting epithets to build your Phillipic, you'd fold your
toga around your leprous physique, and sit down like
Marius amid the ruins of Carthage—
smith: (Timidly.) Hold on, governor! You win! I
don't know whether you're insulting me or not but I take
back everything I ever said I
poe:t: (Glaring around.') Has anybody else got aiiy
criticism? (Silence.) Then I presume I'm to be allowed
to complete this work in peace! (He sits down again to
the Bible.)
romancer: (Hesitating.) I don't seem to remember
any precedent for this.
poîjT: (Writing madly. In a sing-song voice.) Lord
Byron! ...
trusty: I don't remember anything aibout Lord Byron
doing this—
POEJT : He didn't. But he might have. . . .
trusty: (Bursting into wild, senile laughter, and slap¬
ping his knee.) He ! He ! O Lord I He ! He ! "But he might
have !" O Lord ! He ! He ! If that ain't the funniest !—
romancear: (Flourishing his gun.) Damn you! Will
you shut up! (Trusty suddenly obeys.) For three cents
I'd drill you full of lead.
smith: Look here! You guys make me sick! Do you
want to get out of here or don^t you ?
romancear: (Severely.) We want to do it right, or not
at all ! If we can't do the thing properly, we won't do it.
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THE PROVINCETOWN PLAYS
We're going to escape from here like gentlemen, or else
we're not going to escape !
trusty : That's right ! A convict is known by the com¬
pany he keeps !
POi^T: {Writing.) Art for Art's sake!
SMITH : This is no place for a low-brow that just wants
to get out! {Trusty is searching busily about his wash-
stand).
romancer: {Impatiently.) O come on, you fellows!
I'm tired of waiting around here !
SMITH : You took the words right out of my mouth !
POEJT: One more couplet, and I'll be with you. . . .
Somebody give me a rhyme for "prison"—"mizzen," "be¬
dizen," "arisen"—
trusty: {Suddenly.) My God! I can't go with you!
Ai,u: Can't go!
trusty: {Miserably.) I can't find my tooth-brush!
smith: yonr what!
trusty: Yes, you know I'm perfectly at sea without my
tooth-brush. Night and morning I use it—I don't think
Fve spent a night without it since my mother—
smith : Well, what in hell are you going to do with a
tooth-brush ?
po]^T: {With sarcasm.) He's going to wear it for a
collar, of course.
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THE PROVINGBTOWN PLAYS
smith: {Bitterly.) casino for you, Bertie!
romancier: (Magnificently^ to Trusty.) Never mind,
old man, you can use mine!
smith : There ! That's what I call handsome !
trusty : But I ^but I—
romance)r: Not a word!—
po:^T: (Leaping up.) Eureka! It is finished!
SMITH : What's finished !
romancear: (Pleased.) Read it. Read it.
smith: (Furiously.) Say, do you fellows know what
time it is ?
AiyL: (Holding up their hands impressively.) S-s-sshh!
po:^t: (Clearing his throat and striking an attitude.)
Ahem ! Ahem ! It's very rough of course. I really didn't
have time to polish it. But under the circumstances I con-
sider it pretty passionate. It is an imitation of Tom Os¬
borne's imitation of Julian Hawthorne's imitation of
Giovannitti; and it is entitled "The Pacer."
thé; pace;r
Up and down; up and down; up and down
Paces the Man—in the middle of the night—
What is he thinking of ? How should I know ?
Listen! I will tell you!
He is thinking of getting out!
Is it not strange that he is thinking of getting out?
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THE PROVINCETOWN PLAYS
It is, for he is in for bigamy!
Up and down; up and down; up and down—
{Smith who has been listening with amazement and dis¬
gust, goes swiftly across to the bed.)
romancer: Hey! Where are you going?
smith: {In a choked voice.) Fm going back to my
cell.
poi^T: I never heard of anything so rude!
romanc:^r: You mean you're not going with us? Why,
Great Heavens, man—
smith: {Standing on the bed.) The judge sentenced
me to five years, but he never said I had to listen to that
stuff. {He begins to climb through the hole.) {Romancer
and Trusty run and pull him back by the legs.)
romancear: You mustn't leave us now. It will spoil
everything. I swear to you it won't happen again.
smith: {Coming down.) Very well, if you'll choke off
that human siphon—
POET: {Much offended.) That's what's the matter with
American art!
smith : That's just what's the matter with it !
romancer: {Mopping his brow.) This is very puz¬
zling. Somehow it doesn't seem appropriate. I never
heard of desperate men arguing about Art. . . .
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THE PROVINCETOWN PLAYS
SMITH : Well, I never heard of anybody but desperate
men arguing about Art.
romancer: All you talkers make me sick! I'm a man
of action, I am! I'm going out that window,{Points,)
Anybody that wants can follow. {He goes toward the bed
and returns down front with his bundle, which he opens,)
smith : Action at last !
trusty: {Coming down,) What's all that?
romancear: {Busy. Crisply,) That, my fine fellow, is
the means of getting us all out of here. This is a file—
POET: A file!
trusty: Añle!
romancer: {Complacently,) You think this is a strange-
looking file. It doesn't look to you like any file you ever
saw before. {Impressively.) Gentlemen, you will be
amazed when I tell you that I made this file out of a table-
knife, secretly in my cell, by grinding the edge of the knife
against my teeth. It took me three years.
trusty: Yes, but what are you going to do with it?
poet: {Severely.) Don't interrupt! Can't you see he's
talking?
romancer: {Pondly drawing a bundle of rags from
bundle.) And this is—what do you imagine? It is a rope-
ladder! For three years these little pieces of cloth have
been smuggled in to me baked in pies. Unfortunately I
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THE PROVINCETOWN PLAYS
inadvertently ate several pieces, so that the ladder is rather
short. {He unfolds ladder, which is about four feet long,)
trusty: {Who has grown more and more bewildered,)
But what's it for?
ROMANCER : After we have filed away the window bars—
smith: {At the window,) Ho! ho! Ha! ha!—
POET: Will you hush up!
smith: Three years! O Lord!
romancer: {Glaring,) After we have filed away the
bars on that window, I say, we shall let ourselves down
outside on this rope-ladder, shoot the sentry on the wall—
trusty: But there ain't any sentry on the wall—
romancer: {Startled,) What?
trusty: There ain't any wall!
POET : What do you mean ?
trusty : All you got to do when you get out that window
is walk away. I'm trusty, see? They don't nobody guard
me. Dear, dear ! It wasn't a week ago that I was saying
to the Guard—
POET : Do you mean to say that all we've got to do after
we get out of that window is walk away?
romancer: {Hoarsely,) There isn't any wall to drop
down? There isn't any sentry to kill?
trusty: {Uneasily,) Yessir! Nosir!
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THE PROVINCETOWN PLAYS
SMITH : Hooray ! It's a cinch ! Let's be on our way !
romancear: Cinch! It's an outrage, that's what it is!
Here I've been working and scheming and plotting for
three years, smuggling in a rope-ladder with patient, pain¬
ful toil ; bribing a guard to get me a revolver with my last
penny. And all in vain. Three long, unhappy years all all
come to nothing!
POE^T: Yes, but we want to get out, don't we?
romancear: There is something in what you say, I sup¬
pose. You must not mind me. I shall recover in a little
while. But I needn't say that I am bitterly, bitterly dis¬
appointed.
smith: (Impatiently,) Let's get along. It's getting
light already—
POE^T: (Slapping Romancer on back,) Come, brace up
old man. I know just how you feel. (They move across
the room toward window. Trusty however, remains be-
hind, wringing his hands,)
SMITH : Get a hustle on, grandpa!
trusty: (Hesitating,) I—I've been thinking—
SMITH : That won't do you any harm.
TRUSTY : I think—perhaps—I'd better not go after all—
PO^T : Not go !
smith: Now what in hell's the matter with you!
romancer: Is it about the tooth-brush?
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THE PROVINCETOWN PLAYS
trusty: No, it's about the Bible!
smith : Come again I Set 'em up in the other alley !
poKT: I don't know what you're talking about!
trusty: Well, as I was saying to the Guard this very
afternoon, "Mr. Thompson," says I, "I don't know but what
the Lord's done right by me. Here I am," says I, "a trusty,
a man of responsibility in this community; I worked up to
it from the bottom," I says, "with the help of the Lord God
and His excellent Book. What was I before I come here ?
A wanderer on the face of the earth, a tramp, a bum. What
did the world give to me?" says I, "I had no responsibility,
and no man trusted me."—
romancer: What's the Bible got to do with it?
trusty: "Vanity of vanities; all is vanity" says the
Bible; and "Ye shall not follow after strange gods" and
"Never look a gift-horse in the teeth" and "Let sleeping
dogs lie" and—
POET: What does all this mean?
trusty: It means that I'm well enough ofï here. It
means that I'm a man of position in this Jail, and if I go
out into the world, I'll be nothing but a bum again. No
sir, I'd be lost outside in the world.
romancer: So be it, old man. We have given you your
chance.
smith: (Brusquely.) And you have thrown it away.
Farewell! I'm glad we've got that old nut off our chest.
Now let's move.
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THE PROVINCETOWN PLAYS
poi^T : One moment. What he has said stirs me deeply.
I wonder if I am not making a dreadful mistake ! Have I,
any more than he, a place in the world outside?
ROMANCER : But your public !
SMITH : But the magazines !
POET: I have told you my line was Liberty. For God's
sake how can I write about Freedom when Fm free?
romancer: And thou, Brutus—
smith: {Almost tearfully.) Is everybody crazy? {To
Romancer.) Say, are you going to turn me down, too?
For Heaven's sake quit this place before you go off your
nut!
romancer: {Melodramatically.) I will! {He clasps
Smithes hand.) We two shall go together—^^out into God's
free air, to breathe the stirring wind of Liberty, to hold up
our heads once more with God's free creatures. {Including
the others in a sweeping gesture.) And as for you, craven
trucklers that you are,—^you who prefer the comfortable
security of this place to the buffetings of life,—I do not
condemn you, I pity you. {To Smith.) And now, com¬
rade, to work! {He looks around for his Hie.)
SMITH : {Swiftly.) We haven't any time to lose. I just
heard the four o'clock bell ring. At four-fifteen they change
the guard, and all will be discovered!
romancer: {With a start.) Four-fifteen! Then we
have only fifteen minutes ! My God, man, we can't do it !
smith: Can't do it? Why not?
00
THE PROVINCETOWN PLAYS
romancer: Because it takes twenty minutes to file
through an iron bar! We're lost!
smith: {Triumphantly.) No, we're not! Look! {He
throws open the window.) There are no bars!
romance:r: No bars! My God! No bars!
trusty : That's what I tried to tell you !
PO^T: Why, I could have told you that!
SMITH : Hurry ! Hurry ! What's the matter ?
romancear: {Looking at the ñle with a dazed expression
on his face.) I—I don't understand. There's nothing
like this in all fiction. No wall, no guard to shoot,—and
now, not even a little iron bar to file. {Suddenly.) And
you knew, damn you, all the time, and you didn't tell me!
{Snarling and taking a step toward Trusty.) I've a notion
to kill you for that ! ( Then stopping and gazing at the ñle.)
front teeth gone—for this!
smith: Only five minutes left! Say, are you coming?
romancb^r: {Fiercely. Turning on him.) Coming?
Of course I'm not coming, sir! What's the use of escaping
from a prison you can just walk out of? No man of
honor would take advantage of such weakness!
trusty : That's the kind of talk I like, by George !
poB^T : Hear ! Hear !
smith: {Standing up on chair.) Well, the difference
between you saphpeads and me is that I want to get out
91
THE PROVINCETOWN PLAYS
and you just think you do. You're playing a little game
where the rules are more important than who wins. I'm
willing to grant that you have it on me as far as honor, and
patriotism, and reputation go, hut all I want is Freedom.
So, if you don't mind, gentlemen, I'll just be on my way.
{He begins to climb through the window.)
romancear: What? Do you mean to tell us you're going
to play us a dirty trick like that?
smith: {Astonished. Turning around.) What do you
mean, dirty trick?
romancear: I mean that when we three decided that it
was impossible for a gentleman to escape, you turned right
around and tried to get away behind our backs. I mean
that you betrayed us,—that you want to save your neck at
the expense of ours!
trusty : The coward !
POE^T: The traitor! Seize him! {Romancer and Trusty
do so, pulling him down by the legs.)
smith: {Struggling.) Let me go, damn you! I never
did anything to you—let me go? What right have you
to stop me? {They drag him down center.)
ROMANCEAR .* The right of a soldier to shoot a deserter !
poe^t: Why give him any reason? What can he know
of honor?
smith: You hypocrites! Just because you aren't as
free as 1 am, you're jealous. He struggles.
92
THE PROVINCETOWN PLAYS
trusty: Hark! The guard is changing! {Smith almost
breaks away, when the door opens, and enter two Guards.)
po:^T^ TRUSTY^ romancear: Help! Help! {Both Guards
level their rifles at the group, and Smith gives up strug-
gling.)
smith: {Pervently.) Thank God! At last here's
somebody sane!
RiRST guard: What's the matter here? How did these
men get in this cell ?
SEJCOND guard: {Seeing the hole.) Here's how they got
in! Whew! Jail-delivery, eh? Why, they must have
been working on this hole for years. Come on there,
Trusty, answer up!
trusty: I will, sir. This prisoner here, {pointing to
Smith) tried to break prison.
SEÎCOND guard: All three of 'em—and yourself, too, I'll
bet!
POE^T: We stopped him!
romanc]^r: {Eagerly.) Why, if it hadn't been for us,
he would have got away !
PiRST guard: {To Smith.) Well, what have you got to
say for yourself?
SMITH : There's not a word of truth in it. I was trying
to break into a padded cell so I could be free !
Curtain
93
ENEMIES
A Play in One Act
By Neith Boyce and Hutchins Hapgood
Enemies
A PLAY IN ONE ACT
By Neith Boyce and Hutchins Hapgood
As Produced by the Provincetown Players,
New York City
Jusi^us
Ida Rauh
S'C^Nïj : A living-room
Time: : After dinner
Produced by the Authors
Setting designed by B. J. O. Nordfeldt
96
Enemies
She is lying in a long chair, smoking a cigarette and read¬
ing a book. He is sitting at a table with a lamp at his left
—manuscript pages scattered before him, pen in hand.
He glances at her, turns the lamp up, turns it down, rustles
his MS., snorts impatiently. She continues reading,
h:^: This is the limit!
SHi;: {Calmly.) What is?
HîJ: Oh, nothing. {She turns the page, continues read¬
ing with interest.) This is an infernal lamp!
SHE): What's the matter with the lamp?
HE) : I've asked you a thousand times to have some order
in the house, some regularity, some system! The lamps
never have oil, the wicks are never cut, the chimneys are
always smoked ! And yet you wonder that I don't work
more ! How can a man work without light ?
SHE): {Glancing critically at lamp.) This lamp seems to
me to be all right. It obviously has oil in it or it would
not burn, and the chimney is not smoked. As to the wick,
I trimmed it myself to-day.
97
THE PROVINCETOWN PLAYS
he;: Ah, that accounts for it!
SHE: Well, do it yourself next time, my dear!
he: {Irritated.) But our time is too valuable for these
ever-recurring jobs! Why don't you train Theresa, as I've
asked you so often?
SHE: It would take all my time for a thousand years to
tiain Theresa.
HE : Oh, I know ! All you want to do is to lie in bed
for breakfast, smoke cigarettes, write your high literary
stuff, make love to other men, talk cleverly when you go
out to dinner and never say a word to me at home! No
wonder you have no time to train Theresa !
SHE : Is there anything of interest in the paper ?
HE: You certainly have a nasty way of making an inno¬
cent remark!
SHE: Tm sorry. {Absorbed in her book,)
HE: No, you're not. The last remark proves it.
SHE: {Absently,) Proves what?
HE : Proves that you are an unsocial brutal woman !
SHE: You are in a temper again.
HE : Who wouldn't be, to live with a cold-blooded person
that you have to hit with a gridiron to get a rise out of?
SHE: I wish you would read your paper quietly and let
me alone.
98
THE PROVINCETOWN PLAYS
Why have you lived with me for fifteen years if
you want to be let alone.
SHEJ: {With a sigh,) I have always hoped you would
settle down.
hi: : By settling down you mean cease bothering about
household matters, about the children, cease wanting to be
with you, cease expecting you to have any interest in me.
SB.%: No, I only mean it would be nice to have a peace¬
ful evening sometimes. But {laying hook down) I see you
want to quarrel—so what shall we quarrel about? Choose
your own subject, my dear.
H]^: When you're with Hank you don't want a peaceful
evening !
sut: Now how can you possibly know that?
ut: Oh, I've seen you with him and others and I know
the difference. When you're with them you're alert and
interested. You keep your unsociability for me. {Pause.)
Of course, I know why.
shd: One reason is that ''they" don't talk about lamp-
wicks and so forth. They talk about higher things.
he: : Some people would call them lower things !
she:: Well—more interesting things, anyway.
H^: Yes, I know you think those things more interesting
than household and children and husband.
sat : Oh, only occasionally, you know—just for a change.
You like a change yourself sometimes.
99
the provincetown plays
H^: Yes, sometimes—^But I am excited, and interested
and keen whenever I am with you. It is not only cigarettes
and flirtation that excite me.
SHij: Well—you are an excitable person. You get ex¬
cited about nothing at all.
HE: Are Home and Wife and Children nothing at all?
she: There are other things. But you. Deacon, are
like the skylark—
"Type of the wise who soar but do not roam
True to the kindred points of heaven and home.''—
he: You are cheaply cynical!—^^You ought not to insult
Wordsworth. He meant what he said.
she: He was a good man. . . . But to get back to our
original quarrel. You're quite mistaken. I'm more social
with you than with anyone else. Hank, for instance hates*
to talk, even more than I do. He and I spend hours to¬
gether looking at the sea—each of us absorbed in our own
thoughts—without saying a word. What could be more
peaceful than that?
he: {Indignantly.) I don't believe it's peaceful—But
it must be wonderful!
she : It is—marvellous. I wish you were more like that.
What beautiful evenings we could have together!
he: {Bitterly.) Most of our evenings are silent enough,
unless we are quarreling!
she: Yes, if you're not talking, it's because you're sulk¬
ing. You are never sweetly silent—never really quiet.
100
THE PROVINCETOWN PLAYS
h:^ : That's true—^with you—am rarely quiet with you
—because you rarely express anything to me. I would be
more quiet if you were less so—less expressive if you were
more so.
snr^: {Pensively.) The same old quarrel. Just the
same for fifteen years ! And all because you are you and I
am I ! And I suppose it will go on forever—shall go on
being silent, and you
HE) : I suppose I shall go on talking—But it really doesn't
matter—the silence or the talk—^If we had something to
be silent about or to talk about—^^Something in common—
That's the point !
SHE): Do you really think we have nothing in common?
We both like Dostoievsky and prefer Burgundy to cham¬
pagne.
h:^: Our tastes and our vices are remarkably congenial,
but our souls do not touch.
SHE): Our souls? Why should they? Every soul is
lonely.
HE: Yes, but doesn't want to be. The soul desires to
find something into which to fuse and so lose its loneliness.
This hope to lose the soul's loneliness by union—is love. It
is the essence of love as it is of religion.
SHE: Deacon, you are growing more holy every day.
You will drive me to drink.
HE: {Moodily.) That will only complete the list.
101
THE PROVINCETOWN PLAYS
sat: Well, then I suppose we may be more congenial—
for in spite of what you say, our vices haven't exactly
matched. You're ahead of me on the drink.
Hi^: Yes, and you on some other things. But perhaps
I can catch up too——
she: Perhaps—if you really give all your time to it, as
you did last winter, for instance. But I doubt if I can
ever equal your record in potations.
he: (Bitterly,) I can never equal your record in the
soul's infidelities.
she: Well, do you expect my soul to be faithful when
you keep hitting it with a gridiron?
he: No, I do not expect it of you! I have about given
up the hope that you will ever respond either to my ideas
about household and children or about our personal rela¬
tions. You seem to want as little as possible of the things
that I want much. I harass you by insisting. You anger
and exasperate me by retreating. We were fools not to
have separated long ago.
she : Again ! How do you repeat yourself, my dear !
he: Yes, I am very weak. In spite of my better judg¬
ment I have loved you. But this time I mean it!
SHE: I don't believe you do. You never mean half the
things you say.
he: I do this time. This affair of yours with Hank is
on my nerves. It is real spiritual infidelity. When you
102
THE PROVINGETÖWN PLAYS
are interested in him you lose all interest in the household,
the children and me. It is my duty to separate.
SHJS: Oh, nonsense! I didn't separate from you when
you were running after the widow last winter—spending
hours with her every day, dining with her and leaving me
alone, and telling me she was the only woman who had ever
understood you.
HE: I didn't run after the widow, or any other woman
except you. They ran after me.
SHE: Oh, of course! Just the same since Adam—^not
one of you has spirit enough to go after the apple himself !
"They ran after you"—^but you didn't run away very fast,
did you ?
HE : Why should I, when I wanted them to take posses¬
sion if they could? I think I showed splendid spirit in
running after you! Not more than a dozen other men
have shown the same spirit. It is true, as you say, that
other women understand and sympathize with me. They
all do except you. I've never been able to be essentially
unfaithful, more's the pity. You are abler in that regard.
SHE: I don't think so. I may have liked other people,
but I never dreamed of marrying anyone but you. . . . No,
and I never thought any of them understood me either. I
took very good care they shouldn't.
HE: Why, it was only the other day that you said Hank
understood you better than I ever could. You said I was
too virtuous and that if I were worse you might see me!
103
the provincetown plays
SH]^ : As usual, you misquote me. What I said was that
Hank and I were more alike, and that you are a virtuous
stranger—a sort of wandering John the Baptist, preaching
in the wilderness!
nt : Preachers don't do the things I do !
SH^: Oh, don't they!
h:^: Well, I know I am as vicious as man can be. You
v/ould see that if you loved me. I am fully as bad as Hank.
Sh:^: Hank doesn't pretend to be virtuous, so perhaps
you're worse. But I think you ought to make up your mind
whether you're virtuous or vicious, and not assume to be
both.
h:E: I am both as a matter of fact, like everybody else.
I am not a hypocrite. I love the virtuous and also the
vicious. But I don't like to be left out in the cold when
you are having an affair. When you are interested in the
other, you are not in me.
she: : Why do you pretend to fuss about lamps and such
things when you are simply jealous? I call that hypo¬
critical. I wish it were possible for a man to play fair.
But what you want is to censor and control me, while you
feel perfectly free to amuse yourself in every possible way.
h:^: I am never jealous without cause and you are. You
object to my friendly and physical intimacies and then ex¬
pect me not to be jealous of your soul's infidelities, when
you lose all feeling for me. I am tired of it. It is a funda¬
mental misunderstanding and we ought to separate at once !
104
THE PROVINCETOWN PLAYS
SH^ : Oh, very well, if you're so keen on it. But remem¬
ber you suggest it. I never said I wanted to separate from
you—if I had, I wouldn't be here now.
No, because I've given all I had to you. I have
nourished you with my love. You have harassed and des¬
troyed me. I am no good because of you. You have made
me work over you to the degree that I have no real life.
You have enslaved me, and your method is cool aloofness.
You want to keep on being cruel. You are the devvil, who
never really meant any harm, but who sneers at desires and
never wants to satisfy. Let us separate—you are my only
enemy !
she; : Well, you know we are told to love our enemies.
he;: I have done my full duty in that respect. People
we love are the only ones who can hurt us. They are our
enemies, unless they love us in return.^
she; : "A man's enemies are those of his own household"
—Yes, especially if they love. You, on account of your
love for me, have tyrannized over me, bothered me, bad¬
gered me, nagged me, for fifteen years. You have inter¬
fered with me, taken my time and strength, and prevented
me from accomplishing great works for the good of human¬
ity. You have crushed my soul, which longs for serenity
and peace, with your perpetual complaining?
he;: Too bad. {Indignantly.) Perpetual complaining!
she;: Yes, of course. But you see, my dear, 1 am more
philosophical than you, and J recognize all this as neces¬
sity. Men and women are natural enemies, like cat and
105
THE PROVINCETOWN PLAYS
dog, only more so. They are forced to live together for a
time, or this wonderful race couldn't go on. In addition,
in order to have the best children, men and women of
totally opposed temperaments must live together. The
shock and flame of two hostile temperaments meeting is
what produces fine children. Well, we have fulfilled our
fate and produced our children, and they are good ones.
But really—to expect also to live in peace together—we as
different as fire and water, or sea and land—that's too
much!
H]^: If your philosophy is correct, that is another argu¬
ment for separation. If we have done our job together,
let's go on our ways and try to do something else separ¬
ately.
SHi^: Perfectly logical. Perhaps it will be best. But
no divorce—that's so commonplace.
he:: Almost as commonplace as your conventional atti¬
tude toward husbands—^that they are necessarily uninter¬
esting—mon bete de mari—as the typical Frenchwoman of
fiction says. I find divorce no more commonplace than
real infidelity.
sh:^: Both are matters of every day. But I see no
reason for divorce unless one of the spouses wants to marry
again. I shall never divorce you. But men can always
have children, and so they are perpetually under the sway
of the great illusion. If you want to marry again, you
can divorce me.
106
THE PROVINCETOWN PLAYS
HE): As usual you want to see me as a brute. I don't
accept your philosophy. Children are the results of love,
not because of it, and love should go on. It does go on, if
once there has been the right relations. It is not re-marry¬
ing on the unconscious desire for further propagation that
moves me—but the eternal need of that peculiar sympathy
which has never been satisfied—to die without that is fail¬
ure of what most appeals to the imagination of human
beings.
Sh:^: But that is precisely the great illusion. That is
the unattainable that lures us on, and that will lead you, I
foresee, if you leave me, into the arms of some other
woman.
HE : Illusion ! Precisely what is, you call illusion. Only
there do we find Truth. And certainly I am bitten badly
with illusion or truth, whichever it is. It is Truth to me.
But I fear it may be too late. I fear the other woman is
impossible.
SHE: {Pensively.) 'T cannot comprehend this wild
swooning desire to wallow in unbridled unity." {He makes
angry gesture, she goes on quickly.) I was quoting your
favorite philosopher. But as to being too late—no, no—
you're more attractive than you ever were, and that shows
your ingratitude to me, for I'm sure I have been a liberal
education to you. You will easily find someone to adore
you and console you for all your sufferings with me. But
do be careful this time—^get a good housekeeper.
HE: And you are more attractive than you ever were.
I can see that others see that. I have been a liberal edu¬
cation to you too.
107
THE FROVINCETOWN PLAYS
SH^: Yes, a Pilgrim's Progress.
H^: I never would have seen woman, if I hadn't suf¬
fered you.
SH^: I never would have suffered Man, if I hadn't seen
you.
You never saw me!
SH^: Alas—^yes! {With feeling.) I saw you as some¬
thing very beautiful—very fine, sensitive—with more under¬
standing than anyone I've ever known—^more feeling—I
still see you that way—^but from a great—distance.
h:^ : (S tar tied. ) Distance ?
SH^: Yes. Don't you feel how far away from one an¬
other we are?
h:^: I have felt it, as you know—more and more so—
that you were pushing me more and more away and seeking
more and more somebody—something else. But this is the
first time you have admitted feeling it.
SH^: Yes—1 didn't want to admit it. But now I see it
has gone very far. It is as though we were on opposite
banks of a stream that grows wider—separating us more
and more.
h:^: Yes—
SH^: You have gone your own way, and I mine,—and
there is a gulf between us.
HE): Now you see what I mean—
108
THE PROVINCETOWN PLAYS
SHEJ: Yes, that we ought to separate—that we are sep¬
arated—And yet I love you.
HE : Two people may love intensely, and yet not be able
to live together—It is too painful, for you, for me—
SHE: We have hurt one another too much—
HE: We have destroyed one another—^We are enemies—
(Pause.)
SHE: I don't understand it—^how we have come to this
—after our long life together. Have you forgotten all
that? What wonderful companions we were? How gayly
we took life with both hands—^^how we played with it and
with one another !—^At least we have the past !
HE : The past is bitter—^because the present is bitter.
SHE: You wrong the past.
HE: The past is always judged by the present. Dante
said, the worst hell is in present misery to remember
former happiness—
SHE: Dante was a man and a poet, and so ungrateful
to life. (Pause with feeling.) Our past to me is won¬
derful and will remain so, no matter what happens—full
of color and life, complete !í
HE: That is because our life together has been for you
an episode.
SHE: No, it is because I take life as it is, not asking too
much of it—not asking that any person or any relation be
perfect. But you are an idealist^—^you can never be con¬
tent with what it—^You have the poison, the longing for
perfection in your soul.
109
THE PROVINCETOWN PLAYS
HE: No, not for perfection but for union. That is not
demanding the impossible. Many people have it who do
not love as much as we do. No work of art is right, no
matter how wonderful the material and the parts, if the
whole, the unity, is not there.
SHE: That's just what I mean. You have wanted to
treat our relation, and me, as clay, and model it into the
form you saw in your imagination. You have been a pas¬
sionate artist. But life is not a plastic material. It models
us.
HE: You are right. I have had the egotism of the
artist, directed to a material that cannot be formed. I must
let go of you, and satisfy my need of union, of marriage,
otherwise than with you.
SHE: Yes, but you cannot do that by seeking another
woman. You would experience the same illusion—the
same disillusion.
HE: How then can I satisfy this mystic need?
SHE: That is between you and your God, whom I know
nothing about.
HE: If I could have stripped you of divinity and sought
it elsewhere^—in religion, in work—with the same intensity
I sought it in you—we would not have needed this separ¬
ation.
SHE: And we should have been very happy together!
HES Yes—as interesting changers.
110
THE PROVINCETOWN PLAYS
SHE: Exactly. The only sensible way for two fully
grown people to be together—and that is wonderful too—
think! To have lived together for fifteen years and never
to have bored one another I To be still for one another the
most interesting persons in the world I How many married
people can say that ? I Ve never bored you, have I, Deacon ?
HE: You have harassed, plagued, maddened, tortured
me! Bored me? No, never, you bewitching devil!
{Moving toward her.)
SHE: Tve always adored the poet and mystic in you,
though youVe almost driven me crazy, you Man of God !
HE: IVe always adored the woman in you, the mysteri¬
ous, the beckoning and flying, that I cannot possess !
SHE : Can't you forget God for a while, and come away
with me?
HE: Yes, darling, after all you're one of God's creatures !
SHE: Faithful to the end! A truce then, shall it be?
{Opening her arms.) An armed truce?
HE: {Seizing her.) Yes, and in a trice ! {She laughs.)
Quick Curtain
111
SUPPRESSED DESIRES
A Freudian Comedy in Two Scenes
By George Cram Cook
and
Susan Glaspell
Suppressed Desires
A Freudian Comedy in Two Scenes
By George Cram Cook
and
Susan Glasfell
As Produced by the Provincetown Players,
New York City
Hi:nrie:tta Bre^wstî^r Susan gnaspf^i.
Stp:ph^n Brî^wstî^r George) Cram Cook
Mabee Margaret Nordeelt
' Peace—A New York Apartment
Time—Today
A period of two weeks is supposed to elapse between the
ßrst and second scenes.
Reprinted hy Permission of the Metropolitan Magazine Company
114
Suppresed Desires
SCE^NÎ^ I
The stage represents a studio^ used as living and dining
room in^ an upper story, Washington Square South.
Through an immense north window in the hack wall appear
tree tops and the upper part of the Washington Arch.
Beyond it you look up Fifth Avenue. There are rugs,
bookcases, a divan. Near the window is a big table, loaded
at one end with serious-looking books and austere scientific
periodicals. At the other end are architects drawings,
blue prints, dividing compasses, square, ruler, etc. There
is a door in each side wall. Near the one to the spectators
right stands a costumer with hats and coats masculine and
feminine. There is a breakfast table set for three but only
two seated at it—namely Henrietta and Stephen Brewster.
As the curtains withdrawn Steve pushes back his coffee
cup and sits dejected.
he:nrie:tta: It isn't the coffee, Steve dear. There's
nothing the matter with the coffee. There's something
the matter with you.
ste:vk: {Doggedly.) There may be something the matter
with my stomach.
he:nrie)TTa: {Scornfully.) Your stomach! The trouble
is not with your stomach but in your sub-conscious mind.
STE^vK: Subconscious piffle! {Takes morning paper and
hies to read.)
115
THE PROVINCETOWN PLAYS
HiîNRi:^WA : Steve, you never used to be so disagreeable.
You certainly have got some sort of a complex. You're
all inhibited. You're no longer open to new ideas. You
won't listen to a word about psychoanalysis.
STUvi^ : A word ! I've listened to volumes !
H]^nri:^tta: You've ceased to be creative in architec¬
ture—^your work isn't going well. You're not sleeping
well
STUvU: How can I sleep, Henrietta, when you're always
waking me up in the night to find out what I'm dreaming ?
hdnrie^tta : But dreams are so important, Steve.
STíívi^: There's nothing wrong with me.
h:^nrii)TTa: You don't even talk as well as you used to.
STi^vE: Talk? I can't say a thing without you looking
at me in that dark fashion you have when you're on the
trail of a complex.
HiîNRiî^Ti'A : This very irritability indicates that you're
suflfering from some suppressed desire.
STE^v^: I'm suffering from a suppressed desire for a
little peace.
HUNRiU'tTA: Dr. Russell is doing simply wonderful
things with nervous cases. Won't you go to him, Steve?
\
STUv£): {Slamming down his newspaper,) No, Hen¬
rietta, I won't!
he^nrië^tta: But, Stephen—!
116
THE PROVINCETOWN PLAYS
STE)vîi : Tst ! I hear Mabel coming. Let's not be at each
other's throats the first day of her visit. (He takes out
cigarettes.) {Enter M ah el from door left, the side oppO'
site Steve, so that he is facing her.—She is wearing a rather
fussy negligee and breakfast cap in contrast to Henrietta
who wears ''radicar^ clothes. Mabel is what is called
plump.
Good morning.
heînrie)TTa: Oh, here you are, little sister.
STE^vi): Good morning, Mabel. {Mabel nods to him and
turns, her face lighting up, to Henrietta.)
hï^nrii^tta: {Giving Mabel a hug as she leans against
her.) It's so good to have you here.
mab:^l: It's so good to be here—with you.
HE^NRi^TTA : I was goiug to let you sleep, thinking you'd
be tired after the long trip. Sit down. There'll be fresh
toast in a few minutes and {rising from her chair) will
you have
MAB^iy : Oh, I ought to have told you, Henrietta. Don't
get anything for me. I'm not eating any breakfast.
henriE)TTa:- {At ñrst in mere surprise.) Not eating
breakfast? {She sits down, then leans toward Mabel and
j^crutinises her.)
STE)v^: {Half to himself.) The psychoanalytical look I
henrij^tta: Mabel, why are you not eating any break¬
fast?
117
THE PROVINCETOWN PLAYS
MABEjr,: (A little startled.) Why, no particular reason.
Í just don't care much for breakfast, and they say it keeps
down—that is, it's a good thing to go without it.
: Don't you sleep well? Did you sleep well
last night?
MABi^iy: Oh, yes, I slept all right. Yes, I slept fine last
night, only {laughing) I did have the funniest dream!
: S—h I S—t !
he)nrie)TTa: {Moving closer,) And what did you
dream, Mabel?
STE:y^: Look-a-here, Mabel, I feel it's my duty to put
you Don't tell Henrietta your dreams. If you do
she'll find out that you have an underground desire to kill
your father and marry your mother.
hEnrie^tta: Don't be absurd, Stephen Brewster.
{Sweetly to Mabel.) What was your dream, dear?
MABi:i,: {Laughing.) Well, I jdreamed I was a hen.
he^nrie^tta: a hen?
STEVES: {Solemnly.) A hen.
MABti,: Yes; and I was pushing along through a crowd
as fast as I could, but being a hen I couldn't walk very fast
—it was like having a tight skirt, you know ; and there war>,
some sort of creature in a blue cap—you know how mixeo'
up dreams are—^and it kept shouting after me and saying,
''Step, Hen! Step, Hen!" until I got all excited and just
couldn't move at all.
118
THE PRÖVINCETOWN PLAYS
h^nri^tta: {Resting chin in palm and peering.) You
say you became much excited?
mabîJl: {Laughing.) Oh, yes; I was in a terrible state.
he;nrie;tta: {Leaning hack, murmurs.) This is sig¬
nificant.
ST^vD: She dreams she's a hen. She is told to step
lively. She bècomes violently agitated. What can it
mean?
Hr)NRi:ETTA: {Turning impatiently from him.) Mabel,
do you know anything about psychoanalysis?
MABE^n: {Peebly.) Oh—not much. No——{brighten¬
ing.) It's something about the war, isn't it?
ste^vE: Not that kind of war.
mabe)l: {Abashed.) I thought it might be the name of
a riev^ explosive.
ST^vE: It is.
MABBiyi {Apologetically to Henrietta, who is frowning.)
You see, Henrietta, I—we do not live in touch with intel¬
lectual things, as you do. Bob being a dentist—somehow
—our friends
st^ve;: {Softly.) Oh, to be .a dentist! {Goes to win¬
dow and stands looking out.)
he;nrie;tta: Don't you ever see anything more of that
editorial writer-—what was his name?
MABEiv : Lyman Eggleston ?
X19
THE PROVINCETOWN PLAYS
H]^nri:^tta: Yes, Eggleston. He was in touch with
things. Don't you see him?
MABEjiv: Yes, I see him once in a while. Bob doesn't
like him very well.
he:nriêtta: Your husband does not like Lyman Eggle¬
ston? {Mysteriously.) Mabel, are you perfectly happy
with your husband?
{Sficirply.J^ Oh, come now, Henpetta—that's
going a little strong!
he)nriETTa: Are you perfectly happy with him, Mabel?
{Steve goes to work-table.)
MABE)L : Why—yes—I guess so. Why—of course I am !
H^NRir^TTA : Are you happy ? Or do you only think you
are? Or do you only think you ought to be?
mabDIvI Why, Henrietta, I don't know what you mean!
ste^ve^: {Seizes stack of books and magazines and dumps
them on the breakfast table.) This is what she means,
Mabel. Psychoanalysis. My work-table groans with it.
Books by Freud, the new Messiah; books by Jung, the new
St. Paul ; the Psycho-analytical Review—back numbers two-
fifty per.
MABE^i, : But what is it all about ?
All about your sub, un, non-conscious mind arid
desires you know not of. They may be doing you a great
deal of harm. You may go crazy with them. Oh, yes !
People are doing it right and left. Your dreaming you're
a hen {Shakes his head darkly.)
120
THE PROVINCETOWN PLAYS
MAB^h: {Hastily, to avert a quarrel.) But what do you
say it is, Henrietta?
{Looking at his zvatch.) Oh, if Henrietta's
going to start that! {He goes to his work-table, and dur¬
ing Henrietta's next speech settles himself and sharpens a
lead-pencil.)
hi^nriKTTa: It's like this, Mabel. You want something.
You think you can't have it. You think it's wrong. So
you try to think you don't want it. Your mind protects
you—avoids pain—by refusing to think the forbidden
thing. But it's there just the same. It stays there shut up
in your unconscious mind, and it festers.
STDvEî: Sort of an ingrowing mental toenail.
he^nriE^tta: Precisely. The forbidden impulse is there
full of energy which has simply got to do something. It
breaks into your consciousness in disguise, masks itself in
dreams, makes all sorts of trouble. In extreme cases it
drives you insane.
MABE^iyi {With a gesture of horror.) Oh!
hejnriE^tta: {Reassuring.) But psychoanalysis has
found out how to save us from that. It removes the ob¬
struction, brings into consciousness the suppressed desire
that was making all the trouble. In a word psychoanalysis
is simply the latest scientific method of preventing and
curing insanity.
V
STE^VE): {Pxom his table.) It is also the latest scientific
method of separating families.
121
THE PROVINCETOWN PLAYS
h^nrii^tta; {Mildly.) Families that ought to be separ¬
ated.
STr^vr^: The Dwights, for instance. You miist have met
them, Mabel, when you were here before. Helen was
living, apparently, in peace and happiness with göod old
Joe. Well—she went to this psychoanalyzef she was
^'psyched," and biff !—^bang !—Home she comes with an un-
suppressed desire to leave her husband. {He starts work,
drawing lines on a drawing hoard with a T-squarç.)
MABr^n: How terrible! Yes, I remember Helen-Dwight.
But—but did she have such a désire?
STEjvK: First she'd known of it.
MABÊ^n: And she left him?
H]^nriî:tta: {Coolly.) Yes, she did.
mabe^l: Wasn't he good to her?
he^nrie^tta: Why yes, good enough.
MAB^n: Wasn't he kind to her?
Henrietta: Oh, yes—kind to her.
MABi^n: And she left her good kind husband—!
HEiNRiE^TTA I Oh, Mabel ! Xeft her good, kind husband V
How naive—forgive me, dear, but how bourgeoise you are!
She came to know herself. And she had the courage ! !
: 1
MABE^n: I may be very naive and—^bourgeoise—^but I
don't see the good of a new science that breaks up homes.
{Steve clasps hands, applauding.)
122
THE PROVINCETOWN PLAYS
STîjv:^: In enlightening Mabel, we mustn't neglect to
mention the case of Art Holden's private secretary, Mary
Snow, who has just been informed of her suppressed desire
for her employer.
mab:^Iv : Why, I think it is terrible, Henrietta ! It would
be better if we didn't know such things about ourselves.
, I
h:^nrie^ta : No, Mabel, that is the old way.
; &
MÀBïiiy: But—but her employer? Is he married?
STE^vE: {Grunts.) Wife and four children.
mab^l: Well, then, what good does it do the girl to be
told she has a desire for him? There's nothing that can
be done about it.
\
he:nriE)tta: Old institutions will have to be reshaped
so that something can be done in such cases. It happens,
Mabel, that this suppressed desire was on the point of
landing Mary Snow in the insane asylum. Are you so
tight-minded that you'd rather have her in the insane asy¬
lum than break the conventions?
mab^l: But—but have people always had these awful
suppressed desires ?
henrieítta : Always.
STi^vE: But they've just been discovered.
«
he;nri^tta: The harm they do has just been discovered.
And free, sane people must face the fact that they have to
be dealt with.
123
THE PROVINCETOWN PLAYS
mab^l: {Stoutly,) I don't believe they have them in
Chicago.
he^nrie^tta: {Business of giving Mabel up.) People
"have them" wherever the living Libido—the center of the
soul's energy—is in conflict with petrified moral codes.
That means everywhere in civilization. Psychoanalysis—
STE^vE^: Good God! I've got the roof in the cellar!
{Holds plan at arm's length.)
he^nrie:tta: The roof in the cellar! That's what psy¬
choanalysis could undo. {To Mabel.) Is it any wonder
I'm concerned about Steve? He dreamed the other night
that the walls of his room melted away and he found him¬
self alone in a forest. Don't you see how significant it is
for an architect to have walls slip away from him like that ?
It symbolizes his loss of grip in his work. There's some
suppressed desire
ste:ve): {Hurling his ruined plan viciously to the floor.)
Suppressed hell!
he^nrie^tta: You speak more truly than you know. It
is through suppressions that hells are formed in us.
MABE^n: {Looking at Steve, who is tearing his hair.)
Don't you think it would be a good thing, Henrietta, if we
went somewhere else? {They rise and begin to pick up
the dishes. Mabel drops a plate which breaks. Henrietta
draws up short and looks at her—the psychoanalytic look.
I'm sorry, Henrietta. One of the Spode plates, too. {Sur¬
prised and resentful as Henrietta continues to peer at her.)
Don't take it so to heart, Henrietta.
124
THE PROVINCETOWN PLAYS
hî^nriï^tta: I can't help taking it to heart.
MABîJn: ni get you another. {Pause. More sharply
as Plenrietta does not answer.) I said I'll get you an¬
other plate, Henrietta.
H^NRi^^TA : It's not the plate.
MABE^n: For heaven's sake, what is it then?
he^nri^tta: It's the significant little false movement
once in a while.
mabejl: Well, I suppose everyone makes a false move¬
ment once in a while.
heJnri^tta: Yes, Mabel, but these false movements all
mean something.
MABE^n: {About to cry.) I don't think that's very nice!
It was just because I happened to think of Mabel Snow
you were talking about
hejnri^tta: Mabel Snow!
MABi^n* Snow—Snow—Well, what was her name, then?
henrii^tTa: Her name is Mary.
MABE^n: Well, Mary Snow, then; Mary Snow. I never
heard her name but once. I don't ,see anything to make
such a fuss about.
h:^nriETTa: {Gently.) Mabel dear—mistakes like that
iî\ names
125
THE PROVINCETOWN PLAYS
MABEji,: (Desperately.) They don't mean something,
too, do they ?
HENRIETTA: (Gently,) I am sorry, but they do.
MABEL : But I am always doing that !
HENRIETTA: (After a start of horror.) My poor little
sister, tell me all about it.
MABEL : About what?
HENRIETTA: About your not being happy. About your
yearnings for another sort of life.
MABEL : But I don't.
HENRIETTA: Ah, I understand these things, dear. You
feel Bob is limiting you to a life which you do not feel
free
MABEL : Henrietta! When did I ever say such a thing?
HENRIETTA: You said you are not in touch with things
intellectual. You showed your feelings that it is Bob's
profession—^that has engendered a resentment which has
colored your whole life with him.
MABEL : Why—Henri^fta !
HENRIETTA: Don't be afraid, little sister. There's noth¬
ing can shock me or turn me from you. I am not like
that. I wanted you to come for this visit because I had a
feeling that you needed more from life than you were get¬
ting. No one of these things I have seen would excite my
suspicion. It's the combination. You don't eat breakfast;
126
THE PROVINCETOWN PLAYS
you make false moves ; you substitute your own name for
the name of another whose love is misdirected. You're
nervous ; you look queer ; in your eyes there's a frightened
look that is most unlike you. And this dream. A hen—
Come with me this afternoon to Dr. Russell! Your whole
life may be at stake, Mabel.
mabe:l: {Gcisping.) Henrietta, I—^you—you always
were the smartest in the family, and all that, but—this is
terrible I I don't think we ought to think such things, and
—{brightening.) Why, I'll tell you why I dreamed I was
a hen. It was because last night, telling about that time
in Chicago, you said I was as mad as a wet hen.
HEJ.NRIEÏTTA : (Superior.) Did you dream you were a
wet hen?
MABEL : (Forced to admit it.) No.
HENRIETTA: No. You dreamed you were a dry hen.
And why, being a hen, were you urged to step?
MABEL : Maybe it's because when I am getting on a street¬
car it always irritates me to have them call "Step lively."
HENRIETTA: No, Mabel, that is only a child's view of it
—if you will forgive me. You see merely the elements
used in the dream. You do not see into the dream; you
do not see its meaning. This dream of the hen
STEVE: Hen—hen—wet hen—dry hen—mad hen! (Jumps
up in a rage.) Let me out of this !
HENRIETTA: (Hastily picking up dishes, speaks sooth-
ingly.) Just a minute, dear, and we'll have things so you
127
THE PROVINCBTOWN PLAYS
can work in quiet. Mabel and I are going to sit in my
room. {She goes out with both hands full of dishes.)
STE^VE^: {Seizing hat and coat from the costumer.) Fm
going to be psychoanalyzed. , Fm going now ! Fm going
straight to that infallible doctor of hers—that priest of
this new religion. If he's got honesty enough to tell Hen¬
rietta there's nothing the matter with my unconscious mind,
perhaps I can be let alone about it, and then I will be all
right. {Prom the door in a low voice.) Don't tell Hen¬
rietta Fm going. It might take weeks, and I couldn't stand
all the talk. {Exit desperately.)
Enter Henrietta.
he^nri^TTa: Where's Steve? Gone? {With hopeless
gesture.) You see how impatient he is!—how unlike him¬
self! I tell you, Mabel, I am nearly distracted about
Steve.
MABE^ivi I think he's a little distracted, too.
he^nríe^tta: Well, if he's gone—you might as well stay
in this room. I have a committee meeting at the book¬
shop, and will have to leave you to yourself for an hour
or two. {As she puts her hat on, her eye^ lighting up al¬
most carnivorously, falls on an enormous volume on the
floor beside the work table. The book has been half hidden
from the audience by the wastebasket. She picks it up
and carries it around the table toward Mabel.) Here, dear,
this is one of the simplest statements of psycho-analysis.
You read it and then we can talk more intelligently.
128
THE PROVINCETOWN PLAYS
(Mabel takes volume and staggers hack under its weight
to chair rear centerj Henrietta goes to outer door, stops
and asks abruptly.) How old is Lyman Eggleston?
MABth: (Promptly.) He isn't forty yet. Why, what
made you ask that, Henrietta? (As she turns her head to
look at Henrietta her hands move toward the upper cor¬
ners of the book balanced on her knees.)
henrie^tta: Oh, nothing. Au revoir. (Exit.)
(Mabel stares at the ceiling. The book slides to the floor.
She starts; looks at the book, then at the broken plate on
the table.) The plate! The book! (She lifts her eyes,
leans forward elbow on knee, chin on knuckles and plain¬
tively queries.) Am I unhappy?
Curtain
129
Suppressed Desires
Scî^NÏ: II
The stage is set as in Scene I except that the breakfast
table has been removed and set back against the wall.
During the ñrst few minutes the dusk of a winter afternoon
deepens. Out of the darkness spring rows of double
street'lights almost meeting in the distance. Henrietta is
disclosed at the psychoanalytical end of Steve's worktable.
Surrounded by open books and periodicals she is writing.
Steve enters briskly.
What are you doing, my dear?
H^NRiE^TTA : My paper for the Liberal Club.
STDVE): Your paper on ?
he^nrie^tta: On a subject which does not have your
sympathy.
ST:ßVE): Oh, Fm not sure Fm wholly out of sympathy
with psychoanalysis, Henrietta. You worked it so hard.
I couldn't even take a bath without it's meaning something.
he^nrie^tta: {Loftily.) I talked it because I knew you
needed it.
STE^VE): You haven't said much about it these last two
weeks. Uh—^your faith in it hasn't weakened any?
he^nri^tta: Weakened? It's grown stronger with each
130
THE PROVINCETOWN PLAYS
new thing IVe come to know. And Mabel. She is with
Dr. Russell now. Dr. Russell is wonderful. From what
Mabel tells me I believe he is going to prove that I was
right. Today I discovered a remarkable confirmation of
my theory in the hen-dream.
s-TE^ví^: What is your theory?
he^nrie^tta: Well, you know about Lyman Eggleston.
I've wondered about him from the first. IVe never seen
him, but I " know he's less bourgeois than Mabel's other
friends—more intellectual—and (signiñcantly) she doesn't
see much of him because Bob doesn't like him.
ste^vE^: But what's the confirmation?
he)nri:^tta: Today I noticed the first syllable of his
name.
ste:v^: Ly?
he:nrie:tva: No—egg.
ste^ve:: Egg?
hknrie^tta: {Patiently.) Mabel dreamed she was a
hen. {Steve laughs.) You wouldn't laugh if you knew
how important names are in interpreting dreams. Freud
is full of just such cases in which a whole hidden complex
is revealed by a single significant syllable—^like this egg.
STE^V]^: Doesn't the traditional relation of hen and egg
suggest rather a maternal feeling?
he^nrietta: There is something maternal in Mabel—
love, of course, but that's only one element.
131
THE PROVINCETOWN PLAYS
STEVEN : Well, suppose Mabel hasn't a suppressed desire
to be this gentleman's mother, but his beloved. What's to
be done about it ? What about Bob ? Don't you think it's
going to be a little rough on him?
he^nrie^tta: That can't be helped. Bob, like everyone
else must face the facts of life. If Dr. Russell should ar¬
rive independently at this same interpretation I shall not
hesitate to tell Mabel to leave her present husband.
STEVEN : Urn—urn! {The lights go up on Fifth Avenue.
Steve goes to the windrow and looks out.) How long is it
I ' —
we've lived here, Henrietta?
he^nrie^tta: Why, this is the third year, Steve.
STEVEN: I—we—one would miss this view if one went
away, wouldn't one?
HENRIETTA: How strangely you speak! Oh, Stephen, I
zvish you'd go to Dr. Russell. Don't think my fears have
abated because I have been able to restrain myself. I felt
I must on account of Mabel. It wouldn't do for her to
hear you discrediting it while she was being analyzed.
But now, dear—won't you go?
STEVE: I—{He breaks off^ turns on the light, then comes
and sits beside Henrietta.) How long have we been mar¬
ried, Henrietta?
HENRIETTA : Stephen, I don't understand you I You must
go to Dr. Russell.
STEVE: I have gone.
132
THE PROVINCETOWN PLAYS
HENRIETTA : You—what ?
stï;vE: (Jauntily.) Henrietta, Tve been psyched.
hî^nriktta: You went to Dr. Russell?
STEvi^: The same.
hï)nrie:tta: And what did he say?
STOVE): He said——I was a little surprised by what he
said, Henrietta.
HENRIETTA: (Breathlessly.) Of course—one can' so
seldom anticipate. But tell me—your dream, Stephen? It
means ?
STOVE): It means—I was considerably surprised by what
it means.
h:^nri^tta: Don't be so exasperating!
STOVE): It means—you really want to know, Henrietta?
h^nrie)TTa: Stephen, you'll drive me mad!
STOVE): He said—^Of course he may be wrong in what
he said.
he)nrie)tta: He isn't wrong. Tell me!
STOVE): He said my dream of the walls receding and
leaving me alone in a forest indicates a suppressed desire—
he)nrie)tta: Yes—yes!
STKvE): To be freed from—
he)nriktta : Y es—freed from ?
133
THE PROVINCBTOWN PLAYS
STEYß : Marriage.
HENRIETTA : ( Crumples. Stares. ) Marriage !
STEVE: He—he may be mistaken, you know.
HENRIETTA: May be mistaken!
STEVE: I—well, of course, I haven't taken any stock in
it myself. It was only your great confidence
HENRIETTA: Stephen, are you telling me that Dr, Rus¬
sell—Dr. A. R. Russell—told you this? (Steve nods.)
Told you you have a suppressed desire to separate from
me?
STEVE: That's what he said.
HENRIETTA: Did he know who you were?
STEVE: Yes.
HENRIETTA: That you were married to me?
STEVE: Yes, he knew that.
HENRIETTA: (Rising.) And he told you to leave me?
STEVE: It seems he must be wrong, Henrietta.
HENRIETTA : And I've sent him more patients— !
(Catches herself and resumes coldly.) What reason did
he give for this analysis?
STEVE: He says the confiding walls are a symbol of my
feeling about marriage and that their fading away is a
wish-fulfillment.
134
THE PROVINCETOWN PLAYS
he^nrie^TTa: {Gulping.) Well, is it? Do you want our
marriage to end?
st^ve:: Well, it was a surprise to me that I did, Hen¬
rietta—a great surprise. You see I hadn't known what
was in my unconscious mind.
HE^NRiE^lTTA : (Flaming.) What did you tell Dr. Russell
about me? What did you tell him to make him think you
were not happy?
STe^ve^: I never told him a thing, Henrietta. He got it
all from his confound-clever inferences. I—I tried to re¬
fute them, but he said that was only part of my self-pro¬
tective lying.
HE^NRiE^TTA : And that's why you were so—happy—when
you came in just now!
STe^ve): Why, Henrietta, how can you say such a thing?
I was sad. Didn't I speak sadly of—of the view? Didn't
I ask you how long we had been married?
he^nriKTTa: (Rising.) Stephen Brewster, have you no
sense of the seriousness of this? Dr. Russell doesn't know
what our marriage has been. You do. You should have
laughed him down ! Confined—in life with me ? Why
didn't you tell him that I believed in freedom?
ste^ve: : I very emphatically told him that his results were
a great surprise to me.
he)nrie)TTa: But you accepted them.
STE^VE) : Oh, not at all. I merely couldn't refute his argu-
135
THE PROVINGETOWN PLAYS
merits. Fm not a psychologist. I came home to talk it
over with you. You being a disciple of psychoanalysis ■
H:^NRmTTA: {Whirling,) If you are going, I wish you
would go tonight !
S'îtv'^ : Oh, my dear ! I—surely couldn't do that !
Think of my feelings. And my laundry hasn't come home
yet.
hî^nrie^tta: I ask you to go tonight. Some women
would falter at this, Steve, but I am not such a woman. I
leave you free. I do not repudiate psychoanalysis, I say
again that it has done great things. It has also made mis¬
takes, of course. But since you accept this analysis—{She
sits down and pretends to begin work.) I have to finish
this paper. I wish you would leave me.
STE^VE^: {Scratches his head, goes to the inner door.)
I'm sorry, Henrietta, about my unconscious mind. {E^it.)
{Henrietta's face betrays her outraged state of mind—dis¬
concerted, resentful, trying to pull herself together. She
attains an air of bravely bearing an outrageous thing.
Mabel enters in great excitement.)
mab:^l: {Breathless.) Henrietta, I'm so glad you're
here. And alone? {Looks toward the inner door.) Are
you alone, Henrietta?
HEîNRmTTA: {With reproving dignity.) Very much so.
MABE^n: {Rushing to her.) Henrietta, he's found it!
hi^nrie^tta: {Aloof.) Who has found what?
1316
THE PROVINCETOWN PLAYS
r ■ , * .
MABKt: Who has found what? Dr. Russell has found
my suppressed desire.
hi^nriETTa: That is interesting.
MABi^n: He finished with me today—he got hold of my
complex—in the most amazing way ! But, oh, Henrietta—
it is so terrible!
he^nrie^tta: Do calm yourself, Mabel. Surely there's
no occasion for all this agitation.
MABE^i, : But there is ! And when you think of the lives
that are affected—the readjustments that must be made in
order to bring the suppressed hell out of me and save me
from the insane asylum !
he^nriE^tta: The insane asylum!
MABE^n: You said that's where these complexes brought
people ?
he^nrie^tta: What did the doctor tell you, Mabel?
MABE^n: Oh, I don't know how I can tell you—it is so
awful—so unbelievable.
mab:^^: Henrietta, who would ever have thought it?
How can it be true? But the doctor is perfectly certain
that I have a suppressed desire for {Looks at Hen-
rietta unable to go on.)
he:nrie:tta : Oh, go on, Mabel. I'm not unprepared for
what you have to say.
137
THE PROVINCETOWN PLAYS
MAB^h: Not unprepared? You mean you have suspected
it?
hï^nrie^tta: From the first. It's been my theory all
along.
mabî^l: But, Henrietta, I didn't know myself that I had
this secret desire for Stephen.
h^nriî^tta: {Jumps up,) Stephen!
MABr^iy : My brother-in-law ! My own sister's husband í
Hr;NRi:^TTA: You have a suppressed desire for Stephen t
MABE^n: Oh, Henrietta, aren't these unconscious selves
terrible ? They seem so unlike us !
he^nrie^tta : What insane things are you driving at ?
MABE^u: {Blubbering.) Henrietta, don't you use that
word to me. I don't want to go to the insane asylum.
h:^nrie:wa: {Stonily.) What did Dr. Russell say?
mabe^l: Well, you see—oh, it's the strangest thing! But
you know the voice in my dream that called '^Step, Hen!'^'
Dr. Russell found out today that when I was a little girl
I had a story-book in words of one syllable and I read the
name Stephen wrong. I used to read it S-t-e-p, step, h-e-n,
hen. {Dramatically.) Step Hen is Stephen. {Enter
Stephen, his head bent over a time-table.) Stephen ' is.
Step Hen!
st^ve): I? Step Hen!
188
THE PROVINCETOWN PLAYS
mabe^l: {Triumphantly.) S-t-e-p, step, H-e-n, hen,
Stephen !
henrieîtta: {Exploding.) Well, what if Stephen is
Step Hen? {Scornfully.) Step Hen! Step Hen! For
that ridiculous coincidence
mabE^l: Coincidence! But it's so childish to look at the
mere elements of a dream. You have to look into it—you
have to see what it means I
he^nrie)TTa : And do you mean to say that on account of
that trivial, meaningless play on syllables—on that flimsy-
basis—you are ready—{Wails) O-h!
STKve^: What on earth's the matter? What has hap--
pened? Suppose I am Step Hen? What about it? What
does it mean?
mabe)l: {Crying.) It means—^that I—have a suppressed
desire for you!
steJve^: For me! The deuce you have? {Feebly.y
What—er—^makes you think so?
mabeîl : Dr. Russell has worked it out scientifically.
hi^nrie^tta: Yes. Through the amazing discovery that
Step Hen equals Stephen!
mabE^b: {Tearfully.) Oh, that isn't all—that isn't near
all. Henrietta won't give me a chance to tell it. She'd
rather I'd go to the insane asylum than be unconventional..
HENRIETTA: We'll all go there if you can't control your-^
self. We are still waiting for some rational report,
139
THE PROVINCETOWN PLAYS
MABEji,: {Drying her eyes.) Oh, there's such a lot about
names. {With some pride.) I don't see how I ever did
it. It all works in together. I dreamed I was a hen be¬
cause that's the first syllable of HenWitii'dJs name, and
when I dreamed I was a hen, I was putting myself in Hen¬
rietta's place.
HkNRiE^TTA: With Stephen?
mab^l: With Stephen.
hí^nrie^tta: {Outraged.) Oh! {Turns in rage upon
Stephen who is fanning himself with the time-table.) What
are you doing with that time-table?
Why—I thought—you were so keen to have me
go tonight—I thought I'd just take a run up to Canada,
and join Billy—a little shooting—but
MABï)n: But there's more about the names.
hi^nrii^tta: Mabel, have you thought of Bob—dear old
Bob—your good, kind husband?
MAB:^n: Oh, Henrietta, "my good kind husband!"
he)nriE)TTa: Just think of him out there in Chicago,
working his head off, fixing people's teeth—for you !
MABE^n: Yes, but think of the living Libido—in conflict
with petrified moral codes! And think of the perfectly
wonderful way the names all prove it. Dr. Russell said
he's never seen anything more convincing. Just look at
Stephen's last name—Brewster. I dream I'm a hen, and
140
THE PROVINCETOWN PLAYS
the name Brewster—^you have to say its first letter by it¬
self—and then the hen, that's me, she says to him:
"Stephen, Be Rooster!''
Henrietta and Stephen both collapse on chair and divan,
I think it's perfectly wonderful! Why, if it
wasn't for psychoanalysis you'd never find out how won¬
derful jour own mind is !
STE^vEj: {Begins to chuckle.) Be Rooster, Stephen, Be
Rooster !
he)nrie:;TTa: You think it's funny, do you?
STi^vD: Well, what's to be done about it? Does Mabel
have to go away with me?
H^NRii^TTA : Do you want Mabel to go away with you ?
STE^vî): Well, but Mabel herself—-her complex—^her sup¬
pressed desire—!
he^nri^tta: Mabel, are you going to insist on going
away with Stephen?
MABE^n: I'd rather go with Stephen than go to the in¬
sane asylum!
HEjNRiE^TTA : For Heaven's Sake, Mabel, drop that in¬
sane asylum! If you did have a suppressed desire for
Stephen hidden away in you—God knows it isn't hidden
now* Dr. Russell has brought it into consciousness—with
a vengeauce. That's all that's necessary to break up a
complex. Psychoanalysis doesn't say you have to gratify
every suppressed desire.
141
THE PROVINCETOWN PLAYS
STtyZ: (Softly,) Unless it's for Uyman Eggleston.
heînriî^tta: (Turning- on him.) Well, if it comes to
that, Stephen Brewster, I'd like to know why that inter¬
pretation of mine isn't as good as this one? Step, Hen!
STE^VE): But Be Rooster! (He pauses, chuckling to him¬
self.) Step-Hen B-rooster and Henrietta. Pshaw, my
dear, Doc Russell's got you beat a mile! (He turns away
and chuckles.) Be rooster !
: What has Lyman Eggleston got to do with it ?
STE^VE): According to Henrietta's interpretation, you, the
hen, have a suppressed desire for Lyman Eggleston, the
egg.
MABE^iy : Henrietta, I think that's indecent of you ! He is
bald as an egg and little and fat—the idea of you thinking
such a thing of me !
he^nrie^tta: Well, Bob isn't little and bald and fat! Why
don't you stick to your own husband? (Turns on Stephen.)
What if Dr. Russell's interpretation has got mine "beat a
mile"? (Resentful look at him.) It would only mean
that Mabel doesn't want Eggleston and does want you.
Does that mean she is to have you?
MABE^n: But you said Mabel Snow
he^nrie^tta: Mary Snow ! ! You're not as much like her
as you think—substituting your name for hers ! The cases
are entirely different. Oh, I wouldn't have believed this of
you, Mabel. I brought you here for a pleasant visit—
142
THE PROVINCETOWN PLAYS
thought you needed brightening up—wanted to be nice to
you—and now you—my husband—^you insist—{Begins to
cry. Makes a movement which brushes to the floor some
sheets from the psychoanalytical table.)
{With solicitude.) Careful, dear. Your paper
on psychoanalysis! {Gathers up sheets and offers them
to her.)
HE^NRir^TTA: {Crying.) I don't want my paper on psy¬
choanalysis ! I'm sick of psychoanalysis !
STKvE: {Eagerly.) Do you mean that, Henrietta?
hî)nrie^tta: Why shouldn't I mean it? Look at all I've
done for psychoanalysis—and—what has psychoanalysis
done for me?
Do you mean, Henrietta, that you're going to
stop taking psychoanalysis?
he)nri:^tta: Why shouldn't I stop talking it? Haven't
I seen what it does to people ? Mabel has gone crazy about
psychoanalysis 1 {At the word ''Crasy" Mabel sinks with
a moan into the armchair and buries her face in her hands.)
he^nrie^^^'Ta:' I'm done with it!
ste^vK: {Solemnly.) Do you swear never to wake me
up in the night to find out what I'm dreaming?
h^nrie^tta: Dream what you please—I don't care what
you're dreaming.
STE^v^: Will you clear off my work table so that the
143
THE PROVINCETOWN PLAYS
Journal of Morbid Psychology doesn't stare me in the face
when I'm trying to plan a house?
hï)nriKTTa: {Pushing a stack of periodicals off the
table.) I'll burn the Journal of Morbid Psychology!
STE^vîi: My dear Henrietta, if you're going to separate
from psychoanalysis, there's no reason why I should sep¬
arate from you. {They embrace ardently. Mabel lifts
her head and looks at them woefully.)
mabEíl: {Jumping up and going toward them.) But
what about me? What am I to do with my suppressed
desire ?
ST^vïî: {With one arm still around Henrietta, gives
Mabel a brotherly hug.) Mabel, you just keep right on
suppressing it.
Curtain
144
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